Johnny Gator Read online

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2014 Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-118-9

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To the Johnny who fished those bayous and the dark waters of Caddo Lake and to my husband who first took me to visit those mysterious, hauntingly beautiful places.

  JOHNNY GATOR

  Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  The dark waters of Caddo Lake reflected images of the tall cypress trees draped with Spanish moss, beautiful and yet somehow eerie. Nola cradled her third cup of coffee between her hands and savored the view. On Taylor Island, located across a narrow bridge from the tiny town of Uncertain, Texas, she could almost believe no one else existed, although vacation homes dotted the island. The homes ranged from vintage shacks to homes of the wealthy with every amenity. She preferred the old house set off the ground by a good five feet with its screened-in porch and small, comfortable rooms. Snakes couldn’t crawl into the house and the screening would serve to keep mosquitoes out of biting range.

  When her aunt met her with the key the day before yesterday, she assured Nola that she probably would never see any of the gators. “They keep to themselves, honey,” her aunt had said. “Some folks say there aren’t any but they’re here. They just stay away from the noisy motorboats and party people.”

  “I hope so,” Nola had replied. A country girl who’d been raised on a farm between Rusk and the Neches River, she had killed many a snake with a hoe or rifle. But alligators scared her—they were so big and could move with speed if they wanted. Their long snouts and mouths filled with sharp teeth presented dangers she would rather not handle, especially now. Nola came to Caddo Lake to recuperate after suffering a beating during a robbery outside the supermarket on what had been, until then, an ordinary day. She needed the peace of the otherworldly swamp and the time alone to heal in spirit as much as in body.

  Aunt Ronnie hugged her. “Aw, you’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything and I’ll be here quicker than lightning. It’s not far to Marshall. If you get lonesome, come on over.”

  “I will.”

  Although she didn’t say it straight out, Nola could tell Ronnie didn’t expect her to stay on the lake. After six years living in Dallas, her aunt figured Nola to be too citified to deal with the night sounds of birds and bugs or the absolute blackness of night on Caddo. Since the robbery, most people figured Nola craved company, light, noise, and protection as close as dialing 911. Instead, she longed for solitude. Papere and Mamere’s old cabin had been the sole refuge available. She took a medical leave of absence for the rest of the school year and might go back to teach in the fall. Or, she might not. Everything depended on how much and how fast she healed.

  Nola sipped the strong black coffee as she rocked back and forth in the ancient porch swing. Maybe in a little while she would heat up some of the biscuits her aunt left or fry some sausage, although she wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t been, not since that night.

  Her mind shut down the thought. She didn’t want to remember, not now in the peace and cool of the morning. Last night she hadn’t dreamed about the robbery for the first time since it happened. Nola watched as a graceful whooping crane landed on the water and dipped its beak to dine on insects. Nature brought a sense of order to a chaotic world, she thought. Farther out, a snake arrowed through the waters and although at this distance she couldn’t tell if it was venomous or not, it belonged in the setting.

  At the edge of the lake, something rustled in the undergrowth. It sounded large so she waited to see what emerged. Nola expected a deer, perhaps, or a large dog. Instead, a thick-bodied alligator waddled out of the weeds and turned toward the house. Yeah right, the gators keep to themselves—looks like this one’s coming to say howdy. Fear wrapped around her throat python fashion and she caught her breath hard.

  The creature ambled toward the porch with the relentless stride of an Army tank but halted about three feet away. Nola stared with sick fascination at the tough greenish-brown hide. Looks like it would be rough to touch but I wouldn’t dare. The gator lifted his head and focused on her. She spotted the teeth inside the wide mouth and shuddered. It moved forward with a switch of its long tail and gazed at her with green eyes. They weren’t the yellow she had expected nor did they appear either sinister or reptilian. It didn’t blink as it stared at her with what appeared to be intelligent intent. I hope he’s not sizing me up for dinner.

  Despite her unease, she didn’t think so. Nola stood and walked to the edge of the porch for a closer look. The gator reminded her of a miniature dinosaur, some prehistoric creature from a distant past. It didn’t seem so threatening when she thought of it like that. The eyes watched with something so human-like that Nola relaxed. Although she had no intention of leaving the safety of the porch or engaging it in any way, she decided it was friendly. Maybe she’d leave some leftovers out for it, she thought, then shook her head. Not a good idea, girl. You feed this one and tomorrow it’s back, and the next day there might be twenty alligators feeding in the yard.

  For a moment, she wanted to touch it and pet it like a stray dog but she resisted the notion. With her sore leg and hitch in her step, she would never outrun it if it attacked. Instead, she headed inside to change from her nightgown into shorts and a tank top. Nola changed the bandage on her lower left leg and inspected it. With the stitches out, it continued to heal but remained painful if she put her full weight on it. She brushed out her waist-length brown hair and pulled it into a low ponytail, then inspected her face in the mirror over the bathroom sink.

  Her black eye had faded to a light yellow. The deeper purple bruises on the right side of her face were softer, too, and her lip wasn’t swollen any longer. The split in the top lip had almost vanished. In another week or so, she would look like the old Nola again, but she would never be the same woman again. The physical injuries would heal but the inner damage might not. One of the doctors had already explained she would suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and suggested Valium, which Nola refused. Drugs weren’t her thing. If she took anything, it had to be natural, preferably herbal.

  With a sigh, Nola turned away from her reflection. The day stretched ahead, long and empty. She scrubbed the seldom-used cabin, washed all the curtains and hung them back at the windows, replaced every clean dish and pot in the cupboards, and aired the rugs. There wasn’t much housework left after that. She made a list of all the groceries her aunt had stocked in the cabin so if she decided to cook, she would know what she had available. Her e-reader held a number of books she hadn’t read, but so far her mind had trouble focusing on a story. Every time she tried, some small detail leapt from the text to remind her of the robbery. The name of a character, mention of a supermarket, or the make or model of a car brought back the memories she would rather forget. Descriptions of a parking lot brought images of the asphalt lot of the supermarket, so she couldn’t read to forget either.

  Music sometimes provided a distraction or release, but not always. Rock and roll brought tension and delayed anger while country tunes often made her cry. Classical and jazz soothe
d her troubled spirit and traditional Cajun sounds lifted her mood. So she would down some herbal tablets, pour some strong iced tea, close her eyes, and let the music wash over her. Nola listened during the humid afternoons and the long, steamy nights. She sat on the porch and let the sounds of the lake blend with fiddles, and an accordion played the way only a Cajun hand could manage.

  After a week, Nola settled into some semblance of a routine. Her days shifted into evening then night in a seamless, casual way, and she began to relax. After a sudden, heavy rain shower one afternoon, the sun returned with bright brilliance and she lingered on the porch when she should have headed into the kitchen to heat something for a simple supper. She remained there, her bottom in the old metal lawn chair as the sun began to drop into the trees. Nola watched the orange ball and noticed how it reflected from the still waters of Caddo. She loved how the vivid hue contrasted with the cool greens and grays of the lake.

  If she hadn’t been watching the sunset, Nola would never have noticed him until he maneuvered his johnboat onto the shore. She caught sight of him about fifty feet out, engaged in rowing, muscles rippling taut beneath his tight T-shirt. Nola came to her feet, startled and more than a little perturbed at the uninvited appearance. She watched, arms folded across her chest, as he brought the boat close, jumped out into the knee-high waters, and pulled it onto the grass.

  Whoever he was, he wasn’t shy. The man strode toward the house, a brown paper sack folded into a neat package in one hand, a stringer of fish in the other. He wasn’t tall but powerfully built, she noticed, more muscle than fat. He moved with more grace than she had expected. His shoulder-length hair reminded her of the bayou waters, dark brown but with lighter highlights of gold shot through it, like the sunshine that filtered through the thick cypress trees. He wore the simple shirt and worn blue jeans but his feet were bare. When he came to a halt about six feet from the front porch, he lifted his head and smiled.

  Prepared to chew his ass for showing up, Nola smiled back. His cherub face, round with well-formed features, could almost be called pretty if he hadn’t been so overtly masculine. He’s got to be French with a face like that, she thought. She noted his green eyes, bright emeralds framed with dark, lush eyelashes and topped with slender brows. From the way he grinned, he knew very well how handsome he was.

  “Good evenin’,” he called. The Louisiana lilt she expected rang true in his voice. “I hope you don’t mind, Miz Delaney, but I caught more fish than I can eat and my tomatoes are puttin’ out more than I can use before they rot so I thought I’d be neighborly and share.”

  Hmm. He knew her name but she had no idea who he might be. “Do I know you?”

  He laughed with a deep, merry rumble. “I doubt it. I’m Jean Batiste Loutrel and I live just over yonder.”

  One slender finger pointed across the lake. If Nola squinted against the setting sun and peered through the curtain of Spanish moss hanging from the trees, she could see the edge of a brown structure. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Loutrel,” she said.

  “Call me Johnny,” he said. “Ever ‘body does and it’s easier to wrap your tongue around.”

  Nola uncrossed her arms and let her tense shoulders sag. “I will if you’ll call me Nola,” she said. “Come up on the porch, then.”

  He managed to become acquainted with her, something no one had been able to accomplish since the robbery left her hurt on the supermarket pavement. For whatever reason, Nola let her guard down and liked him. She had no idea why except that he seemed safe to her, something she couldn’t explain if her life depended on it. Maybe it’s because he’s nothing like the guy who messed up my face and snatched my purse. The perpetrator had been tall, slender, and built like a basketball star, with hair lighter than corn silk in summer. He had beaten her across the face, grabbed her handbag, and knocked her down. Then he slashed at her leg with a knife so she couldn’t chase him. Or that was the cop’s theory. Nola thought he just had a mean streak and wanted to hurt her one more time.

  “Thank you,” he said and mounted the few steps. “These fish ought to be cleaned and on ice before long, though. How many can you use? I’ll take the rest home and have a little fish fry, I reckon.”

  Her absent appetite came to life at the idea of a fish dinner. “It’s white bass, right?”

  “Yeah, you got a good eye, better than most gals.”

  “Looks like there’s a dozen or so on the stringer.”

  Johnny grinned. “And you can count, too. Do you want six of them?”

  Nola shook her head until her hair swung out like a brown silk curtain. “No, Johnny,” she said. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be or something to do, I thought I’d just fry them all and ask you to stay for supper.”

  His smile widened. “I’ll accept before you change your mind then. Let me finish cleaning the fish and I’ll bring ‘em into the kitchen if that’s okay.”

  She had shied away from every man since that day and had even refused to let the cable guy into the house, but Nola nodded. “Sure, it’s fine. I’ll go get things ready. If you want to hand me the tomatoes, I’ll peel and slice them.”

  He gave her the bag and she headed inside. Nola paused in the relative cool of the house and drew a breath. Was she crazy to invite him? Maybe, but it seemed right. She headed for the kitchen, rooted out cornmeal, salt, and some Cajun seasoning to blend together in a bowl for the coating. Then she found a paring knife to peel then slice the tomatoes. A quick search of the cabinets and fridge yielded a can of pork and beans and five pounds of golden potatoes. Her hands picked up the tasks automatically and it felt good to be doing something again, not brooding.

  By the time Johnny brought the fish—scaled, cleaned, and filleted—through the backdoor, Nola had cubed potatoes drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt and pepper roasting in the oven. The sliced ‘maters were in the refrigerator and the cast iron skillet smoked on the stove, filled with oil and ready to fry fish. Two tall glasses of iced tea, heavy with sugar Southern style, rested on the counter, and after she took the fish Nola said, “There’s something I need to ask you before we get much farther along—how’d you know my name?”

  Without hesitation, he answered, “Your Aunt Ronnie told me. Fact is, she asked if I’d keep an eye on you if I could. She’s worried.”

  Damn her aunt to the deepest pits of hell. “She told you about what happened to me?”

  His lips pressed together tight. “Well, yeah, she did and she said you’d fuss but it don’t matter to me, Nola. If she hadn’t said a thing, I could see the marks on your face. They’re almost gone, true, but they’re there.”

  Nola couldn’t decide if she wanted to rage or weep. “So you’ve been watching me?”

  Johnny shook his head from side to side. “I’ve kept an eye to see if you had lights at night, that’s all. I ain’t been skulking around or anything. But today I picked tomatoes and had a bunch, then went fishing and the bass were bitin’. I thought maybe you’d been livin’ on canned and frozen stuff so maybe you’d like something fresh.”

  She had eaten little before or since she came to Caddo, but fresh fried bass and homegrown tomatoes sounded more delicious than anything she ever had, better than lobster tails in butter or a chocolate mousse. “I do,” Nola said. “Thank you. I’m glad you made the effort.”

  “Me, too.” His voice sounded so quiet she glanced up, wondering. It must have shown in her expression, because he added. “I’m gettin’ a home-cooked meal out of it so it’s good for both of us. But you’re okay now?”

  The concern touched her, genuine as a gold dollar. “I’m getting there,” she said. “It’s going to take awhile.”

  Johnny nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did, she mused. “Things do,” he replied. “But you can get behind just about anything. I did.”

  Something bad had happened to him, too. Nola just didn’t know what. “I hope so,” she told him. She didn’t want to talk about her experience any longer or it might spo
il the moment. “Would you like some sweet tea?”

  By the time she rolled each bass filet in the cornmeal mixture, fried them to a crisp golden brown, and served them with her oven potatoes and the tomatoes, Nola had relaxed enough to enjoy the meal. The simple Southern fare tasted great. She ate her fill and sat back, comfortably full.

  “Hit the spot, didn’t it?” Johnny said. He had eaten twice what she did but with graceful table manners. “You fried that fish just right.”

  “Oh, it did,” she replied. “Thanks.”

  They talked as they dined, sharing stories about the wildlife they had observed and the things they each loved about the lake. Although she had a little Southern flavor to her voice, it was also tempered with some Texas twang and Nola knew it. Johnny’s voice had a rich Cajun sound, similar to the way her beloved grandpa, Papere, had spoken. It went easy into her ear and soothed her troubled spirit. He sounded Cajun but he wasn’t as dark as most she’d known. Although, he was damn sure an attractive man. She refilled their tea glasses, then asked, “So, where are you from?”

  “Down ‘round Crowley,” he said.

  “Acadia Parish, right?”

  “Yeah, cher, that’s it.”

  “My grandfather, he came from there, too.”

  Johnny’s features lit like neon. “Tre bon! What was his name?”

  “Brossard, Pierre Broussard. I know he had oodles of kinfolk.”

  “I know many Broussards,” he said. “I bet I know some of your folks. Are you from there, too?”

  Nola shook her head. “No, I grew up near Rusk, Texas. It’s a pretty little town off in the piney woods. We lived out toward the Neches River. I’m only part Cajun.”

  “Aw, girl,” he said with a laugh. “So am I.”