Page 26 of Moonshine Lullabies

Collier came around into the kitchen again and pulled out a chair, dropping into it. I glanced over and demanded, “An’ what was that about?”

He gave a shrug, lookin’ all innocent, and said, “What was what about?”

“Uh-huh.” I was about to say more but the back door opened and my kid came back in from his wee.

I asked him in Cajun French if he wanted breakfast, to keep him up with the language. He tried to say in English, “Yeah, you making oatmeal?”

I chastised him lightly, and he grinned sheepishly and answered me back in our local dialect. I smiled at him and nodded approvingly.

Meanwhile, Collier had helped himself to the coffee and had gone to sit down at the table.

“What about you?” I asked him. “Breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

I nodded and fixed up a big pot of oatmeal, knowin’ it was J.P.’s favorite too, as far as a quick breakfast went, even though he preferred protein. Still, on a cold damp day like this, oatmeal was a good stick-to-your-ribs warm breakfast.

We ate, Tate got himself off to school, and J.P. wandered out to drop into a seat to be served. I set a bowl in front of him and a cup of coffee and did the dishes from the rest of us while he and Collier chatted.

“What’re your big plans for the day?” Collier asked him.

“Gotta get back out on the boat,” J.P. muttered.

“Daddy been gettin’ up your ass?” I asked.

“Mm-hm. Can’t wait for gator season an’ for us to get this whole Moonshine distillery thing goin’ so I can get off the open water. I don’t like it out there.”

“I feel that, brother.”

“What about you?” he asked.

Collier grunted. “You know me. I pick up what I can where I can and I do alright.”

J.P. nodded.

“You gonna be able to pick up Tate from school or should I figure something else out?”

“Aw, hell,” J.P. muttered. I sighed and ditched the silverware into the drainboard with a clatter.

“Now why you agree to pick up your nephew when you know you couldn’t do it?” I demanded, frustrated at being ditched and left to figure it out on my own all over again.

J.P. grumbled something about my bitching in Cajun French and I lit off in his ass right back. He got up, chair scooting across the kitchen floor, hands balled into fists at his sides as he yelled back. I threw up my hands and went down the hall to my bedroom to get out of my robe and slippers and into some clothes for the day.

I should have known I wasn’t actually gonna get any help, and that I just needed to figure it out on my own in the first place. Damn it to hell.

I knew better than to call my mamma, with the lectures and the bullshit about responsibility when I kept the bills in this house paid, did all the cookin’ and the cleanin’ and the fixin’ and the gardening and the canning and everything else you could think of.

Granted, the place had been left to both me an’ John-Paul by our granddaddy, but it was mine before his. I was the one that was always here takin’ care of the damn place.

A light knock fell at my door as I pulled on my vented Cabela tan shirt over my tank top and buttoned it up.

I turned to look at Collier irritated and said, “Y’ shoulda known your plan wouldn’t work – he ain’t never here when it counts. Always out there workin,’ which I can’t fault a man for that, but the rest of the time? Always out there runnin’ around with you lot, and can’t get him to do a goddamn thing around here.”

“I get it,” Collier said coolly, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest. He’d gotten dressed too, and I liked the way his fresh black tee hugged his chest and shoulders a little too much.

“The club’s a big commitment,” he said. “On top of doin’ what a man’s gotta do to put food on the table.”

I snorted. “He don’t even do much of that,” I said. “Hell, I do more huntin’ than him!”

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