Under the Autumn Sky

“Taking my lunch early.”

“Lori again?”

She gave him the same look she’d given him the other six times that year. “I won’t be long. Then I’ll get that dirt moved and in place so you can start the framing after lunch.”

“Go.”

She walked toward the vehicle that had once been her father’s shining joy, a 2003 Tundra pickup. The silver truck now held a dent in the bumper, courtesy of Waylon’s first attempt at parallel parking, and a huge scrape along one side from a hit-and-run when she’d gone to the Opelousas Home Depot. But it ran well thanks to her second cousin Reeves who owned Taylor Auto and insisted on giving the truck a free tune-up every year. Reeves took care of what little he could for her, but Lou did her own oil changes. She had to draw the line somewhere.

After banging her work boots against the front tire and taking off the bandana she wore to keep the baby-fine hair that escaped her braid out of her eyes, she climbed inside the cab. She saw one of the guys frown at her, and resisted the urge to give him a specific finger wave. That guy didn’t like her much anyway. He was old school. Women belonged at home, folding underwear and stirring peas on the stove. Didn’t matter that Lou could handle her heavy equipment like the finest surgeon. Some men were just shortsighted.

Forcet Construction mostly worked the region north of Opelousas, but they built all over Evangeline Parish, even dipping down to Acadia Parish at times. Today they were working the foundation for yet another credit union in Ville Platte, so her hometown of Bonnet Creek lay twelve miles away. Just far enough so that Lou would have to eat on the way back and also far enough to give her plenty of time to think.

Exactly what she needed. More time to think about what a colossal idiot she was.

No.

Lou refused to let her thoughts travel back to the night before. To the embarrassment of throwing herself at a perfect stranger. What had she been thinking? Or better phrased—what had she been drinking? Because her stupid actions had to be blamed on the strong mojitos. She wasn’t a drinker. Couldn’t handle the woozy, giggly euphoria that had wrapped her up and made her think naughty impossible thoughts. Yes. Blame it on the booze.

Stop it, Lou. Stop thinking about Abram. The moonlight. The fact you can’t get a guy to do the deed.

As she turned into the drive of the house she’d been raised in, she made the same promise she’d made five times earlier that morning. No more thinking about last night.

She grabbed the paper, hidden beneath a yearbook on Lori’s unmade bed, and hightailed it to Bonnet Creek High School, which sat only a mile away. She pulled into the visitor spot and killed the engine.

She didn’t want to run into Coach Landry.

The man was driving her crazy about hiring someone to make a professional highlight reel of Waylon’s best plays. Like she had the money for that.

Waylon was an incredibly talented athlete, and if college coaches couldn’t see that on the amateur reel she’d pieced together with her own two hands for Coach Landry, then they were stupid. She wasn’t hiring a professional service to film him next year. It was an enormous waste of money.

But David Landry was a force to be reckoned with, and with a four-star, blue-chip recruit on his team, he’d taken too personal of an interest.

“Hey, Lou. Lori forgot something again, didn’t she?” Helen Barham ran Bonnet Creek High School from the sleek modern desk of the front office. Helen had once been in the garden club with Lou’s mother and she was exceedingly competent, if unyielding. The woman had never married nor had children, so she tsked every time Lou brought in her sister’s forgotten homework. She was a little hypocritical and gossipy, but many in the small town were. “You know she’s—”

“—never going to learn?” Lou finished for her with a wry smile. “I know. I suck at parenting.”

Helen wagged a finger. “I’ve seen worse, Lou-Lou.”

“I think she’s in Mr. Smith’s English class right now,” Lou said, darting a glance out the door of the office and pretending she didn’t hear her father’s old nickname for her trickle so casually out of Helen’s mouth. Hearing it made her sad. “Coach Landry’s not around, is he?”

The man was notorious for prowling the school hallways, and Lou really didn’t want to deal with him today. Really didn’t.

“He has some college coach in with him.” Helen pointed to her in-basket. “Just leave Lori’s assignment with me and I’ll page her to the office.”

Lou handed the paper off and slipped back out the door. She waved at Mr. Edwards, the custodian whose son played on the football team with Waylon, and nodded at a couple of students who hurried by clutching papers in hand.

She’d just pushed the front door of the school open when she caught sight of the stranger she was never supposed to see again down the hall to her left.

What the hell?

The door came back and nearly nailed her in the nose. She stepped back and watched Abram shake Coach Landry’s hand. He wore khaki pants and a purple windbreaker. She was nearly certain ULBR Athletics was appliquéd on the breast even though she was too far away to read the actual letters.

He was a coach.

For ULBR.

His reason for being in Bonnet Creek was her brother.

Hot shame coursed through her body, followed quickly by the desire to flatten the man’s nose. He knew who she was—that’s why he’d stopped last night. He led her down the merry primrose path, using his charm, his extraordinary good looks to put her at disadvantage, possibly even as leverage, to land her brother, but reining himself in before committing the ultimate in douche-baggery.

What a slimy bastard.

Her boots turned toward the coaches before she could think better of it.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice echoing in the hallway.

Both men turned—David with a wide crocodile smile; Abram Whatever His Last Name Was with an “oh shit” lift of his eyebrows.

“Lou, glad you’re here. This is—”

She spun toward Abram. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Louise.”

“Lou, now let’s watch the language here,” Coach Landry said, waving his hand as if he were stroking the back of a horse. “This here’s an informal visit—”

She blocked Coach Landry’s voice out. Rage choked her. “You—you—ought to be ashamed of yourself. You knew who I was.”

“Not until this morning when I ran into Mr. Forcet and then looked at Waylon’s file. I inherited this recruiting area from Coach Moreland several weeks ago when he left for the offensive coordinating job with Ohio State. I had no clue who you were.”

“Bullsh—” She swallowed the curse even though she wanted to nail him to the brick wall with a volley of creative language. She worked at a construction company. She knew combinations a sailor didn’t. “I’ve heard about how you recruiting guys work. Crawling all over the place, popping up in grocery stores or churches looking to sway recruits or their families. It’s despicable. And to try to use me? I can’t—”

“Use you? You watch too much TV or something?” Abram interrupted, his green eyes turning a cold emerald. “This isn’t a conspiracy. Get real.”

Coach Landry ping-ponged his head between the two of them, before broadening his gaze to the area around them. “Maybe we better hold this conversation in my office. For, you know, privacy.”

“Sis?” She heard Waylon’s voice then and noticed several other students in the hall. Classes were about to change.

She spun toward her brother who was flanked by his girlfriend, Morgan, and his friend Mason. He looked like Goliath next to two Davids. “Go to class, Way. This doesn’t involve you.”

“Coach?”

Lou pointed a finger at her brother. “You do what I say, Waylon Boyd.”

“Chill, Lou. You’re acting crazy, making me look like a punk in front of the school.” Both his friends looked off, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

Abram’s voice was low, but made of steel. “This is your sister, and she doesn’t deserve disrespect.”