BYRD’S DESIRE
Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
With the first hint of dawn breaking over the eastern horizon , Celia headed out of Natchitoches on Highway 71. She didn’t need a map as she headed for Shreveport. She paused for a quick breakfast in an out-of-the-way diner and trekked northward. The scenery shifted from flat country, punctuated with nodding donkeys pumping oil, as she climbed into the edge of the Ouachita Mountains. Celia gawked, worse than a tourist, at the heavy forest on both sides of the road and the scenic views, so different from her native habitat. At Fort Smith, the next town of any size after Shreveport, she veered west into Oklahoma.
The midsummer heat rose as she traveled and exchanged the Ouachitas for the Cookson Hills. Somewhere outside of Sallisaw, the air-conditioning in her worn-out Cadillac quit so she rolled down the windows. A hot breeze blew into her face and before she stopped for a quick lunch—a chicken sandwich and iced tea—her hair tangled and her makeup melted. She didn’t dare check her reflection in a mirror or she might turn tail back to Louisiana. An hour or so northwest of Sallisaw, she turned from the highway onto a narrow ribbon of blacktop, then five miles later exchanged it for a hard-packed gravel road. Celia slowed as she entered the ranch proper and winced as the cattle guard rattled beneath the Caddy. At the same time, the fuel gauge dropped to “Empty” and she hoped she wouldn’t run out of gas until she reached the house. Although she never went to church anymore, Celia’s lips moved in a brief but heartfelt plea to the Virgin. To her right, vast acres stretched out toward a large pond and cattle grazed across the rolling grasslands.
She glanced left and spotted the ranch house, tucked atop a hill. Tall old trees surrounded it and if she didn’t know better, Celia would’ve sworn it’d been in the same spot for a century. A wide porch covered the front and a stone chimney rose high into the sky. It looks like something from the pioneer days, or the set for a classic Western movie. A windmill behind the house spun with slow, lazy turns in the slight breeze. The house loomed larger than she’d expected and the location was far more remote than she had thought. But here she was and here she’d stay.
With a sigh, she pushed back her wild hair and blotted her face with a ti ssue. Sweat turned her light yellow T-shirt to gold and on impulse she pulled some cheap cologne from her purse and dabbed both wrists, then her throat. With false bravado, Celia picked up her purse and sauntered up to the front door. Before she could knock, the door opened and her cousin, Angelique Lecompte Broussard, faced her. Angie could’ve stepped out of a fashion magazine layout, with her hair upswept in a perfect do, and her casual clothing beautiful and obviously expensive. Waves of expensive perfume wafted toward Celia and she struggled against the urge to skedaddle until Angie’s perfect deep pink lips curved into a smile.
“It’s about time, cher, you showed up,” she said, her voice rich with the musical notes of the bayous. “I’d about given up on you. Come in, come in. It’s hot.”
Celia stepped inside and stifled a gasp. Above her, the ceiling stretche d two stories high with open beams and a rustic look that she liked. The large room had been furnished with a distinct but subtle Western flavor. It radiated cozy comfort and whispered money. The gray fieldstone mantle above the fireplace held a pair of matching kerosene lamps and a sculpture of a pioneer woman holding a child’s hand. Plush, plump couches and overstuffed chairs were grouped before the hearth and in another corner, a large-screen television loomed. Navajo rugs on the walls and some Remington paintings added to the ambiance. Ben Cartwright and the boys would feel right at
Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
With the first hint of dawn breaking over the eastern horizon , Celia headed out of Natchitoches on Highway 71. She didn’t need a map as she headed for Shreveport. She paused for a quick breakfast in an out-of-the-way diner and trekked northward. The scenery shifted from flat country, punctuated with nodding donkeys pumping oil, as she climbed into the edge of the Ouachita Mountains. Celia gawked, worse than a tourist, at the heavy forest on both sides of the road and the scenic views, so different from her native habitat. At Fort Smith, the next town of any size after Shreveport, she veered west into Oklahoma.
The midsummer heat rose as she traveled and exchanged the Ouachitas for the Cookson Hills. Somewhere outside of Sallisaw, the air-conditioning in her worn-out Cadillac quit so she rolled down the windows. A hot breeze blew into her face and before she stopped for a quick lunch—a chicken sandwich and iced tea—her hair tangled and her makeup melted. She didn’t dare check her reflection in a mirror or she might turn tail back to Louisiana. An hour or so northwest of Sallisaw, she turned from the highway onto a narrow ribbon of blacktop, then five miles later exchanged it for a hard-packed gravel road. Celia slowed as she entered the ranch proper and winced as the cattle guard rattled beneath the Caddy. At the same time, the fuel gauge dropped to “Empty” and she hoped she wouldn’t run out of gas until she reached the house. Although she never went to church anymore, Celia’s lips moved in a brief but heartfelt plea to the Virgin. To her right, vast acres stretched out toward a large pond and cattle grazed across the rolling grasslands.
She glanced left and spotted the ranch house, tucked atop a hill. Tall old trees surrounded it and if she didn’t know better, Celia would’ve sworn it’d been in the same spot for a century. A wide porch covered the front and a stone chimney rose high into the sky. It looks like something from the pioneer days, or the set for a classic Western movie. A windmill behind the house spun with slow, lazy turns in the slight breeze. The house loomed larger than she’d expected and the location was far more remote than she had thought. But here she was and here she’d stay.
With a sigh, she pushed back her wild hair and blotted her face with a ti ssue. Sweat turned her light yellow T-shirt to gold and on impulse she pulled some cheap cologne from her purse and dabbed both wrists, then her throat. With false bravado, Celia picked up her purse and sauntered up to the front door. Before she could knock, the door opened and her cousin, Angelique Lecompte Broussard, faced her. Angie could’ve stepped out of a fashion magazine layout, with her hair upswept in a perfect do, and her casual clothing beautiful and obviously expensive. Waves of expensive perfume wafted toward Celia and she struggled against the urge to skedaddle until Angie’s perfect deep pink lips curved into a smile.
“It’s about time, cher, you showed up,” she said, her voice rich with the musical notes of the bayous. “I’d about given up on you. Come in, come in. It’s hot.”
Celia stepped inside and stifled a gasp. Above her, the ceiling stretche d two stories high with open beams and a rustic look that she liked. The large room had been furnished with a distinct but subtle Western flavor. It radiated cozy comfort and whispered money. The gray fieldstone mantle above the fireplace held a pair of matching kerosene lamps and a sculpture of a pioneer woman holding a child’s hand. Plush, plump couches and overstuffed chairs were grouped before the hearth and in another corner, a large-screen television loomed. Navajo rugs on the walls and some Remington paintings added to the ambiance. Ben Cartwright and the boys would feel right at
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