Search and Rescue by April Wilson

Epilogue

HannahTwo weeks later

Late November, Killian and I fly down to Lafayette, Louisiana, so I can meet his mom and grandparents.

No pressure, right?

Wrong!

I’m terrified.

As I sit buckled into my seat, I stare out my window at the lush green ground below. “What if they don’t like me?”

“What?” Killian laughs. “Don’t be silly. They’re gonna love you.”

“You can’t know that for sure. What if they hate me? What if they resent the fact that you’re not settling down with a nice Cajun girl?”

He leans close, bumping his shoulder against mine. “I’m thirty-five years old, love. I think they’ve given up on me finding a local girl. They’re gonna to thrilled to meet you. They won’t care that you’re not Cajun.”

I don’t believe that for one second. “But what if—”

“No buts, McIntyre. Relax. Mama and Grandmama want grandchildren, so trust me, they’re going to love you.” He links our fingers together and kisses the back of my hand.

Our flight lands midafternoon, and we rent an SUV to drive out to his family’s farm, which is quite a ways out of the city in a remote rural area.

As we drive, I see lots of signs with French mottos: C’est bon! C’est la vie!

That’s good! This is the life!

And billboards for Cajun restaurants, bars, and music halls. We pass small farms and rivers that snake through areas of lush, green vegetation. As we pass a wide river, I spot a boat flying across the surface of the water. “What’s that?” I point it out to Killian.

“An airboat. We use them all the time in the bayou. You want to take a ride? I’ll take you out in the swamp, show you some gators.”

“I’d like that. I want to see where you grew up, the kinds of things you did as a kid.”

The closer we get to our destination, the more nervous I get.

Killian, who’s driving, glances over at me. He lays his hand on my knee. “You’re awfully quiet. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He reaches for my hand. “Come on. Tell me what’s buggin’ you.”

“I’m just nervous. I know you think they won’t care that I’m not Cajun—”

“Oh, trust me, they’ll welcome you with open arms, even if you’re une Americaine.”

“What do you mean, even if I’m an American. We are Americans. You’re an American.”

“They see themselves as Acadians—direct descendants of the Acadians who were exiled from Nova Scotia by the British in the seventeen hundreds and sent down here to the bayou to live. You English speakers are les Americaines. Outsiders.”

I groan. “Oh, they’re definitely going to hate me. My family roots are in Scotland.”

Killian lays my palm on his rock-hard thigh. “You’re not afraid to go toe to toe with poachers, but you’re afraid to meet your future in-laws.”

In-laws? That’s the first time he’s even hinted at marriage.

As we pass farther into the countryside, we come across a few small businesses scattered along the main road. We see a couple of diners and bars, a small used car lot, a gas station, and a feed store. We cross over a number of streams.

Killian points out the window. “I loved fishing there when I was a kid.” Then a few minutes later, he points out another one. “When I was a kid, my grandpapa and I would run our boat up and down this river huntin’ gators.”

He points out the elementary school he attended, the middle school, and the high school. “Half the current teachers in those schools were kids I grew up with. Not many of them moved far from home after getting their education. I’m one of the few who left home after high school.”

“Why did you leave?”

He shrugs. “My dad was in the military, and I wanted to be like him. I didn’t remember him, of course. He died when I was a baby. But I remember the stories my mom told about him and his exploits overseas. I joined the military hoping I’d see some of the same sights he saw, and do some of the things he did. After I got out of the military, I didn’t know what to do, and that’s when a friend recommended me to your brother. The rest is history.”

Killian turns onto an unmarked, gravel lane, and we drive quite a ways back, fenced in pastures lining both sides of the road. We pass cattle and horses and a good-sized pond.

He points out the water. “My grandpapa taught me to swim in that pond. I fished in that pond every chance I could and hunted crawfish, which Mama used to make Etouffee. I’ll make you some while you’re here—crawfish tails, butter, flour, onions and peppers, garlic, chicken broth, and Cajun seasonings of course, served over rice. It’s delicious.”

When he follows a curve in the road, we come upon an old, white two-story farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. It’s obviously at least a century old if not older, and it hasn’t been painted in a good long while. There’s a large barn behind the house, several sheds, and a chicken coop. A tire swing hangs from the branch of a huge oak tree that casts shade on the front porch.

Killian pulls up beside a battered white pickup truck and shuts off the engine. “Here we are.” He brings my hand to his mouth to kiss. “Ready?”

“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

He opens his door and hops down, then walks around the front of the vehicle to my side. I already have my door open and am in the process of jumping out. Just as he holds his hand out to me, I hear the front door open and the sound of footsteps on the wooden porch.

“Breathe, love,” he says as he takes my hand and squeezes it.

We walk toward the porch, where a dark-haired woman stands with an elderly, white-haired couple. She must be his mother.

The three of them stand there staring at me for a minute. Then his mother comes down the steps and walks right up to Killian and wraps her arms around her son. She says something to him in French I can’t follow—it’s too fast. And her French sounds very different from what I remember hearing in school.

Finally, Mrs. Devereaux releases Killian and turns to me, her gaze assessing.

I swallow hard. Here we go. “Hello, Mrs—”

Mrs. Devereaux hugs me to her like we’re long-lost friends. Then she rattles something off in Cajun French so quickly, I don’t have a chance of understanding any of it.

Killian smiles at me. “She said, ‘Welcome home, my beautiful girl. You can call me Mama.’”

The tension instantly eases from my body, and I give her a grateful smile. “Merci,” I tell her. “Mama.”

Thank you.

After the grandparents come down the steps and take turns hugging us both, Killian puts his arm around me and pulls me to his side. “I told you there was nothin’ to worry about.”

When his mother says something, Killian translates. “She said she hopes you’re hungry because dinner is ready, and we’re havin’ gumbo in your honor.”

I do my best to answer her in French. “Oui, Mama. Merci.”

Yes, Mama. Thank you.

The hopeful light in her dark eyes when I answer her in French is everything, and for the first time since boarding the plane to Louisiana, I can finally relax.

* * *

Dinner is an experience. The food is delicious—it’s a dish made with chicken and Andouille sausages, in addition to shellfish, and it’s very filling. Killian’s mom and grandparents never once stop talking in rapid-fire French, and he translates in real time for me.

After we’re done eating and have had dessert—bread pudding with cinnamon and nutmeg, one of my all-time favorites—Killian and I clear the table and wash the dishes while his family retires to the living room to talk over coffee.

Killian bumps my shoulder with his arm. “I’d like to take you out this evening, if you’re up for it. There’s a place just down the road where I used to hang out with my friends. There’ll be live music there, and dancing. I’d like you to meet my friends.”

“Sure, I’d love to. But how do you know they’ll be there tonight?”

He laughs. “It’s Saturday night, love. They’ll be there. They’ll all be there.”

After we carry in our bags, Killian’s mom directs us to a small, yet comfortable bedroom on the second floor, with a full bed covered with a pretty blue-and-white floral quilt. The back window looks out over a stream that runs through a lush pasture. I unpack, then freshen up in the small hallway bathroom next to our room.

“Your mom put us in the same bedroom,” I say to Killian when I return from brushing my hair and teeth. I honestly wasn’t sure how the sleeping arrangements would work since we’re not married.

He laughs. “Of course she did. I told you, she wants grandkids.”

Killian picks me up and swings me in his arms. When he sets me down, he threads his fingers through my hair, which I left loose around my shoulders, and smiles down at me. “Je t’aime, ma belle. Je t’aime beaucoup.”

I love you, my beauty.I love you very much.

“Moi, aussi,” I say.

Me too.

He offers me his hand. “Ready for some great Zydeco music?”

“Killian, I don’t know how to dance to that.”

“Doesn’t matter. Just follow my lead.” He winks at me. “After a few glasses of moonshine, you won’t even care.”

“I really hope you’re kidding about the moonshine,” I tell him as we walk out to the SUV.

He takes me to an old barn down the road that’s been converted into a bar. The gravel parking lot is filled with vehicles, some of which are overflowing onto the edge of an adjacent field. It’s dark already in the early evening this time of year. Strings of fairy lights are draped throughout the parking area, lighting our way to the entrance. Even outside, we can hear the music inside as a live band plays a lively Cajun tune. A man is singing, but his accent is so thick I can’t make out the words.

There’s a chalkboard menu near the door that lists tonight’s specials—gumbo, jambalaya, Boudin sausages, crawfish etouffee, shrimp and grits, wild duck, even alligator. For dessert tonight… pecan pie a la mode.

As we approach the door, it opens letting out a gust of warm, fragrant air. Two women walk out, and they stop dead in their tracks when they spot Killian.

“I think I’ve lost my mind, Gen,” one of the women says.

“Killian?” the other one asks. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

“Hello, Genevieve, Marguerite,” he replies. “It’s good to see you.”

They both shift their curious attention to me.

“I went to school with these two ladies,” Killian says to me. To them, he says, “This is Hannah McIntyre, my girlfriend.”

“The prodigal son has returned,” Marguerite says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Wait ‘til the boys inside get a look at you.”

We go inside. The interior is warm from the crush of bodies and smells of beer and spicy food. Across the room, on a wooden stage, a five-member band of middle-aged men plays Cajun music on fiddles, guitar, and an accordion.

The place is packed. The tables are full, as is the dance floor, and servers hustle back and forth from the bar to the tables, dodging dancers in the process.

“Here’s a table,” Killian says, as he grabs my hand and leads me to a small round table for two.

We sit, and Killian hands me a paper menu.

“I’m still full from dinner,” I say, “but I will try some of that pecan pie.”

He nods. “And beer. You gotta try some good Cajun beer.”

A woman comes to wait on us—Babette, who’s clearly pregnant and probably close to delivering. Yes, she remembers Killian from school, although she was two years behind him.

With one hand on her burgeoning baby bump, Babette winks at me. “Oh, I think it’s fair to say everyone who went to school within a couple years of Killian remembers him. He sure was a popular one. I remember my sister, Camille, and her friends goin’ on and on about him.”

We order a slice of pecan pie with vanilla ice cream to share. Then we wash that down with two bottles of a popular Louisiana brew, Abita’s Turbodog. Then Killian orders something called Dixie Blackened Voodoo.

“This sounds like something Lia would like,” I say as I take a sip.

The music is fast and lively. My gaze keeps going to the dance floor, which is packed with young and old, black and white. It seems nearly everyone’s up on their feet, shuffling and scooting, twisting and turning, in their well-worn cowboy boots. I see everything from young couples to seniors, and a number of interracial couples. It looks like a friendly crowd.

“Wanna dance?” Killian asks as he holds out his hand to me.

I’m tired from a long day, but I can tell by the expression on his face that he’s dying to dance, and I don’t want to disappoint him. “I’d love to.” I lay my hand in his, and he pulls me to my feet and out onto the dance floor.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I say, laughing as he swings me.

“Doan worry, love. Just follow my lead.”

Turns out Killian’s a great dancer. He twirls me and swings me effortlessly. I glance down at his boots and mimic his movements, and I think I’m doing a decent job of it in no time.

One song blends into another, and then another. And when the tempo eventually slows for a ballad, he pulls me close and wraps his arms around me and leans down to whisper in my ear. “I remember being here when I was young, watching the couples dancing, and thinking that maybe I’d be here one day with the woman of my dreams in my arms. And here she is.”

He kisses me then, like there’s no one watching. We dance like no one’s watching. Three dances turn into five, and yet we keep going, laughing and twirling as the night wears on.

Finally, when we sit back down to take a break, a stream of people, young and old, stop by our table to say hello. Killian introduces me to so many people I can’t possibly remember them all.

When it’s time to go, we drive back to his mom’s house and sit on the front porch swing a while, enjoying the cooler weather after being inside that hot barn.

“Thanks for coming here with me,” he says as he links our fingers together. “It means a lot to me, but it means even more to my Mama and my grandparents.”

I lean my head against his shoulder. “Thanks for asking me.” I can’t believe I’m sitting with Killian on his mother’s front porch. If someone had predicted this just a few months ago, I would have said they were crazy. “You’re a very patient man, Killian.”

He lays his arm across my shoulders and tucks me in close. “I would have waited forever for you, Hannah. I knew the minute I heard you open your smart mouth that you were the one I’d been waiting for my whole life. I even told my Mama about you. She said if it was meant to be, it would be. She said if I really wanted you, I should be patient and give you time.”

“Your mom’s a smart woman. I’m glad you waited for me. Really glad.”

He releases me and stands, holding out his hand. “It’s late, and I know you’re tired. What do you say we go inside and christen that bed?”

I can feel my cheeks heating. “It’s not a big house, Killian. What if someone hears us?”

He shrugs. “Don’t matter. I told you, they want grandkids.”

* * *

Thank you so much for reading Search and Rescue! I hope you enjoyed Killian and Hannah’s story. The next release in the McIntyre Security Search and Rescue series is Maggie and Owen’s book, Lost and Found.

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Two bonus chapters below!

One about Beth and Shane McIntyre, and one about Maggie and Owen.

I hope you enjoy them.