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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
Completed:
2010-03-08
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8,761
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3/3
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Scent of Leather

Summary:

A Cinderella story. A cattle tycoon with a generous heart finds love where he least expects it.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Notes:

Author's Note: This isn't the first Cinderella-derived fic I've written, but it is for these two characters. Dedicated to Sisterwine, since she won't mind my insanity. Happy Birthday.
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Comics owns Logan and Remy. This story is a work of fanfiction. I'm making no money for the writing of this story.

Chapter Text



Scent of Leather
by OriginalCeenote

Logan swallowed the rest of his lukewarm water, sucking the plastic Calistoga bottle until it imploded and crumpled with a pop. He chucked it in the back, making a note to himself to clean the depleted bottle and the rest of the accumulated trash out of his car at the next rest stop. His GPS told him it was four miles ahead. His digital clock display flickered to one PM, and he regretted leaving his Stetson in the trunk of his rented Navigator; the sun was hitting him in the eyes at just the right angle for the window visor to stop just short of where he needed it to block the glare. Logan hated being short, if only for that purpose. It was shaping up to be a perfect Texan summer day, if your idea of perfect involved mosquitoes the size of helicopters and ninety percent humidity in the shade. The road ahead of him seemed to shimmer in the heat rising up from it, and the desiccated trees whizzing by him looked too identical, mesmerizing him by the gaps between each row whose parallel slants made them appear to dance and follow him.

He'd been on the road too damned long, and his ass was killing him. Jet lag and travel delirium didn't help.

The car's temperature gage showed him an alarming number and solved the question in the back of his mind why the air conditioning wasn't keeping him cool after four hours on the road. Logan hummed absently to Johnny Cash and tapped his fingers hectically against the leather steering wheel.

A large white sign on the roadside caught his attention, elegantly carved and painted in green letters: LeBeau Family Farm and Dairy, Est. 1890. He shrugged, noticing a long, winding gravel road that lead through a thick copse of trees, obscuring the large plantation house on the property. He drove past an enormous pasture well populated with cows, guernseys, if his guess was correct. They lashed their tails and shook themselves to shoo away the flies; Logan knew they had to find them as annoying as he did, divebombing his eyes and mouth every time he got out of the car.

The property looked deserted. Logan didn't notice anyone working in the field and the yellow tractor sat deserted in the shade of a large red barn that was missing a few roof shingles. He made a thoughtful sound in his throat. The home and land looked well-cared for aside from that, he had to give the owners credit.

 

 

"REMY!"

"Now what?" a young baritone demanded, annoyed. Its owner leaned against the side of the stall as he paused in his malodorous chore, resting the pitchfork against the wall. He straightened and approached the barn door, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "YEAH?"

"Pop wants you to fix the roof," Jean-Paul informed him smugly as he dug into a bowl of ice cream from the shade of the back porch. He sat in their father's favorite Adirondack chair, long, slim legs sprawled comfortably and feet shod in brand-new, coffee brown leather boots that never saw the inside of a stall.

"Pop wants <i>me</i> t'fix it?" he asked incredulously. "Y'hands ain' broken, homme."

"Pop asked you," he shrugged, slurping a melting lump of rocky road from his spoon. He dug into the bowl with enthusiasm, adding "He wants you to check Betty Sue and see if she's gonna calf tonight."

"Remy'll get right on dat, when he grows three more hands," Remy complained. Jean-Paul grinned.

"Hurry up." Remy fought the urge to grab up a clump of manure in his gloved hand and fling it at his younger stepbrother, but he took the path of least resistance and retreated back into the barn, ignoring him.

"Hey, REMY!" Jean-Paul called out, waiting for him to head all the way back inside. Remy sighed in long-suffering fashion and made an about-face, eyeing his brother sourly.

"Now what?" he repeated for about the tenth time that day.

"Some old chick called you."

"Old chick?"

"Yeah…Sandy…Cassie, something-or-other. Said she'd try to call you back when you weren't busy. Mentioned she'd be heading out of town for three days."

"MERDE! Ya took her number, right?"

"Nope. Thought you had it," Jean-Paul said, throwing up his hands after setting his empty bowl down on the porch rail.

"Damn it," Remy hissed. "Ya take a call from Cassandra Nova an' ya don' bother gettin' her number?"

"What's the big deal?"

"It's a big deal, mec! Been waitin' on her t'call all week! De art exhibit's in two days! She was gonna tell me if it was too late or not t'submit my painting for de juried show."

"Ahhhh…don't worry about it. What's the big deal? There'll be other shows," he muttered. "Better go finish that roof, Rem." His brother turned his back on him without further discussion and nothing resembling an apology and sauntered back inside.

"FUCK!" Remy spat, running at the side of the barn and giving its façade a savage kick. "DAMN IT!" He banged his fist against the weather-beaten wood, regretting that his work glove was too thin to buffet the impact. His hand smarted as he returned to finish mucking the stall, but not before he cursed his own folly.

 

 

end part 1