But tonight, Henry's companionship would keep Jesse at bay. And that was fine by Sera. She needed time to figure out why Jesse's memories had blasted into her consciousness the day before.
In fact, Sera was working up her courage to ask Henry, point blank, to pray with her this evening to end her visions, because God clearly wasn't listening to her prayers, and Michael's medicines weren't curbing the curse.
Sera didn't know what else to do. She was at the end of her rope. Her visions seemed to be developing a will of their own. More to the point, Jesse seemed to be the catalyst. Gloves didn't work around Jesse. Even worse, she didn't have to touch him to have a vision about him! She wondered if God was sending her a sign. A sign that she needed to help Jesse or advise him.
And if she was, how was she supposed to broach the subject? The man never talked about his past. It wasn't as if she could stroll into the stable and casually blurt, "Hey, Jesse. I hope you don't mind my asking. Where did you have your run-in with the gunnysackers?"
Or how about, "Gee, Jesse. That afternoon at the blacksmith's shop must have been a real nightmare. But at least he left no visible scars..."
Sera shuddered just to think of it.
No, it would be far, far easier, she told herself, to avoid Jesse until Henry could advise her. Heaven knew, she couldn't consult her brother. Michael would confine her to the house for observation if she confided she'd had another Episode!
Mustering her courage, Sera muttered a prayer, squeezed past the storm cellar doors, and bolted as fast as her pointy-little heels could carry her across the backyard, up the stairs of the porch, and into the rear hallway to reach the back stairwell of the house.
She was just congratulating herself on making the perfect getaway, when who should she spy seated on Step #6 of her private staircase with his whittling knife, a half-eaten apple, and Eden's cat?
"Howdy, Miss Sera." Jesse picked an apple wedge off the blade with his strong, white teeth. "Been writing, have you?"
Sera blew out her breath. Step #6 afforded Jesse a perfect view, through the door's window, of the entire backyard, including the storm cellar. How many times had Sera sat on that staircase herself, waiting for Rafe to return from some forbidden exploit (like stealing watermelons from Aunt Claudia's patch?)
"Hello, Jesse." She hoped her face wasn't as red as her flaming cheeks suggested. Stazzie was weaving sinuous, figure eights around Jesse's calves in the hopes of sharing his feast.
Not that Stazzie actually ate apples.
But in Stazzie's opportunistic mind, anything that entered a human mouth must be tasty. She purred for attention. She dragged her slinky tail across Jesse's shins. She rubbed her silky black head against his inner thigh.
When the object of her affections dared to ignore her, Stazzie reared up, planting her sheathed forepaws squarely on his crotch.
Bad cat, Sera thought a trifle wistfully.
Turning an endearing shade of red, Jesse swept Stazzie up in his free arm, kissed her naughty head, and deposited her on the step at his feet. She flopped like a rag doll across his boot, flailing her paws in the air and acting adorable until she earned herself a belly rub.
Shameless little hoyden.
Sera cleared her throat. "I'm in a bit of a hurry—"
"I can see that," Jesse said. Completely at ease once more, with his spreading thighs on a level with her nose, he flashed his heart-stirring dimples. "Want to share my apple? Dinner's still a ways off, so I hear."
"Uh... dinner. Right."
Stazzie was rumbling in slanty-eyed ecstasy and licking his toe with a persistently slow and erotic rhythm.
Breathe, Sera reminded herself. "No, I think I'll wait, thank you."
Clutching her journal like a shield to her heart, she tried not to let her eyes stray once more to Jesse's crotch. She tried not to look at the naughty bundle of fur whose antics were making her mouth water for forbidden fruit. In fact, she did her utmost to behave in a properly prim and maidenly fashion, gathering her skirt to push past Jesse on the stairs.
He wouldn't budge.
Ornery cuss.
She pasted on a pleasant but dismissive smile. "And now it's time for me to go upstairs and make myself presentable for my dinner guest," she announced as if speaking to a person who was as deaf as a fence post.
"Shoot, Miss Sera. You're as purdy as a dewdrop on a rosebud."
That's because hiding out in poorly ventilated storm cellars makes me perspire, she thought dryly.
Still, she appreciated Jesse's homespun eloquence. Kit used to call her, "Freckle Face." Henry called her, "Apple Cheeks." When it came to beaux, her Wandering Waddie was winning the compliments contest, hands down.
Not that her brother's hired hand was actually her beau...
Great. Now my neck is burning, too.
"That's a lovely thing to say, Jesse. Now if you'll excuse me—"
"Miss Sera, I've been wondering. Are you angry with me?"
She blew out her breath. Snapping, "Yes!" and storming up the stairs in a display of feminine righteousness would certainly have been easier than prolonging her agony of embarrassment. Maybe it was the Poker player in him, but Jesse sensed feelings with eerie accuracy. Feelings that she never discussed and that she tried exceedingly hard not to show.
Like her jealousy of Allison.
Sera stared uncomfortably over his shoulder at stair #12. She didn't think she could brave that insightful stare again, not if it meant admitting that her Touching Curse had let her glimpse his private misery.
Besides, how was she supposed to keep quiet about a secret as terrible as his? Every time she saw him, she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and weep for the youth that he must have been.
How could anyone want to hurt someone as kind as Jesse? Never in her life had she wanted to hurt someone, but that vision of Jesse, hogtied and terrified in the slag on that smithy floor, had enraged her beyond all bearing. She needed time to deal with her horror. She needed time to make peace with her terrible knowledge. Otherwise, she might do irreparable damage to his pride—and their friendship.
"Jesse, can this wait, please? Henry's coming. And I really don't have time—"
"Miss Sera, you said we were friends. But you haven't been acting real friendly ever since yesterday, in the corral. If I did something or said something wrong, then I want to make amends. I can't do that, if you won't tell me why you're avoiding me."
She squirmed inwardly. She hated when he was so direct. It left no room for the polite lies that civilized people told, like, "Gee, Jesse. I can't imagine why you would think I hid in the storm cellar all day to avoid you."
Or how about: "Fiddle-dee-dee. I didn't mind one bit when you held me in your arms—until you dropped me like a hot potato the minute Allison showed up."
"I'm sorry if I made you feel bad," Sera conceded grudgingly. "I'm not angry with you. Really. I'm just... embarrassed. Okay? And your questions aren't helping."
"What are you embarrassed about?"
She hadn't believed that a face could burn any hotter. But apparently, it could.
"Allison saw us together."
He hiked an eyebrow.
"And Eden, of course," she added hastily. "I didn't want them to see us embracing like, um, sweethearts. You can understand that, can't you?"
His lips twisted with a trace of bitterness. "Sure. I reckon I can understand why you wouldn't want your sister-in-law and her best friend thinking you kissed the family hired hand."
"That is not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"Please don't be upset."
"If I sound upset, Sera, it's because you won't answer a straight question."
She fidgeted. She really didn't want Jesse to be angry with her.
"Things are just... complicated. Try putting yourself in my shoes. You know how Michael gets when it comes to me: like an over-protective grizzly bear. I hate it when he treats me like a China doll. Or worse, a child. He's
expecting me to marry a preacher, and..." She bit her tongue. Maybe she'd be wiser not to open that kettle of worms. "I don't want Michael to send you away. Before you finish training Tempest, of course."
"So this is all about Tempest, eh?"
She raised her chin. "What else could it possibly be?"
"Well..." That uncannily discerning, Poker Player's stare refused to release hers. "Considering how upset you got—right before Eden and Allison arrived—I was thinking your vision might have had something to do with me."
She tore her gaze away. She just knew guilt was written all over her face.
"Sera, is that true?"
She swallowed hard, fighting a frisson of panic.
"Sera, I need to know why you cried out. I need to know what you saw."
Oh, Jesse.
She bit her lip. He'd be humiliated if she told him. More to the point, he would push her away, like Kit had.
The tension between them heightened.
With precise and deliberate movements, Jesse wiped his blade with his bandanna. He snapped the knife closed and shoved it and the neckerchief in the front pocket of his dungarees.
All the while, he was watching her. It was impossible not to feel like that intensely green stare was stripping away every last defense, peering clear to the bottom of her soul.
Stazzie must have sensed the discord between the humans. The cat rolled to her paws, her tail lashing with annoyance. Climbing to the top landing, she plopped down in the sunshine that was streaming through the hall window and began her hourly tongue bath.
"I can see you're upset, Sera." Jesse's voice was gentler now. He'd adopted the tone that calmed Tempest after the filly got spooked by a squirrel. "Come and sit with me."
Reluctantly, Sera took the hand he offered, letting his great, sun-bronzed paw swallow her glove. Through the sheer cotton, she could feel the reassuring warmth of his palm. It helped to remind her that he wasn't the enemy. Her visions were.
She perched beside him on Step #6. There wasn't much room for all her skirts, her bustle, and his lean, pantherine flanks. A mere hairsbreadth separated their thighs. She could feel his heat seeping through her petticoats and bloomers all the way to her skin. She flushed. Her female places grew moist. The sensations were confusing, since she'd guessed already that he and Allison were enjoying some secret romance.
"Sera," he began huskily. "There are things about me, about my past—"
"Oh, Jesse," she blurted out, unable to bear for him to think he should be ashamed. "I saw the blacksmith."
He grew stone still.
"Please don't be angry," she rushed on, terrified that he would ride away and never speak to her again. "My visions strike out of the blue, and I don't know how to stop them. Except to wear gloves. But sometimes I forget when I'm not wearing gloves... like yesterday. I know it sounds stupid. To forget about my gloves, I mean.
"Still, I was hoping that after a few days, I wouldn't feel so sad and so angry about what happened to you. I was hoping that then, I could pretend I hadn't seen anything at all, and things could go back to normal between us. I figured if you wanted me to know about that horrible, horrible man, you would have told me already. Because we're friends."
He was frowning. She couldn't bear it.
"I would never betray your confidence, Jesse," she insisted desperately. "I promise I will never, never take off my gloves around you again. Please don't hate me."
Jesse drew a long, shuddering breath. For nearly 24 hours, he had agonized over that damned vision and how she'd cried, "Stop!" with such fear. He'd worried that she'd glimpsed what had really happened in Bedroom #2, where Polly Coltrane had been murdered.
Indeed, he'd been so obsessed with avoiding bounty hunters and hanging judges, he'd never stopped to consider that Sera might have seen Abel Ainsworth getting ready to torture him. Or worse, that she might have seen Cass ride up to the smithy's window and blow out Ainsworth's brains.
Now Jesse felt lower than a snake's belly. All this time, while he'd been wooing Sera under false pretenses, hoping to earn her trust, plotting to convince her to access her gift and clear his name, he'd never once considered how devastating a scene from his violent past might have been to a sheltered, small town belle.
Now Sera sat beside him, tormented by the belief that she'd lost his friendship. His trust. And all he'd ever done as her "friend" was lie.
"I don't hate you, Sera," he murmured, tamping down a pang of guilt.
Hope flickered in those luminous, columbine-blue eyes. "Then we can still be friends?"
His gaze strayed to her parted lips, dewy and rosebud pink. He drew a restraining breath. Then another. Considering her close proximity—and the heady scent of gardenias that wafted from her riotous, blue-black curls—those gulps of air were doing more to arouse his ardor than restrain it. He was vividly aware, even if she wasn't, that she was practically sitting in his lap...
And that the double walls of the narrow stairwell would conceal them from prying eyes...
And that a bedroom with a perfectly functioning key was only an eight-stair climb...
And that he knew pleasure-tricks that could make a woman howl...
As the erotic fantasy played out in his mind, he could hear Cass's sardonic taunt ringing in his ears:
Screwing ain't worth getting lynched for, Lynx. From the neck down, womenfolk are all the same.
Cass had never understood. But then, Cass could have any woman—any color of woman—that he wanted. And he did have them. Sometimes in triplicate.
Why was it that the one thing a man couldn't have, he wanted more than anything?
"Friends," Jesse repeated, forcing his eyes to focus above her neck, to ignore her shy, sweet breasts, rising and falling with such innocent allure a bare inch from his bicep. "Sure, Sera." He hoped he didn't sound as bitter as he felt. Friendship was all he could ever dare to hope for with a White woman. "We'll always be friends."
Worry chased another wave of wrinkles across her brow.
"You don't sound convinced."
He kissed the back of her hand. The last thing he wanted was to cause grief to Seraphina Jones. He knew he'd been lucky. Her visions hadn't yet revealed his lawless past. In a few weeks, when he rode away to rendezvous with Cass, she would understand better what he was. Then she would feel relief to see him go.
In the meantime, he had to focus on his plan. Cass's deadline was looming, and he was still no closer to knowing what had really happened in Bedroom #2.
"I want to help you, Sera. I don't want you to feel like you have to avoid me."
She nodded, those blue, ocean-sized eyes swimming with gratitude.
He chose his strategy carefully.
"That day we met on the riverbank, you mentioned that Eden knew a Cherokee Medicine Woman. I've met Shamans on my travels. Like you, they have visions. Was Eden able to tell you much about the way this Medicine Woman accessed her half-sight?"
Sera's brow furrowed, as if trying to remember. "She said that Talking Raven had to go into the mountains on secret, solo journeys, called Vision Quests. Talking Raven wasn't like me. She didn't suffer premonitions willy-nilly, whenever her bare fingers touched metal or the personal belongings of family and friends."
Metal, huh? Jesse made a note to keep his Bowie knife and firearms as far as possible from the gloveless fingers of Seraphina Jones.
"Do you remember Rafe?" Sera asked uncomfortably.
He nodded.
"Rafe's mother-in-law has visions, too. Only she has to use gypsy tools, like a crystal ball. Or Tarot cards.
"But Jesse, I'm scared to death of supernatural tools! Papa used to say they were the devil's playthings. I don't want people calling me a witch and running me out of town, the way that Papa did to Cellie five years ago. Some folks say that his church burned down because she cursed it."
"Is that what you think?" Jesse asked, careful to keep the skepticism from his voice.
"Well.... no. Cellie may be a bit fa
shion-challenged, with her purple turbans and billowing harem pants, but she's not vindictive. Besides, Silver—that's Rafe's wife—can produce proof from a real Pinkerton Agent that a faulty lightning rod caused the fire at Papa's church."
Interesting.
Perhaps the biggest block to Sera's visionary control wasn't her lack of training, but her deep fear that her father and brothers would stop loving her.
Jesse was hard-pressed not to snort with impatience. Only fools and cowards feared a light that shined as brightly as Seraphina Jones.
"Sera, remember I told you about my grandmother? That she had visions, and that she used them to help people?"
She leaned forward in rapt attention. Her eyes were glowing now with some inner radiance that made concentrating on practical instruction a Herculean effort. When she looked at him that way, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss the socks off her.
Focus!
He cleared his throat.
"Well, she didn't use crystal balls, or pasteboards, or any other gypsy tools. She said that tools were crutches. That the real power to connect with the divine lay within the Seer.
"Because that's what you do, Sera. Every time you have a vision, you're connecting with the wisdom of the heavenly host. The only reason it doesn't seem that way now, is because you were taught to be afraid.
"But my grandmother was raised differently. In my family, we were taught to respect and have reverence for Seers. And so, my grandmother welcomed her visions. She confided to me, once, that she felt blessed to be a Seer because her visions showed her that she was never alone. They showed her that we are all connected in infinite, but invisible ways. Her visions gave her hope when she despaired.
"And God gave you that same power, Sera. It's my guess that He wouldn't have chosen you to be a Seer if He didn't think your soul was pure and deserving of a special reward. He trusts you to use your visions to do good in the world.
"But first, you have to accept God's gift. Make peace with your Seer's power. That's the key to gain control. Your visions are striking out of the blue to make you acknowledge them. Whatever you try to suppress has to come to the surface eventually. That's called healing."
Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3) Page 9
