And all too suddenly, she felt the room crowd in around her. They were utterly alone.
Despite the cheerful blaze of sunshine, the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon, and the homey clutter of the kitchen—or perhaps because of them—Sera suffered a pang of longing. Ever since her vision of a dark-headed toddler, she'd been thinking of Jesse. Dreaming about him, really. It was hard not to be moved by a man who'd suffered so much, and yet who showed compassion to others.
To learn that he might be in trouble had affected her deeply. She kept praying for the courage and the insight to use her half-sight to help Jesse. Even though her silly, girlish heart knew he was planning to ride away, she feared she was falling in love with him.
Now she imagined what it might be like to sit in a kitchen every morning, watching him cut apple slices while she buttered toast.
Or letting him tease her about her pie-baking so she could threaten him good-naturedly with turnips for dinner.
Or listening to him reminisce about his grandmother's recipes while she cuddled their baby to her breast.
Her eyes stung with a traitorous moistness.
All her life, she'd dreamed of a man who would love her, who would make a home with her, who would give her children whom he would love with equal fervor. She wanted a man whom she could love in return—not in a worshipful way, because he was untouched by the realities of the world, like some idealistic cleric.
She wanted a real, flesh-and-blood man whom she could share her dreams and secrets with, a man who had compassion for the weaknesses of others, a man whom children could trust and respect.
And there was one other thing: she wanted her man's eyes to glow when he looked at her—the way that Michael lit up when he saw Eden. Sharing a home with her brother and his wife, Sera couldn't help but glimpse their secret, tender touches. Nor could she close her ears to the thumping of their bed or the muffled cries of their passion during the wee hours of the night.
Henry might care about her, but his feelings weren't the same. His eyes didn't spark when he gazed at her. His fingers felt like autumn leaves—dry and lifeless on her skin. She wanted passion and adventure to go with the caring. Was that so wrong? Was she too much like her adulterous mother?
Jesse caught her staring at him.
Her face burning, Sera ducked her head, grabbing the dust pail that Collie had left behind. She made herself busy, sweeping up the remainder of the hiccurs.
"You sure you don't need a hand?" Jesse drawled, pushing back his bench and rising.
"Yes. Yes, of course. Enjoy your breakfast."
She should have known he wouldn't let her off that easily. Those keen, pantherine eyes missed nothing.
"Something bothering you?"
"Don't be silly. Everything's fine. Except for this whole bakeoff mess, of course."
He didn't look convinced, so she turned her back, dumping the dust pan in the slops pail to give herself time to compose herself.
"Why do you put so much importance on the opinion of some puffed up, know-it-all judges?" he demanded.
Sera's smile was mirthless as she leaned the dust pan and broom against the wall. How was she supposed to answer? She couldn't very well admit that Blue Thunder's ratio of belles to beaux was so ridiculously in favor of the bachelors, that a wedding-bell chaser needed more than good looks and an agreeable demeanor to catch one.
She avoided his eyes, using her apron to wipe off her gloveless hands. "I expect a well-traveled man, like yourself, thinks I'm silly."
"No. I think the competitive spirit in this town has made you lose perspective. It's just food, Sera. Food's about fueling a body and keeping it healthy. No man worth his salt is going to expect you to whip up a gourmet meal three times a day. Henry sure wouldn't."
She grimaced. Why did he have to ruin a perfectly lovely conversation by bringing up Henry? Heaven knew, Henry was the last man she ever thought about when Jesse Quaid stood an arm's length away, oozing enough untamed virility to make her melt into a sparking puddle!
She dared to face him again. He stood silhouetted against the top half of the open, backyard door. With the sunshine limning his magnificent torso in a starburst of light, the emerald fire of his stare was all she could clearly discern in his shadow-steeped face.
Like cinders and smoke, she thought a trifle breathlessly.
"Do you really think Henry has the gumption to offer for me?" She had a hard time keeping the unhappiness from her voice.
"I reckon he has more than fried chicken on his mind when he pays you a call each Friday night."
She suspected that Jesse was trying to reassure her. But what he'd really done was give concrete form to the specter of her fear: Henry Prescott was a decent, honest man. But he'd never made her heart pound or her skin flush. Not like Jesse Quaid.
"Henry also keeps the company of Allison Cassidy," she pointed out desperately.
She winced at her blurt. She supposed she might have been more tactful. But even Eden had noticed that Allison found some reason to stop by the church—or more precisely, the rectory—most every day of the week.
"You're better suited to be a preacher's wife than Widow Cassidy," Jesse said flatly.
Sera battled a spiraling sense of despair.
"Why does everyone always expect me to marry a preacher? I'm not the fuddy-duddy that Henry is."
"Henry's not so bad. The way I hear it, he'll buy a drink for a parishioner who needs a cup of Christian kindness."
"But Jesse, I don't want to be a preacher's wife! I don't want to live up to my father's impossible standards. I don't want to be as desperately unhappy as—"
Her chest heaved. She realized that she was on the verge of crying again.
"Your mama?" he finished gently for her.
She nodded, blinking back the rainbows of tears. As his rugged, sun-blackened face swam into focus, she was struck by the genuine warmth that poured from his eyes into hers. She didn't think that any man had ever gazed at her with such soulful understanding.
"You don't love him," he said in quiet wonder.
She shook her head, her throat aching.
"You deserve love, Sera." His thumb brushed her cheek. She could see dampness—the glistening of her tear—when he withdrew his hand. "Wait for it. It will come to you."
"But how will I know?" she whispered plaintively.
His lips curved in the tiniest, self-deprecating smile. "That's part of the Great Mystery."
The pounding of her heart filled the silence. She didn't dare to breathe.
And yet, as reluctant as she was to break the spell, she had to know.
"Have you ever been in love, Jesse?"
He stared into her eyes for an impossibly long time.
Finally, his lids drooped to veil the hunger in that jungle-cat stare.
"Once. Maybe."
"Maybe?" Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she thought for certain he must hear it.
"A long time ago."
"Allison?" she breathed.
His nod was reluctant.
Jealousy streaked through her.
Surprised by the knife-sharp intensity of her feelings, she struggled to resurrect the Good Samaritan in her. Matchmaking for Allison didn't exactly top Sera's priority list, but it did occur to her that if she wanted to be a good friend to Jesse—and if there was a snowball's chance in Hades of Jesse ever being more than a good friend to her—then she had to encourage him to explore his feelings for Allison.
Especially the pent-up ones.
"Jesse, I know you were acquainted with Allison in Texas."
He grew as still as stone.
"I was acquainted with a lot of people in Texas," he said.
Despite his even tone of voice, she sensed that she'd strayed into dangerous territory. Every hair on her scalp began to prickle.
Still, she rallied her courage. She told herself that Laura Clay wouldn't mince words. Laura Clay would speak up for what was right!
"J
esse, we're supposed to be friends. You know all about my cooking. And my Episodes. And even my feelings for Henry. But you never talk about Allison."
"That's because there's nothing to tell about Allison."
She winced. That time, his voice hadn't been quite so even. Or friendly.
"Jesse, I think... I mean, it's none of my business, but... I think Allison may still have feelings for you."
He arched an eyebrow.
"You should give her another chance," Sera rushed on, hating the words but feeling obligated to speak them—for Becky's sake. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want to wake up one morning and wonder what might have been."
Those feral, feline eyes narrowed to slits. "What exactly did Allison tell you?"
Ouch. There was definitely a pent-up feeling behind that question!
"Nothing! Allison is Eden's friend, not mine." Sera grimaced. That didn't come out right. "What I mean to say is, Allison and I aren't what you'd call confidantes. But... I had this vision, once. Of Allison fleeing Texas. And you clearly have a history with her. And then there's Becky..."
His face grew shuttered.
"Don't you think you could love Becky?" Sera whispered. She bit her lip. "Everybody loves Becky!"
Amusement finally flickered over the chiseled planes of his face.
"Seraphina Jones, are you trying to get rid of me?"
She blinked up at him, owl-like.
"Well, no, I—"
Before she could finish her protest, he caught her head and kissed her.
Only Jesse's kiss wasn't a peck on the cheek, like two comfortable, old friends might share.
Oh, no. Jesse's kiss was white lightning mixed with dynamite. It packed the wallop of firecrackers rocketing or volcanoes letting loose. Giving her no chance to protest, he slanted his mouth across hers, demanding a response. When she stumbled forward, he hooked his free arm around her waist, dragging her forward to collide with his hips.
He tasted of cinnamon. He smelled of sandalwood and cloves. The combination was a heady aphrodisiac. She wanted more of it. More of him. She gripped his shoulders, rising on tiptoe, wriggling until her breasts flattened against the cotton-sheathed granite of his chest. His long, rangy maleness felt so hard, and hard felt so good! Her senses sizzled, smoking before all that unleashed, wildcat energy. She thought she might combust.
He rewarded her daring with a growl. Digging his fingers into her scalp, he deepened his feast. Her nipples chafed against their whalebone restraints. Her panties grew shockingly moist. A predatory little growl rumbled in her own throat.
The sound seemed to inflame him.
He gripped her buttocks, squeezing and kneading with catlike finesse. Challenging his dominance, she tangled her tongue with his, thrusting into his mouth with equal abandon. When she sucked him deeper, a shudder moved through his pantherine length. She reveled in her newfound, female power to ensnare him. Weaving her fingers through his silky black mane, she dragged his head lower.
He countered by arching her spine and hiking her hips. She half moaned, half purred to feel the thick, hard heat of his arousal wedge between her thighs.
Suddenly, her potent Sixth Sense twanged, warning that they weren't alone.
Jesse must have sensed the intruder's presence too. With a speed and agility that left her breathless, he pushed her body safely behind his and spun to face the threat. His Colt leaped so quickly to his fist that it seemed to appear there by magic.
"Whoa."
A wide-eyed Luke Frothingale stood as tense as a fiddle string on the other side of the kitchen's half-door. His normally slick, blue-black hair was wild and wind-blown, and his fancy linen shirt was damp with perspiration. He looked like he'd just finished a hard, fast gallop.
"Take it easy, Quaid." Luke's big, sun-tanned hands rose in the universal sign of surrender. "No one answered the front door. When I knocked at the back, you didn't hear me. I'm looking for Doc Jones."
Sera's embarrassment quickly dissolved to worry before the dire look in Luke's earth-colored eyes.
"Luke! Is it the baby? Is Bonnie ready to—"
"No," he interrupted grimly. "It's Sheriff Truitt. Some bastard ambushed Ben. Shot him from behind."
Chapter 8
News of Sheriff Truitt's ambush spread like wildfire. Within 30 minutes, neighbors started banging on Sera's door, offering the excuse that Claudia had told them Eden was under the weather. But in reality, the soup-carrying, casserole-bearing matrons of Blue Thunder were more interested in learning if Ben Truitt was going to survive.
Eden knew as little about Ben's wounds as Sera did. Michael hadn't returned to the house since his departure, shortly after dawn. But Sera didn't think the sheriff's condition could be good. At 9 a.m., Henry had sent word, by runner, that he would have to postpone Sera's escort to the Founder's Day festivities. Henry had been called to Ben's bedside.
Jesse reluctantly yielded to Sera's urging that he attend the all-male "emergency meeting" that the mayor had called for 10 a.m. in town. According to Luke, the town council was gathering to determine if Founder's Day should be postponed while a "sheriff killer" was on the loose.
Jesse really didn't want to break his ironclad rule—even for Sera—about mingling in a crowd. On the other hand, he didn't see how he could possibly explain to Sera, Eden, Michael—or anyone else, for that matter—why he was the only able-bodied man in Blue Thunder who'd declined to protect the town that had sheltered and befriended him for six weeks.
So despite his foreboding, Jesse rode the requisite half mile into town to attend Mayor Walter Frothingale's emergency meeting. He was hoping he could slip into the council chamber unnoticed.
However, the minute he dismounted before the only hitching post on Main Street that still had space left for a horse, Becky Cassidy spied him.
"Mr. Jesse, Mr. Jesse!" the ten-year-old cried, bolting off her cider-barrel perch on Aunt Claudia's porch. Becky ran across the street with all the flounces of her blue gingham and neatly pressed pinafore hiked up to her knees, which were discreetly sheathed in white stockings.
"Is it true what Jamie Frothingale said? Is it, huh?" she panted the moment she intercepted him.
He tipped his hat to the child, who'd craned her neck back to gaze adoringly up his six-foot length. "What's that, Miss Becky?"
Her hazel-green eyes were as bright as a summer's day.
"That you're the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi!"
Jesse went stone, dead cold inside.
"Jamie told you that?" he asked, somehow managing not to choke.
Becky nodded eagerly, her sausage-style curls bobbing like plump, yellow fishing lures by her ears. "He heard his pa telling his grandpa. Before they went inside the men's meeting."
Dammit, Luke.
"Becky," Allison chided. "You mustn't badger Mr. Jesse about his guns." Dressed in a dignified, white cotton blouse adorned with mutton-chop sleeves, she looked every inch the respectable matron as she emerged from the red-brick building that housed Aubrey Cadawaller's post office. Beneath her arm was a brown-papered bundle, wrapped with hemp twine. "Will you take these new spools from Louisville back to the store, please? And start organizing the thread for color and weight."
Becky pouted. "Yes, ma'am."
Jesse waited a discreet moment for the child's back to turn and her feet to start trotting her across the street. But he had no intention of sharing the sidewalk a moment longer than was necessary with the woman whose lies had nearly gotten him killed in Pilot Grove.
Nodding a curt "good-day" to Allison, he turned on his heel to leave her choking on his dust.
"If we're going to be neighbors, we should act neighborly," Allie called before he could take his second step. "People have noticed the tension between us. They're starting to talk. This town's too small for two Texicans to avoid each other. I told you that."
Jesse spun back to glare at her. "Why should I give a damn what people think of you?" he retorted in a virulent
undertone. "If Becky ever learns why her father died—or who murdered him—you have no one to blame but yourself. Have you ever considered what Cass might do if he finds out you've been masquerading all these years as Bobby's widow?"
Allie fidgeted. She averted her gaze.
"Look, Jess. I don't know how many times I can apologize for what my father did. If I could erase all the pain he caused you, I would. But you survived. You have a new life now. And it seems to me you have a much better chance at happiness here, in Blue Thunder, than you ever did in Pilot Grove."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She gave him a wry smile. "C'mon, Jess. I see how you look at Sera."
He bit back an oath. He'd thought he'd mastered his Poker face better than that!
She was quiet for a moment, shading her cornflower-blue eyes against the late morning sun. Her gaze was focused on the rustic cedar-timbers of the feed store across the street.
"Do you see that teddy bear of a man over there, turning the 'closed' sign around on his door?"
Reluctantly, Jessed narrowed his gaze, following her line of sight. He spied a brawny hillbilly—about 30 years old—with thinning brown hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a cheek swelled up like a chipmunk's with a tobacco chaw.
"That's Johnny Dufflemeir," Allie said.
"So?"
"Last summer, he fell off a bar stool and broke his arm. The spring before that, he let a window shutter smack him in the eye. Two winters ago, he crashed his sled into the belly of a wagon and nearly got his head ripped off his—"
"I get it, Allie," Jesse said brusquely. "Johnny's accident prone. What's your point?"
"Haven't you ever wondered why Blue Thunder doesn't have a marshal?"
He slid her a sideways glance.
"Enlighten me."
She shrugged. "Johnny was Eddie Holcomb's deputy, up until the time when the marshal passed on from pneumonia. No one else wanted Holcomb's job, but Walter Frothingale had his reservations about Johnny.
"Don't get me wrong," Allie was quick to add. "Johnny's a good man. He never shoots out the windows, or reneges on his bills, or starts fist fights. But look at him, Jess."
Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3) Page 12
