Renegade's Kiss

by Barbara Ankrum

  Andi nodded with an exhausted smile.

  "Land sakes," she said, rolling up her sleeves and looking at Jesse. "An' I 'spect that'll be your wolf sitting outside the kitchen door, then."

  "A wolf?" Andi repeated, glancing at Jesse.

  "She's half dog," he said. "She's a pet."

  Isabelle snorted without glancing at him. "Looks like a wolf to me. Round here we shoot wolves 'fore they eat our chickens. If she hadn't wagged that silver tail in my direction and backed off, I might have done just that."

  Andi started to shake—violently—and clutched her belly as another contraction hit.

  "Damn." Jesse moved instantly to Andi's side. "What's wrong with her?"

  Isabelle glanced up at Jesse as she pulled a quilt around Andi and the baby. "I reckon it's a little late to be a'worryin' about sensibilities, but I'd be obliged if you'd excuse us ladies for a few minutes... she ain't quite finished here."

  Jesse blinked at her dismissal. In fact, he didn't like being shunted out of the room at all. He wanted to argue that he'd been there for the beginning and he'd earned the right to see her through to the end. But the look on Isabelle's face brooked no argument. And he realized she was right. No matter what they'd been through together, Andi would be more comfortable with a woman. He rubbed at his bearded jaw and glanced at Andi whose eyes were slammed shut again in pain.

  "Yeah," he said, backing out of the room. "Sure. I'll, uh, be downstairs." Bouncing off the doorjamb on the way out, Jesse righted himself and headed down the dark and narrow stairway, alone.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, after Jesse had stabled his horse and restoked the kitchen stove with wood, he sat on the worn kitchen chair sipping on a steaming mug of coffee as Isabelle came down the stairs.

  His chair scraped across the wooden floor as he jumped up. He had barely opened his mouth to ask about Andi when Isabelle waved him back down in the chair.

  "Don't you be worryin' now. They're both fine as frog hair, thanks to you." Isabelle sank slowly to the wooden chair opposite him, glanced out at the rain and rubbed her achy elbow. "Andrea said you were a godsend. I believe she was right."

  He tightened his fingers around the warm mug. "I didn't do much."

  Isabelle laughed. "I'd say you did plenty."

  Jesse stood and prowled to the stove. "Do you want some coffee?" Without waiting for an answer, he reached for the blue graniteware pot and poured her a mug. He snuck a look up the stairway, feeling drawn there by some irrational need to be with her again.

  "You can go up in a while," Isabelle said, intruding uncannily on his thoughts. "She's restin'. She'll need her sleep after all she's been through."

  Jesse nodded and handed her the steaming mug.

  Isabelle shook her head in disbelief as she took the coffee and inhaled the rich, dark scent. "Jesse Winslow. I didn't recognize you at first. You've filled out and then some, boy. Gotten hairier, too. You remember me?"

  It had been a long time since anyone had dared call him 'boy' and even longer since he hadn't minded. But he did remember her, a younger her, with hoards of children tugging at her skirts. She'd always been kind to him.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I remember. First spread to the west of here. Best molasses cookies north of the Ohio River. Mrs. Rafferty, isn't it?"

  Isabelle chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. "That's me. But call me Isabelle. It makes me feel old to have a man whose face I used to wipe still callin' me Missus Rafferty."

  He took a sip of coffee to hide the unexpected heat crawling up his neck. "Isabelle. Maybe you can tell me why my sister-in-law was all alone here today. It's not like Ma to leave her alone here like this."

  Isabelle took a slow sip on her coffee and settled back against her chair. "Andrea was a little preoccupied up there to tell you."

  "You mean about my father?"

  Isabelle looked up with surprise. "I—well, yes. I'm real sorry about your Pa, Jesse."

  "You needn't be. You knew there was no love lost between us. The whole county probably heard our arguments. My mother warned me in her letter that he was ill. It didn't come as a complete surprise."

  She nodded. "Tom was hard on you. Too hard. You deserved better, bein' just a boy. So did—" She cut off the thought. "But it's riot my place to be speakin' ill of the dead."

  Isabelle stared hard at the swirling coffee in her mug, her blue eyes misting. Discomfort crawled up Jesse's neck. There was more bad news, he could feel it. Outside the window, the rain thudded endlessly against the glass.

  "Isabelle, where's Ma?"

  She looked up through a sweep of blond lashes. Her plump face softened further as she looked at him. "Lordy..."

  Something curled hard at the pit of his stomach.

  "Jesse," she said gently, holding his gaze, "your folks both passed on. Your pa in May, your ma, just over two weeks ago. They're buried out there,"—she inclined her head toward the front window and the family plot up the hill—"alongside your brother Zach's marker."

  A numbing cold seeped into his bones and seemed to freeze the surge of pain that poured through him. "Both?" he repeated. "Ma, too?" Shock stiffened his limbs as he staggered to his feet. Mechanically, he stood and walked to the window that overlooked the zinc-lined kitchen sink. Leaning his palms against the planked countertop, Jesse felt the world shift under his feet.

  His mother gone? Impossible. He never even considered the possibility. She was too young and it had been too many years since they'd spoken, since he'd told her he—

  He slammed his eyes shut. "How?"

  Isabelle sighed heavily and ran a hand over her frizzled hair. "After they got word about Zach, your pa seemed to just give up. He started ailin' during the spring rains and just never got better. Your ma worried herself sick over him an' the farm. Worked herself too hard, I expect, after he died. Andrea tried to take over as much as she could in her condition. I sent over my boy Gus, to help with the planting and such, but Andrea found your ma one morning in her bed. She just went to sleep an' never woke up. Went real peaceful like, if that's any comfort to you."

  It was no comfort, no comfort at all. Jesse smashed his fist against the countertop and ground it there—the same countertop where his ma had worked, fixed meals, arranged her roses in her cranberry pressed-glass pitcher. He spread his fingers against the smooth, cool wood, as if by touch alone he could recapture her.

  He felt Isabelle's hand on his arm, though he hadn't been aware of her walking toward him. His mind was somewhere else. Back in a time when he could have changed things, mended fences, but hadn't—couldn't.

  "She told me she wrote to you," Isabelle stroked his balled fist as she might have done for her own son. "She wasn't sure you'd come. But I think if she knew, she'd be real glad, Jesse. Real glad you're home."

  Jesse's eyes burned as he met Isabelle's gaze. He didn't say anything. What was there to say? That he was a bastard of a son to have let his mother work herself to death while he gallivanted across Montana, chasing the dream that had eluded him for the past six years? Oh, he'd been happy. No, content was closer to what he'd been. But he hadn't managed to find what he'd left the farm to search for. Freedom had its up-side, but it hadn't answered the gnawing ache that was still inside him, and it hadn't ever felt like home.

  Then again, neither had this. Not for a long time before he'd left.

  He picked his hat up off the table, slid it on and shrugged into his leather coat. "I'd be obliged if you could sit with Andi for a little while," he said. "I'll be back."

  "You plannin' on stayin', Jesse?" Isabelle asked.

  Pulling up the collar of his coat, he turned to her. "Stay here?" he asked, shaking his head. "I only came back for one reason—my mother. It's no secret I hated this place. There's nothing for me here now that she's gone. I'll probably sell the place." With that, he turned and walked out the door.

  Isabelle arched one eyebrow and watched him disappear into the rain. Sell Willow Banks? She snorted. Jesse may th
ink that's what he wanted, but he might as well be burning green wood for kindlin'. And smoke is all that idea would come to if that little gal upstairs had anything to say about it, Isabelle thought. Lots and lots of smoke.

  * * *

  The family plot lay at the crest of a low hill beneath an enormous oak whose branches sprawled out over the graves like protective arms, sheltering them from the steady downpour. The air was sweet and heavy with the earthy scent of the rain. A white picket fence, peeled by weather and time, but woven through with vines of morning glory, corralled the plot. Mahkwi bounded ahead of him, sniffing at the base of the oak, then wandered off in search of some long-gone animal.

  And eerie light poured down through the thatch of green leaves as the sun peeked between two black clouds. Jesse stopped at the perimeter and slid his hat off, heedless of the falling rain. His boots sank deeply into the muddy earth. Moisture seeped inside the soles and the drizzle soaked the shoulders of his coat.

  He scarcely noticed the chill, so cold was he at the sight of the three freshly dug graves within:

  Thomas Holden Winslow

  Beloved Husband and Father

  A muscle in his jaw flexed, and he dragged his gaze to the next marker.

  Pvt. Zachary Evan Winslow

  Born July 3, 1842

  Died March 2, 1864

  Dearest Son, Beloved Husband

  Rest in Peace

  "And father of an infant son who will never know him," Jesse added bitterly. It should have been him, not his brother who went, but he'd escaped the farm and the war by going west. He'd taken the coward's way out and left Zach to bear the expectations of their father alone. For that he would never forgive himself.

  Dragging a hand down the moisture on his face, he turned to the newest grave where grass hadn't yet taken hold and the rain made slender rivulets in the soil.

  Martha Ivey Winslow

  Wife, Mother, Friend

  Born September 3, 1818

  Died July 14, 1864

  The cold wind tore at his clothes and at the wet hair slapping his cheek. Dead. His whole family, dead. He could hardly make sense of it. Three grueling weeks had passed since he'd learned of Zach.

  The pain was no less sharp now than it had been the day he'd opened the letter from his ma in Seth Travers' store in Virginia City, Montana.

  And now she was gone, too. He'd missed seeing her alive by two damn weeks. Why hadn't he sent a wire to her from St. Louis when his steamboat had arrived, telling her he was catching the first train home? Or at least written to tell her he'd be there. At least she would have known.

  He knew why. He hadn't wanted the old man to intercept it, or try to stop him from coming back... or blame his mother for asking him. Now, he could only blame himself for the unfinished business between them.

  His eyes strayed to the wooden marker over his father's grave. "Well, Old Man, you finally did it. Drove her into the ground. You happy now?" Jesse's fingers tightened around a peeling picket stake until splinters dug into his hands. "You should be. You're in your element—Winslow soil. I always said the stuff ran in your veins instead of blood like the rest of us." He laughed grimly, the sound flat against the rain.

  He jammed his hat back on. "I wonder if you've finally had your fill of it, old man. You know I have."

  He cast one final glance at his mother's grave and made a mental note to plant some grass and maybe a rose bush or two there before he left. She always loved roses.

  * * *

  After checking on his horse in the leaky barn, Jesse headed into the house. The savory smell of homemade stew reached him before he'd pulled the front door fully open. Shaking the rain off his coat outside the door, he went in to find Isabelle poking a long hatpin in the floppy brimmed hat she'd settled over her thick braids. She turned and eyed him appraisingly.

  "You okay, Jesse?" she asked.

  "I'm fine," he answered, hanging his dripping coat on the coat rack near the door.

  She nodded and turned back to the mirror hanging on the wall over the chimneypiece in the parlor. "I made a pot of stew. It's heatin' on the stove. Nappies for the youngun' are stacked on the washstand in Andrea's room. You'll run out fast, so you may have to wash some tomorrow."

  "Nappies," he repeated dully. He slid his hat off. Water poured off it in a stream. "You're leaving?"

  "Have to." She glanced up and frowned at the puddle forming on the floor. "Don't let Andrea catch you making such a mess in her kitchen floor like that. She'll have yer hide." But it was the sight of the wolf that appeared at Jesse's side that made Isabelle draw in her chin and one apprehensive eyebrow to go up.

  "But... you can't just leave Andi here alone," Jesse argued.

  "She's not alone. She's got you."

  He slapped his drenched hat across his thigh in irritation. "But... I told you, I'm not staying—"

  Isabelle braced her fists on either side of her ample hips and searched his eyes. "You ain't leavin' tonight, are you?"

  "No." He dragged a hand through his wet hair. "But what do I know about taking care of babies?"

  "More than most men, considerin' what you just did up there."

  "But I don't know anything about... nappies or—'"

  Isabelle laughed, a loud throaty laugh. "You men! You think you eat nails for breakfast, but when it comes to somethin' like a little baby, why you'd just as soon kiss a tadpole as handle a human child. They don't break, for pity's sake. They ain't as fragile as they look. Ask my husband, John. He's had lots of experience."

  "But... wouldn't Andi be more comfortable with you here?"

  Wrapping an oversized paisley wool scarf around her wide shoulders, Isabelle shrugged with a grin. "I got a family, Jesse. Nine younguns and a houseful of chores that don't care if I got better things to do. And a husband who wants me home at night. But, if you can't stay... well, I reckon that's your business. We'll cart Andrea and the baby over to my place. But the ride would be awfully hard on her and what with nine children crawlin' all over her and the baby..."

  He sighed. "Hell, I have no right to ask you to stay. It's just... this whole thing has kind of caught me by surprise. She's Zach's widow. That makes her my responsibility, not yours."

  Isabelle pursed her mouth at the resignation in his voice, then laid a plump hand over his and gave it a pat."Responsibility can be a curse or a blessing, Jesse. I reckon it's all in how you look at it." Threading a long scarf over the brim of her hat, she knotted it beneath her chin with a decisive tug.

  "For the record," she continued, "I reckon I don't have to remind you to keep one floor between you at night and mind your manners. She's a lady and you're a—" her gaze drifted down his travel-weary clothes "—well, you're a Winslow. If it'll help, I'll send Etta over to fix supper and sleep over at night in the house 'til Andi's confinement's over. At least you two won't starve."

  A look of doom hooded his eyes. "Etta?"

  "My hired girl. With nine younguns—six of 'em under the age of ten—there's corners of my house that wouldn't see the light of day, but once every leap year. Etta needs the work and I ain't too proud to cherish the help. Anyway, I'll send her over tomorrow if that suits you. She and Andi get along fine."

  Jesse nodded numbly. He took the comforting hand Isabelle offered and gave it a squeeze. "That's generous of you, Isabelle. I... thanks."

  She harumphed and headed for the door. Hand on the aged brass knob, she turned back to him. "It's good to see you back at Willow Banks, Jesse. And I'm—I'm right sorry about your folks. Your ma was a dear friend of mine for most of my life. You let me know if ya'll need anything else, you hear? I'll get word to Doc Adams to come out and check on the sprout and that little gal up there."

  "I'd be obliged, ma'am."

  "I'm just sorry I'll be missin' the fireworks," she mumbled, giving her hat one last good flattening with her hand.

  Fireworks? Jesse frowned, pulling the door open for her. What the hell did that mean?

  But before he could
ask, she said, "You'll do, Jesse. You'll do just fine."

  He stood helplessly as she headed out into the misting rain still blanketing the land. He shut the door, a sense of dread creeping in on him, trying to imagine what Chief Sun Weasel of the Blackfeet would say if he caught him washing... nappies.

  Chapter 3

  The scent of honeysuckle drifting through Andrea's open window awakened her. She opened her eyes to find Jesse sitting in a chair by the window, looking out over the cornfield. Beside his knee, tucked safely in an empty drawer, lay her newborn son. The sight made her pulse falter.

  The reality of what had happened between them hit her like a blow: he'd been about as intimate with her as a man could be with a woman. The pain made her forget to care about such things. Now...

  Andrea slunk lower in the covers, watching him surreptitiously. He sat with elbows braced on knees, massaging small circles at his temples with his fingertips. He hardly resembled the young man who'd left her six years ago, she thought. His features had assumed a harder edge, bronzed and weathered by the sun. His mustache covered most of his mouth and his jawline lay hidden beneath his full beard.

  But his eyes, she thought, they hadn't changed. She remembered those same eyes gazing into hers that autumn day six years ago by Willow Banks Creek—the day Jesse had left her. They'd both been young, so young then and so full of dreams and hope. That day he'd forced her to listen when all she'd wanted to do was run....

  His old piebald gelding had stood saddled and waiting that day, his bedroll hastily thrown across the animal's rump. Straddling the old sitting log that stretched across the water she and Jesse sat, awkward as strangers, as he sent her world crashing down around her.

  "Andi Mae—" He brushed a tear off her cheek with his fingertip, "don't cry."

  "Don't leave," she answered, ignoring his gentle order, letting the tears spill down her cheeks.

  "Don't you see? I have to. I can't live like this anymore. I can't stay here for another day with that old bastard. I don't have to anymore."