She slammed the book shut with a thud, bracing for another fight.
Etta stopped what she was doing and glanced at each of them warily. "I... uh, think now might be a good time for me to have a look at that little baby boy. I'll just... uh... go on ahead and..." She edged to the stairway with a finishing shrug and disappeared diplomatically up the stairs.
Jesse swiveled a hard look at Andi. "Why didn't you tell me the old man had gotten the farm into debt?"
"You're not staying. What difference would it make to tell you? Besides, it's not that bad."
A bark of laughter escaped him. "Not that bad? The price of a new tiller and a hundred additional acres of land?"
"He bought it before Zach was called up," she said, half in Tom Winslow's defense. "Before he got sick. The crop that's planted now will cover this year's payments easily. Another four or five years..."
He sent her a disbelieving look. "This crop may pay the loan, but what about the taxes and the seed for next year's crop?"
"The war has boosted the price of corn," she argued, feeling the dig of her fingernails against her palms. "The Union Army is clamoring for grain. Your mother said we could expect to get top dollar for this crop."
"Maybe so. But not enough to cover the debt. Certainly not if the deer make off with half the crop through the broken down fence around the south pasture. And that's saying nothing about the leaky barn that's soaking the rest of this year's supply of hay."
She couldn't argue. Everything he said was true. Thomas Winslow had let the farm run down since the war had taken Zach and it had been all she and Martha could do to keep the crop going.
Turning back toward the window, he said, "The corn's only shoulder high, low for this late in the season. Why?"
"Your father was ill. It was late getting in. It almost didn't get planted at all. Isabelle sent Gus and the twins over to help. But your mother, Gus, and I planted most of it."
He straightened as if he'd butted up against a hot stove. "What?"
"Stop shouting."
"I'm not shouting, dammit!" The expletive rattled the walls. He paced over to the kitchen window, staring out at the corn. "Pregnant? You were plowing pregnant, for God's sake?"
She got to her feet, steadying herself with a hand on the smooth wood table. "I was perfectly healthy, Jesse. Just because I was pregnant, doesn't mean I was incapable of—"
He whirled on her. "You could have lost Zach's only child."
"My only child as well," she added in a tight voice. "Do you think I didn't consider that?" And angry heat crawled to her face. "I was careful. In fact, I did little plowing myself. I drilled and covered seed mostly. And as you can see, I didn't lose little Zach. But if I hadn't helped, we would certainly have lost the farm."
Jesse turned away and shook his head disgustedly. "How many acres are planted in corn?"
"Seventy."
"Wheat?"
She tightened her jaw. "Forty-five."
"What else?"
"We rotated a thirty acres of corn with alfalfa this year. Another fifty lay fallow."
He exhaled loudly. "Did you know you're months late with the payment to the bank?"
"I—" She started to lie, but decided against it. "Yes."
"Ahh." The word was spit quietly and directed at the offending crop outside the window. Jesse grabbed his hat off the table, fitted it on his head, then stuffed a stray piece of paper lying there in his pocket.
"Where are you going?" she demanded getting up from the chair. The catch in her voice gave away her fear.
"To town."
She caught his arm as he brushed past her. "Wait. What for?"
Yanking the battered hat down over his brow, he frowned at her, but didn't answer. He grabbed up his mud-spattered boots sitting by the door, brushed his feet off and yanked the boots on over denim pants.
"It's not for sale," she warned, meeting his angry glare with one of her own, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest gave away her desperation.
He shouldered past her and yanked open the wooden door.
"I said it's not for sale! Damn you, Jesse—don't you do it!"
He swung around on the far side of the threshold, his face dark with some indefinable emotion. "I'm just going to town. Do I need your written permission for that, Mrs. Winslow?"
She scowled at him for a long moment, feeling lightheaded and frightened. Dizziness alone couldn't account for her overreaction, nor the fact that the next thing she did was slam the door in his face.
* * *
The buckboard's wheels jolted into the drying tracks of mud leading into Elkgrove. Jesse flicked the leather traces over the backs of the two chestnut-colored draft horses pulling the wagon.
"Gy'up, Polly... hy'up, Pete..." The pair responded like the well-trained team they were, edging to the right at the slight tug on the traces. They had, however, shied at the sight of Mahkwi, so Jesse had left the wolf tied up under the shade of the porch. Mahkwi's snout had been more than a little out of joint seeing Jesse ride off alone, but he figured the animal was safer at Willow Banks than tied to the wagon in a town full of wolf-hating farmers.
He took a deep calming breath and tugged at the buttoned cuffs of his sleeves. The five-mile ride to town had done little to calm the frustration in him. Every mile had put him closer to believing he was doing the right thing. The best thing for both of them. Andi was only one woman and an irrational one at that.
Not that she couldn't be downright capable when she had her mind on something like giving birth to that baby, he thought ruefully. But running a farm was another matter altogether. She had no idea the kind of backbreaking labor that went into a job like that. He did and that made him all the more anxious to do what he'd come here to do.
The ancient sycamores that shaded the streets of Elkgrove hadn't changed any more than the town, he mused, as he passed Nate Kelder's Livery and Feed. That place had been there since Jesse was a boy. The corrals surrounding it were fragrant with clean, sun-warmed hay. The place had earned its well-deserved reputation as the best stable in Elkgrove.
Sprawled on a faded wooden bench at the open entrance of the barn, was an older-looking Nate Kelder, enjoying a cheroot beside three half-grown barn cats, preening in the morning sun. Jesse nodded to him as he passed and Nate nodded politely back, but from his frown, it was clear he had no idea who Jesse was. He felt the older man's curious stare on him as he made his way down the street.
Threading his way through the array of carriages and wagons crowding the noisy thoroughfare, Jesse passed a dozen more shops he'd been familiar with as a youth, still thriving despite the war that had cut the nation in two. He passed two Federal soldiers lounging in the early morning sun. The rich scent of coffee drifted to Jesse from the tin mugs they sipped on and he wished he'd had time for that cup Etta had offered before he'd stomped off to town.
The facades of E. A. Biddle's Mercantile and Dry Goods, and Stavely and Sons, Blacksmithing and Farriers were freshly painted and already busy for so early in the day. Jesse pulled the team over beside a half-dozen other wagons parked under a huge sycamore. He set the hand brake and jumped down to the street.
"Jesse—Jesse Winslow," came a voice from behind him. Jesse turned to find Deke Lodray, publisher, editor, and owner of the Elkgrove Chronicle, walking toward him. Lodray's smile expanded as he approached. "By God, I thought it was you. It's been a hell of a long time."
"Deke." Jesse smiled and shook his hand warmly. "It's good to see you. You haven't changed a bit."
Lodray laughed and ran an ink-stained hand over his thinning gray hair self-consciously. "I wouldn't go that far and I doubt the missus would agree with you," he added, patting a hand against his spreading waistline. "Good Lord, though, you have. Look at you—" His gaze went from Jesse's thick beard, then up and down his considerable height. "Some folks around here thought you were dead."
Jesse laughed in surprise as a wagon loaded with lumber rattled by. "Is that right?" He had never
imagined himself rating the idle gossip of Elk-grove.
"Course, those of us who knew you never believed the rumors." A grin cut across Lodray's handsome face. "Montana was good for you, son. You look like a damn voyager."
"I guess if I'd been born thirty years earlier that's just what I would have been," he admitted. "How's the paper? You still running it, or have you turned the reins over to Mitch?"
Lodray frowned, his gaze absently searching the crowded street. "Hell, no. I'm not ready to retire and even if I were, Mitch isn't ready for that kind of..." He stopped himself short of saying what he'd been about to say. "I'm not ready yet."
Jesse regarded Lodray for a moment. "Is Mitch still at Harvard?"
Something flickered across the old man's expression, but vanished before Jesse could identify it. "No. He left the university to fight in the war, but he was wounded. They sent him home a few weeks ago." Lodray shifted uncomfortably.
"Was it bad?" Jesse asked with concern. He'd known Mitch Lodray in school together. He'd never liked him. Particularly for his rather macabre habit of tearing the wings off butterflies as a boy.
Deke Lodray shook his head. "He took a minie ball in the foot, and by the Grace of God, the surgeons didn't cut his damn leg off. Hurt like hell, but it's nearly healed. The limp's hardly noticeable now. Mitch is still single, and starting back with me at the paper—advertisements, community news, that sort of thing." He slapped Jesse on the back. "And what of you, Jesse? How in tarnation have you been?"
"I've been well. Content." Jesse glanced at the familiar street and thought how different it was from this place. "Montana Territory is like a drug. It seeps into your blood. It's a beautiful place."
Deke nodded, picturing it in his mind's eye. "I was sorry to hear about your folks, Jesse. Both of 'em going in such a short time..." He shook his head. "And Zach..."
"Thanks." Jesse dug a toe into the rutted street. His emotions were too raw about all of it, so he changed the subject. "Say, did you find someone to replace Andi's pa after he died?"
"Sure, sure. But you know, even on one of his bad days, no one could set type as fast as Jake could. I miss the old guy. And how's Andrea doing? We don't see much of her since your ma passed on."
"She had her baby yesterday. A healthy son."
Deke smiled. "By God, tell her congratulations for me. Zach..." Deke's eyes flashed up to Jesse, full of irony and deep understanding, "well, Zach would have been proud as all hell and glad to know you were with her."
Of all the people in Elkgrove, Deke Lodray knew what had once been between him and Andi and what it must have cost him to leave her behind. And how it must have felt to learn that she'd married his brother.
"Give her my best, Jesse," Deke said, extending his hand once more. "You going to stick around Elkgrove for a while? Willow Banks is good land. Not as high up as Montana, but pretty all the same."
Jesse looked at the ground. "I haven't figured that out yet, sir." He lifted his gaze to the older man's clear blue eyes. Jesse knew what he was thinking. He was thinking it himself.
"I see," Lodray said, clapping him on his arm. "Well, don't be a stranger. Come in and see me sometime."
Jesse nodded and backed toward the elevated walkway. "I will. Give my best to Mitch and Mrs. Lodray."
The polished windows of Elkgrove Building and Loan glinted in the morning sun reflecting the green trees and blue, blue sky. Gold leaf lettering proclaimed the bank's success. As he stepped up on the boarded sidewalk, Jesse ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath reminding himself of his purpose. He tucked his shirttail into his denim pants, then walked through the double doors.
Chapter 5
"Mr. Bridges will be with you in a moment," said the portly fellow in spectacles who showed Jesse to a massive kneehole desk and seated him in a chair opposite.
Jesse tugged on the collar on his shirt, then flipped the top button loose. He glanced at the closed walnut humidor atop the desk, emblazoned with some fancy initials he couldn't make out upside down. The desk top was distractingly neat. Each stack of papers had a sharp edge to it, each pen perfectly lined up beside the green blotter centered on the desk.
Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on his thighs and stared at the polished wood grain floor. He felt a twinge of guilt, just a twinge, at being here at all. But the guilty flash lasted only a few seconds. He was doing the best thing for everyone concerned.
"Well, I'll be damned," came a voice from over his shoulder.
Jesse straightened to see a short fellow in banker's black skirting the corner of the desk.
"If it isn't Jesse Winslow, back from his adventure on the Great Divide." The man extended a hand to him from across the desk, causing his black frock coat to wrinkle at the shoulder. "I heard you were dead."
With a frown, Jesse got to his feet. "Apparently not," he said, then it struck him. Bridges, Ethan Bridges. Good God, the bandy-legged kid from school with a chip on his shoulder a mile wide had grown up to be a banker, for God's sake. Worse, his banker.
"Bridges." Jesse took the proffered hand and shook it briefly, taking in the man's thinning brown hair and the well-trimmed beard and mustache disguising a second chin starting beneath it.
Ethan Bridges settled regally behind his desk and folded his hands over the perfectly stacked paper there. His brown eyes rested appraisingly on Jesse.
"It's been a long time since we were dipping pigtails in ink wells, Winslow," he said with brotherly camaraderie.
"As I recall, ink wells were your particular forte," Jesse replied.
"Yes, perhaps they were. I was rather good at it, wasn't I? As I recall, there was only one girl who occupied your time. How is Andrea? I hear she's still living out at your folks' place."
"Fine. Andi's fine."
"I must say," Bridges continued, "you're looking... wild and wooly these days."
"And you're looking quite... planted," Jesse replied dryly, crossing one knee over the other.
Bridges chuckled. "Yes, I am quite planted, as you say. And quite successful." He gave Jesse's poor appearance a once-over and added, "What can I do for you today, Jesse?"
"I came about the farm. I understand there are outstanding loans that my father took out against the property?"
Bridges picked up a smooth black stone the size of a quail's egg from his desk and rolled it absently in his hand. "Yes, your late father did procure a secured loan from this bank to purchase a harvester and some additional acreage... let's see... nearly two years ago. I believe he was quite certain the harvester would pay for itself in a few years time what with the purchase of that new acreage. The increased demand for corn to supply the Union with food and forage made the risk a good one.
"But that was before that spate of bad luck that befell Willow Banks." The stone stilled in his hand for an instant. "Starting with your brother's untimely death."
"Yes. It was quite untimely," Jesse said, keeping any emotion from his voice.
"I liked Zach," Bridges went on with a shrug, smoothing a hand down his brocaded satin vest. "He paid his bills and was a good farmer, like your father." The dig was smoothly delivered. "Elkgrove has lost its share of good men in this War," he went on, drawing no reaction from Jesse. "My deepest sympathies on your losses, Winslow."
Jesse inclined his head slightly in reply.
Bridges cleared his throat and set the stone down precisely on the stack of papers to his right. "I spoke with Andrea—Mrs. Winslow—after your mother's services, about the disposition of the farm... and its debts..."
Jesse shifted in his leather upholstered chair.
"Apparently," Bridges went on with a disbelieving chuckle, "your brother's widow has some fool idea that she can keep Willow Banks going on her own. I told her she has as much chance of doing that as a block of ice would on Main Street in Jul—"
"I came to discuss selling the property," Jesse said flatly, cutting him off. He didn't like Ethan Bridges any more than he had six years ago when he
'd been a rooster of a boy who crowed louder than the rest just to prove he could. And despite what he thought about Andi's chances, hearing Ethan Bridges bad-mouth her made Jesse's hackles rise.
Bridges eyes widened. "I, uh, take that to mean you're not staying on?"
"That's right."
"I see. Well, Jesse, you must know that the War has affected land values and more than that, potential buyers. I'm afraid there isn't much of a market for your property right now, and damn few men around to run it if there were."
"Are you saying I can't sell it?"
The banker steepled his fingers under his chin and peered up at him through a sweep of lashes. "Lanny Hargrave's place went under three weeks ago. He'd been trying to sell it for months."
Jesse leaned deliberately toward the polished oak desk. "Lanny Hargrave has never grown anything but rocks in his south pasture and has a vertical slope of at least thirty degrees on half his acreage. Willow Banks land can hardly be put in the same class as that place."
Bridges shrugged in agreement. "True. In better times, your land would bring a prime price. But these are hard times. When the war ends... if it ever does... the price will climb again, God willing, and the Union prevails....It could be years off the way things are going." He adjusted the heavily starched cravat at his throat with one hand. "Of course, if you are in a hurry to unload the land, I might be in a position to help you out personally."
Jesse didn't like the sound of that already. "How's that?"
"As I said, it's prime growing land. I'd be willing to take it off your hands for a fair price."
"How fair?"
Bridges raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. "Fifteen hundred dollars, hard cash."
Jesse surged to his feet nearly knocking his chair over. "Fifteen hundred? What is that, a joke? My farm's worth five times that. Hell, the crop in the ground alone is worth almost that much!" Grinding his hands into fists, he glared at the banker, ignoring the stares he'd drawn from nearby customers.
Bridges chair squeaked as he leaned back with his hands folded across his stomach. "That crop's not worth squat if it rots in the fields." He let that sink in a moment before he went on. "And who will harvest it? You? You're leaving. Andrea? Last I saw her she was heavy with child. And not thinking with any more clarity than that sot of a father of hers ever did."
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