He glanced briefly at the corn, but could see no movement. Either the man had escaped or stopped dead at the sound of the riders.
"Howdy, mister—" shouted the dirtiest looking one of the pair as he hauled back on the reins of his chestnut bay. He touched the brim of his filthy hat with his stained fingertips, then grabbed hold of the reins of his prancing horse with both hands. His nose looked as if it had been smashed with a board and lay peculiarly sideways on his face and his eyes were all but hidden by his hat.
"Ya'll seen a colored runnin' 'round here? 'Bout yea tall"—he sliced a hand through the air at his waist—"an' dirty as a rag pickah?"
If Jesse had been forced to hazard a guess, that's the occupation he would have chosen for these two.
The other man pulled up beside him, out of breath. His hairy belly peeked out between the buttons of his overly tight union suit which spilled over his belt. A nasty-looking Arkansas Toothpick lay strapped along one thigh, its steel hilt glinting in the midday sun.
"He cain't be far, Lamar," the second man said, menace thick in his voice. "He's gotta be 'round heah somewheres. Dammit!"
Smash Nose wound up and hawked a stream of brown juice that hit the road with a splat. He narrowed a look at his partner before turning back to Jesse. "Well, Mistah?"
Jesse tightened his hands on the reins. The pair looked as mean as two rattlers with their tails tied together. And no matter what the circumstance, he wouldn't relish the thought of any man being turned over to these two thugs. It wasn't unusual, this far south in Ohio, to hear their Appalachian drawl. But at this juncture in the War it surprised him.
"You say this fellow's a colored?" Jesse asked at last, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his beard.
"Black as tar," the first replied. "Dangerous as old Satan himself. This one jus' as soon slit your throat as look at ya."
Peripherally, Jesse saw the corn move ever so slightly thirty feet away. He kept his eyes on Smash Nose's face. "Really?" he asked. "What'd he do?"
Smash Nose sent his partner a nervous look. "Well, he done kilt a white man, that's what."
Jesse whistled. "Where did that happen?"
They both answered at once:
"Nashville."
"Memphis."
The two men glared at each other then Smash Nose snorted. "My brother cain't remember his own name half the time. It were Nashville," he repeated. "We been chasin' that buck for nigh on to six days."
Jesse shrugged casually. "I think I saw your man. He was about a couple miles up the road, that way"—he pointed behind him—"headed north through the woods." Smash Nose's gaze narrowed in that direction.
"He tore off the road when he saw me coming," Jesse continued, "but I got a good look at him. Dirty union suit, overalls... that sound like him?"
A slow grin spread over Smashed Nose's face. "Yeah. Much obliged. We're just doin' our job, like y'self." He dragged his hat off his thinning brown hair and tipped it in a farce of a bow. "I thank ya... your neighbors thank ya."
"Pace he was moving, could be halfway to Indiana by now." Jesse touched the brim of his hat in reply and watched the pair whip their lathered horses into a gallop in the direction he'd sent them. He watched until they disappeared over a hill, then clucked to his team with a flick of the traces.
He hadn't gone forty feet before the man who'd disappeared into the corn materialized again on the road just ahead of him. Jesse pulled the team to a stop and eyed him warily. He was still breathing hard, but the fear Jesse had seen in his eyes only minutes ago had been replaced by suspicion.
"Why you send 'em off?" the man asked sharply. "They'd'a caught me soon enuf."
"I know." Jesse fingered the reins thoughtfully, staring at the blood encrusting the man's feet. "Did you do what they say you did?"
His jaw tightened perceptibly under the glaring sun. "No, suh. I didn't do nothin' to no white man. I's a freed man. I ain't got no cause to kill nobody. Those two, they made livin' catching runaways. Now, they outta work 'ceptin' fer bounty huntin'. Fer them, one black man's good as another. We all looks alike."
There was something about this man... something in the way he held himself. Jesse believed him, though he couldn't say why. Perhaps it was only because he didn't believe those other two. In the high wilderness of Montana, he'd learned that a man had to trust his gut about both strangers and creatures he'd happen upon. It had been a hard won lesson, but looking down at the man standing before him, he trusted his instincts enough to take a chance him. Jesse tipped the brim of his hat back with one finger. "What's your name?"
The man hesitated just a fraction before answering. Sweat glistened on the wiry black stubble on his face and he ran the back of his arm across it. "Silas... suh. Silas Mayfield."
Jesse tipped his head toward the back of his wagon. "Well, Silas Mayfield, I'll give you a lift if you're going my way. You can ride in the back of the wagon. Under the tarp might not be a bad idea," he added pointedly.
Silas lifted his chin to the morning breeze. Pride and desperation warred in his eyes. Glancing first in the direction the two men had gone, his dark eyes came back to Jesse. "Where you be goin', suh?"
With a twist of a smile, Jesse sighed. "Home. I'm going home."
* * *
Standing on the porch, Andrea shaded her eyes at the sound of the wagon rumbling down the road toward the house and searched the sea of green for a glimpse of him. Only seconds passed before she caught sight of him atop the benched seat of the buckboard. A frisson of heat burned through her that had nothing to do with the July temperature.
Head bent to the glaring afternoon sun, he rode with elbows braced against his knees, reins held loosely in his hands. The team was coming at a full trot, too fast for the road conditions, she thought, with all that mud. But the speed didn't seem to bother Jesse. His knees absorbed the jolting of the wagon and he seemed too preoccupied to notice.
As he turned off the mill road, he gave the reins a little slap and her eyes unwillingly followed the strain of fabric against his upper chest and arms. He straightened then, gazing at the corn with the look a condemned man might give a gallows.
She rested a hand over the burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. She dreaded the confrontation she knew was coming, but she wouldn't back down, no matter what he said. She'd fight him if that's what he wanted. Just let him start, she thought. Just let him.
Jesse glanced up at her as he pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the house. The earthy scent of the damp ground churned by the wagon's wheels stung her nostrils. His easy, unexpected smile stung her heart.
The hand brake squeaked as he set it. Tying the traces around the handle, he jumped down. The artless grace of his movements made him all the more appealing, she thought, chewing on her lower lip. Appealing and dangerous. He glanced up at her, letting his eyes drift down the length of her calico wrapper.
"You waitin' for me, Andi Mae?"
She flinched at his cocky use of that pet name.
"Perhaps I was. Perhaps I'm waiting to see if you have a bill of sale for the farm stashed in your pocket."
A slow grin spread across his face. "You look pretty as a picture standing there all in pink." He missed her furious glare as he knelt down, roughed the wolf around her head and neck with an affectionate rub, and slipped the rope from her neck.
The wolf gazed at him with adoration and licked him in the face. Andrea shook her head at the transformation in the animal. Well, she sniffed, at least Jesse Winslow's charm was operating on one female here.
Jesse looked back up at Andrea. "Where's the baby?"
She threaded her arms across her chest. "Sleeping inside."
He moved to the back of the wagon. "Anybody else been by today? Any strangers?"
"No. Why?"
"Just wondering."
He threw back the tarp. Andrea's mouth fell open at the sight of a large black hand gripping the wood siding of the buckboard from the inside. A man sat up in the wagonbed. He was b
ig, even bigger than Jesse, with bulging muscles straining his dirty union suit at arms and shoulders. His hair was cropped short with threads of silver stitching through it.
He looked as though he hadn't bathed in weeks. His denim overalls were near tatters. Despite all that, his dark eyes met hers almost sheepishly. Andrea dragged her gaze away and shot a questioning look at Jesse.
"You can get out now, Silas," he said, ignoring her and offering the man his hand. "This is it."
Silas looked around him, then at Jesse's hand for a heartbeat before accepting his help. He drew in a hissing breath as he slid to the ground. Andrea's eyes fell to his bare feet. An involuntary gasp escaped her.
"Mercy!"
"Mrs. Winslow," Jesse said, "this is Silas Mayfield." The man nodded stiffly at her. "I believe," Jesse continued, "his feet could use some attention, and his empty stomach, too, if I don't miss my guess."
Silas waved a dismissing hand. "Naw, that ain't goin' to be nes'sary. I be gittin' on down the road. I done troubled you 'nough, now." He limped backward a few steps. "I thank you kindly for what you done, suh."
"How far do you think you'll get on those feet?" Jesse asked.
"I be fine."
"For a mile, maybe two," Jesse allowed. "Just long enough for those two to catch up with you."
"Which two?" Andrea asked.
"I didn't catch their names," Jesse answered. "Did you, Silas?"
Etta came through the door at that moment, and paused mid-step with her hand still on the green painted wood. Her spectacled gaze traveled the length of Silas' considerable body and ending on his feet. "Lordy..."
"Silas," Jesse said, "this is Miss Etta Gaines. Etta, I'd like you to meet Silas Mayfield."
Etta gulped. So did Silas, but his distant eyes had suddenly taken on a sharper focus. "How do, ma'am."
"Mr. Mayfield." Etta's lips pursed.
"No—it... it be jus' Silas, ma'am," he corrected, his gaze scanning her face. "Tha'z all. Jus' plain Silas."
Etta gave him a curt nod, then cupped her flustered hands together and turned to Jesse. "I, uh... heard your wagon pull in. Dinner's ready if you're hungry."
"Smells mighty good," Jesse replied, inhaling an exaggerated whiff. "What do you say, Silas? I have it on good authority that Miss Etta is one of the best cooks in Adams County."
Silas' hand spread across his stomach. "Well, I... I reckon I is a mite hungry."
"Good. But dinner will have to wait," Jesse said, "at least until we can get Silas' feet cleaned up and wrapped. Etta?"
She shot an almost frightened look at him, knowing what he was asking, but hid it just as quickly. "Of course. Mr. Mayfield?" Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
With a final glance back at Jesse, Silas followed her, limping up the stairs. "Silas," he mumbled half to himself. "Jus' Silas."
When he'd gone, Andrea turned to Jesse, who was wrapping his arms around a crate full of supplies at the back of the wagon. "Who is he?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. That bother you?"
"I—well, maybe. I just... it's obvious he's in some sort of trouble."
"Yes, ma'am," he answered with a grunt, hefting the heavy crate in his arms. "But I don't think it's of his own making."
"What makes you so sure? If someone's after him, he could be dangerous."
"Just a hunch."
"A hunch? You brought him here to my home on a hunch?"
His cool blue eyes met hers. "It just so happened he needed a place to go and I had one." He started up the three porch steps with the crate.
"Does that mean you haven't sold the farm?"
He didn't turn. "If I'd sold the farm, you wouldn't be needing these supplies, would you?"
"Jesse—"
The word stopped him. He turned toward her slowly, sweat glistening on the sinewy muscles of his forearms.
"Isn't that why you went to see Ethan Bridges?"
He watched her silently for a moment then smiled at her perceptiveness. "Who said I did?"
"Well, didn't you?"
"Yeah," he answered, setting the wooden box down by the front door. "And I didn't like him any more today than I did six years ago."
She ignored the bead of sweat rolling down between her breasts. "And?"
"And..." he said, staring past her, out at the fields, "I've decided not to leave... yet."
Relief almost made her dizzy. "I'm not asking you to stay, Jesse. Let's be clear about this."
Pulling a blue bandanna from his pocket, he wiped it across the back of his hot neck. "Are you asking me to go, Andi Mae?"
"No. I—I mean, it's your home too. If you want to stay, I have no say in it."
He came down the steps in that loose-limbed walk of his. "Good."
"How long?" She regretted the question before it was out.
His sweaty arm brushed hers as he stopped beside her. His skin was hot and the male scent of him was strong, but not unpleasant. In fact, it was downright unsettling. She held herself away from his touch, but didn't back down from the challenge in his eyes.
"Til harvest time," he replied, "Or sooner if things work out."
She braced her fists on her hips. "What things?"
"Nothing," he answered with a slight grin. "Forget it."
Frowning, she watched him climb up info the seat of the wagon. He gathered up the traces and gave them a flick. The team lumbered forward toward the barn while Andrea stood on the step, wondering what in the world he meant.
Chapter 7
Silas swayed as he lowered himself into the rye split chair, his face suddenly a pasty color. The woven rusks creaked with his weight.
"You aren't going to faint, are you Mr. Mayfield?" Etta asked, not certain she could catch him if he did.
"No ma'am. But it shore do feel good to sit." He wiped a tattered sleeve across his sweaty face.
"You a runaway?" Etta asked directly, setting the wash basin down beside his feet. She winced inwardly at the sight of them.
"No, ma'am. I ain't no runaway. I is a free man. You a slave?"
Her head came up with a snap. "A slave! I should say not." Indignantly, she lifted one of his feet into the tepid water. He sucked in a hissing breath. "This is gonna hurt some," she said belatedly.
"Don't hurt much," he mumbled, but his dark knuckles whitened around the edge of the chair.
She sniffed. "And hogs fly south for the winter."
One side of his mouth quirked up. "Yass'm. Sometime they does."
"Do," she corrected automatically.
"Ma'am?"
She splashed the water against his swollen, bloody ankle. "Sometimes they do."
"Yes'm. That's what I says."
She looked up to find him smiling at her, his teeth white and straight, his black eyes amused. She felt her cheeks flush and she dropped her eyes to her task, realizing he was laughing at her.
"Dinner shore do smell fine," he said, glancing around the cozy kitchen. "You cook them vittles, ma'am?"
"Yes, I did. From the looks of you, you've been without food as long as you have without shoes, Mr. Mayfield." She slid the bar of soap over his torn-up feet and tried to keep her touch impersonal. It had been a long time since she'd touched a man so intimately.
"My friends... they call me Silas."
"We're not friends, Mr. Mayfield. We don't even know each other."
"Yet," he amended with a grin.
She picked up his other foot and dunked it in the water without much gentleness, ignoring his sharp inhalation of breath.
"Whoo-ee, you got's strong hands for such a prissy woman," he gritted out, digging his fingers into his muscular thighs.
She could hear the smile in his voice and didn't bother to look up again. "You don't know me well enough to call me names, Mr. Mayfield. Especially when I've got a hold of these mangled feet of yours."
He laughed then, a booming, easy sound that came from deep inside him. "Yass'm. You sho'nuff gots a point th
ere." He was quiet a minute while she explored the extent of his cuts and abrasions. When she looked up his eyes were squeezed shut.
"You shouldn't be walking on these feet for at least a week," she pronounced at last.
"They's lots a' things I shouldn't be doin'. Don't us'ly stop me." His dark gaze drifted over her hair and face. "You got you a husband, Miss Etta?"
"Gaines," she corrected calmly, "and I hardly think that's any of your—"
"Cause if'n you do, he be one lucky man."
His words hung suspended in the air between them. There was no trace of teasing humor in his voice now. Too pragmatic to allow herself even a moment of self-pity, she shook the water from her hands.
"My husband's dead," she said, getting to her feet and walking over to the dry sink. "And well past feeling anything, especially lucky."
She heard him lift his feet out of the water and begin to dry them on the small towel she'd left there. "How long?"
"How long what?" she asked without turning around. Cranking the pump handle, she rinsed her hands and reached for another towel.
"How long he be dead?" he asked.
"One year... next week."
"That's a long time for a woman purty as you t' be without a man."
She whirled toward him ready to give him what-for. But he was watching her with patient, even kind eyes, eyes that belied the brutish strength of his body. She'd never been attracted to that kind of strength. And she certainly wasn't now. Marcus had been a small man, slender of build and gentle of face, who along with being capable, could manage to string whole sentences together without using double negatives and never, ever mangled the conjugation of the verb "to be."
"Mr. Mayfield, since we've known each other for all of fifteen minutes, I hardly think it's appropriate for you to be commenting on my situation or my state of mind—"
He grinned broadly, holding his left foot. "I shore do admire a woman can say so many ten dollar words as that. My, my, I purely do."
"—and I'll thank you to keep your opinions of me to yourself and dry your feet off on that towel so I can get on to doing what I have to do." She turned to the stove and gave the stew a jerky stir. Nine young Rafferty children didn't seem able to get her goat as quickly as this one grown man.
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