"Still is." He shoveled in another mouthful and moaned with pleasure. "You sure know how to bake a pie, Andi."
She smiled. "I suppose pies are few and far between in Montana."
"They opened up a mechanical bakery in Virginia City. But their pies don't compare with this." He looked up at her and shook his head. "What are you doing still up, Andi? I thought you'd be in bed by now."
She scrutinized her fingernail avoiding his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I just felt like some company. You're always out here at night working on..." She frowned at the tarp-covered object. "What are you working on?"
He mumbled something with his mouth full of pie.
"Pardon?"
He swallowed, looking sheepish. "It's... uh, not finished."
She folded her arms across her chest. "What is it?"
"Well, it was going to be a surprise."
"A surprise? For whom?"
"For you. And for little Zachary."
Indeed, surprise skittered through her. Her eyes widened with excitement. "Oh, Jess, show me now."
With a grin, he slipped the tarp off.
Andrea sucked in a breath at the sight of the nearly completed cradle. Wide and perfectly formed, it had hand-carved slats of maple, each the gentle shape of a slender leaf. In the headboard he'd carved a tiny willow tree, its leafy branches gracefully brushing the ground. She was struck speechless.
With one finger, Jesse gave the cradle a push and set it to rocking. "Like it?"
"Oh, Jesse—" She moved closer, running two hands along the smooth grain. His gift moved her more than she could say. "It's... it's beautiful. No, it's more than beautiful. It's—it's a work of art."
He laughed and buried his fingers in the thick fur at Mahkwi's neck as the wolf brought her head up under Jesse's palm. "I don't know about that..."
"I do," Andrea said. "I've never seen anything so fine. And for a baby."
"Not just any baby," he reminded her. "My nephew."
"Is this what's kept you out here late nights? I thought... that you were just avoiding me."
He shot a guilty look at her that told her she hadn't been that far off the mark. She watched as he fitted the long strip in his hands against the slats on the right side. It seated perfectly against the wood.
He knelt down to inspect the fit from underneath. Andrea's mouth went dry as she watched his shirt pull across his back, defining his hard physique. The lantern light poured over his back, burnishing his dark blond hair and casting a golden glow over the deeply tanned skin on his arms. A rush of desire tore through her so unexpectedly she leaned instinctively against the door behind her.
Unaware of her perusal, he went on. "I've been working on it in my spare time. I found the old cradle, the one Ma used for me and Zach, hanging up in the loft. Dry rot had gotten to it." Standing, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "The baby's outgrowing that drawer fast. I figured he needed a proper bed."
She traced her fingertips over the carved willow tree. "You're talented, Jesse. I never knew you could work with wood."
"Neither did I until I left here. A friend of mine taught me, an old French-Canadian trapper, Antoine Devereaux. I lived with him and his son, Creed, for several years up on the Wolf Creek in Montana Territory." He shrugged. "Antoine taught me many things about myself I didn't know. Including how to wield a carving knife."
She realized then how little she knew about what had happened to Jesse since he'd left. "You haven't told me much about your life out there."
Jesse pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands on it. "I didn't think you'd be interested."
Her lips parted in surprise. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I know how you feel about Montana."
"Oh? And how's that?" Andi rested her gaze on the wolf who had edged closer to Jesse, laying her head on her huge paws.
"You haven't made any secret about it, Andi."
She lowered her eyes and smoothed out a wrinkle in the blue calico of her dress. "I never said I hated Montana. How could I hate a place I've never seen?"
Jesse merely grunted in reply, but he could think of a reason or two. He tightened his fist around the rag. His reluctant gaze roamed over the dark braid that fell across her shoulder and molded to the shape of her breasts. It seemed lately that whenever he looked at her, something hot and tight coiled inside him. Some... longing that didn't exactly resemble what he'd ever felt for other women. It went deeper. Clawed at him in a way that called out for her touch.
He shook off the thought, turning them back to her question.
He'd been here just over a month and already his memories of Montana were dulling around the edges.
With an effort he called them back; the mountains, violet and red with lupines and wild paintbrush; the Pikuni maidens balancing water paunches on ropes around their shoulders, elkskin dresses clinging to their thighs. Nights of freedom around a Blackfoot campfire; the rush of his blood at the sale of his winter pack.
Other memories came up too: the lonely isolation of the endless winters living along his trap lines; his craving for the sound of a human voice or worse, a woman's touch in the frigid dead of night. All these things he'd felt and more. But they had passed, just as the feeling he got when he looked at Andi in the lantern light would pass.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, focusing on the pie plate in his hands.
She fingered the wood carving speculatively. "What was it about Montana that you loved? Was it the mountains? The wildness?"
"Yes," he said to all of it. "I loved the mountains. Summer, winter... they're like nothing you've ever seen, Andi. So high and craggy, full of shadows and light. Brimming with stories to tell. And every day, different. No two alike. I guess that's what I loved best."
"I'd like to see it someday."
"You would?" He had a hard time hiding his surprise.
"Why wouldn't I? I've never been anywhere farther than the Ohio River in my life."
The lantern light played across her features, reminding him of the girl he'd left behind. She wasn't that girl any more.
"It's not really a place for a woman. It's a hard life out there. Too hard, according to my friend Creed, for a woman."
"Creed?"
"Devereaux. He's a friend. A good friend."
She studied him thoughtfully. "I'm glad to hear you had a friend. I suppose I pictured you alone up in those mountains. A mountain man."
A smile curved his mouth. "A man can get lost up there. He can lose himself up there."
"Did you?"
"Maybe," he said. "For a time." He wiped his mouth with the napkin she'd brought for him and handed her the plate. "Thanks for the pie," he said. "It was good. Real good."
She took it. The look on her face said she knew she was being dismissed.
"I'll, uh, bring the cradle in as soon as it's done. Tomorrow probably."
Andrea nodded with a tentative smile. "Zachary will love it. So do I, Jesse."
His eyes clung to hers for a long beat and he fought down the urge to do more than just send her off to bed, alone.
"'Night, Andi. Don't wait up for me. I'll be out here late." He bent over the cradle again, drawing the sandpaper across the already smooth wood.
"'Night, Jesse."
He listened to her footsteps as she walked away from him, and he hardened his heart against the regret that welled deep inside him.
* * *
Jesse stood watching the sun melt below the horizon, casting the field of freshly shocked wheat in vermillion. Stacked four deep and each sheaf covered by a 'top hat' of two more sheaves, the shocks reminded him of golden mushrooms sprouting from the soil. Rain clouds scudded low across the sky, trumpeting a coming storm. They'd gotten the wheat shocked just in time. Jesse exhaled with a sigh of contentment.
Every muscle in his body ached. Not, he realized, with his usual resentful tension, but with the good ache of a hard day's work. He couldn't remember ever feeling such satisfaction in all the years he'd b
een farming. Perhaps it was because for the first time, he'd had no one standing over his shoulder telling him how to wrap the wheat twists around the shocks or break the heads back on the top hats. With instinct born of long experience, he knew how to shock a field of wheat. And for the first time, he'd done it his way.
He'd sent Silas in for supper over an hour ago, when Andi had rung the supper bell. Now Jesse's own stomach reminded him that he'd gone too long without food.
Picking up his tools, Jesse called Mahkwi and made his way toward the house. The wolf led the way, sniffing the ground as if she were going to find some new scent that had not been there before. From a distance came a sound that brought Mahkwi's head up with a snap. Wolves. A pack of them. Their haunting sound pricked at Jesse's skin and reminded him of nights around a Montana campfire. He glanced down at Mahkwi. She took three steps in the direction of the howls and stopped.
"What's the matter, girl?" Jesse asked, breaking the spell.
Mahkwi's fervent gaze darted back to Jesse. Not for the first time, Jesse realized how out of place a wolf-dog was on the farm, and how, like himself, she must long for the freedom of the mountains. Yet, the dog part of her remained loyal to him. She was a half-breed, belonging to neither side, fitting in like a square puzzle piece in a round hole.
Like him.
"You want to go with them, huh?" he murmured, sinking his fingers into her fur.
Mahkwi whined, and nudged his hand.
"I know... I know," he told her as they made their way across the field to the house.
The kitchen lamp spilled light onto the porch. Jesse stepped inside. A moment of disappointment filtered through him to find the kitchen empty. Supper warmed in a pot at the back of the stove. The fragrance of stew and warming coffee filled the spotless kitchen. One place setting awaited him on the table, complete with bowl and spoon and a towel-covered plate of freshly baked bread.
He took an extra bowl from the shelf, scooped some warm stew into it, then blew on it to cool it. He set it down on the floor and, with a look over his shoulder, let Mahkwi in the door. Grateful, the wolf trotted in, sniffed the air, and made a beeline, not for the stew but for the clothes basket parked near the stairwell.
"Now, where are you going, Mahkwi?"
Jesse followed her to find her nearly nose to nose with Zachary, Mahkwi's tail swishing eagerly from side to side.
"Whoa, whoa," Jesse said, his heart giving a little leap, knowing Andi's worries about the wolf.
Zachary cooed with complete unconcern.
"What's this?" Jesse asked, reaching into the basket for the baby. He lifted Zachary into his arms while Mahkwi sniffed at the baby's feet with a female's curiosity.
"Hi ya, Corncob. What are you doing in here all by your lonesome? Where's your ma?"
Zachary smiled broadly showing toothless gums and reached for Jesse's hair. The smile tugged at Jesse's heart. Gathering Zachary to him, he ducked his head into the parlor to find that empty, too.
"Andi?"
No response.
With a frown, he stood for a moment, confused. "Well, looks like it's you and me, kid."
Zachary curled his tiny fist around Jesse's ear. He laughed. "You got your daddy's grip, boy. No doubt about that." He took the child's hand in his and spread his fingers flat. "Your daddy's hands too. A farmer's hands."
The baby filled his arms with delicious weight. He'd never thought much of babies before Zachary.
Never given a thought to having one of his own. Having delivered Zachary himself, he couldn't imagine feeling more like a father to a child than he did this one.
A dangerous thought, he warned himself. But he allowed himself the luxury of soaking in Zachary's smiles while no one was watching and enjoying the soft pressure of his small body against his shoulder.
Andi came through the kitchen door and gasped. "Jesse Winslow!"
Mahkwi seemed to know she was the object of Andi's distress and her ears drooped guiltily.
" She's practically got one of his feet in her mouth!"
Jesse shook his head. "She's just curious about him. She's not going to eat him. She's gentle as a—"
"—wolf." Andrea sighed, then relented. She reached out for the wolf's fur and scratched her behind her ear. Then she reached for Zachary and cradled him against her shoulder. "All right then, sniff. But... gently."
The animal's ears shot up and she shuffled closer to the baby, sniffing and snuffling the baby's toes. Her pink tongue darted out slightly from her mouth and she gave the tiny toes a lick. Mahkwi gazed up at Andi and thumped her tail against the floor.
Jesse grinned. "There. See? That wasn't so bad."
Andrea shrugged, trying not to smile. "All right. So, she's growing on me."
Mahkwi thumped her tail again.
"She's been working hard at it," Jesse said. "Guess she's decided you're not too bad either."
"Truce?" Andi said, petting the wolf. "But only if one of us is with Zachary. Clear?"
"Clear. Where were you? I couldn't find you."
Andi gestured with a jerk of her head toward the privy out back and Jesse colored. There were a hundred things she needed to do every day, made all the more difficult by having a baby. Alone.
"I left a plate for you on the stove," she said, looking suddenly weary. "Did you eat?"
"Thanks. I will. You go on up to bed. You look bushed."
She nodded. "Did you finish the wheat?"
"It's all shocked. We got it in before the rain."
"Good." She looked like she might say something more, then changed her mind. "Well, then, goodnight, Jesse."
"See you in the morning."
She nodded and headed up the stairs, alone.
* * *
It rained the next day, and the next, but Andrea saw little of Jesse except when he came in for meals. The weather kept him out of the fields, but he spent his time in the barn, straightening out months of disorganization, cleaning rust off neglected plows, and setting things to right. But he made a habit of coming in before she rang the bell for meals to play with Zachary, leaving her hands free to get food on the table. She appreciated those moments, not only because she so desperately needed them, but because she enjoyed seeing the light shining between Jesse and her son.
Several nights later, Andrea jiggled a crying Zachary against her shoulder, desperately wishing she could find a way to comfort him. Nothing seemed to help; not food, not a clean napkin, not the lullaby she'd given up on after the tenth verse.
Her eyes blurred with tears of frustration in the dim lamplight. She couldn't make out the time on the bedside clock but by the absolute darkness outside her window, she knew she was still hours away from dawn. Exhaustion pulled at her like a heavy cloak and she wished more than anything to lie beneath the covers of her feather bed and sleep undisturbed for a day, or two, or three.
The colic that kept Zachary wakeful at night never seemed to bother him in the light of day. For that at least she was grateful. But after nights of experiments, she found that nothing short of time and her steady pacing around her small room would soothe him.
"Shhh-hh, darlin', Mama's right here," she crooned. Comforted for a brief moment, the baby snuffled tiredly against her shoulder, clutching her thin nightgown in his tiny fist. "Hush, now and go to sleep. You're so tired and so is Mama."
Did all new mothers have so much trouble comforting their children? A weepy breath hitched her chest. Whatever made her think she could do this alone? she wondered disconsolately. Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe she wasn't up to the task. Oh, how she wished Zach were there to hold her, tell her everything would be all right again as it had been once.
But it was Jesse's face that swirled in her mind.
She paced, trying to shut out his image. Her throat burned like she'd swallowed lye and an ache swelled in her chest. The War had stolen Zach from her. The damnable war with its flagrant disregard for the heartbreak it left behind. It had snatched from her the only true solace this w
orld had ever given her, save those early years she'd had with Jesse.
But even they had been a lie. She'd been nothing more than a stop along the way for a man bound up in his dreams and his anger with his past.
She squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the breeze drifting in from the open window to caress the dampness on her cheeks. Still, she was afraid. Afraid of being completely alone; of managing the farm without a man... without Jesse. And worse, she feared the one who'd left the note hanging on her underthings when no one was watching.
She stopped at the window, staring down into the dark yard. The fact that she could see nothing gave her little comfort. Zachary's crying had descended into whuffling breaths and she felt him relaxing against her damp shoulder. Despite the compact warmth of him there, Andrea felt more alone than she'd ever felt in her life. She laid the baby down in the fine cradle Jesse had built, and blessedly Zachary snuggled into his bed without waking.
For a long time she stood rocking his cradle, watching her newborn son sleep. Tears, quiet and heartfelt, welled up spilled down her cheeks. She climbed into bed and buried her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs.
What she wanted more than anything was for someone to put his arms around her and hold her, tell her it would be all right, that she could do it.
She was dangerously close to believing she could not.
* * *
Jesse rolled over in the dark and looked at the clock on his bedside table—2:30 a.m. Upstairs, little Zach wailed inconsolably and Jesse heard the floorboards squeak under Andi's pacing feet.
He groaned and slid his calloused hands under his head. He was getting used to this. Though he was quiet as a lamb during the days, Zachary had yet to sleep through the night. In fact, Jesse often found himself awake automatically at feeding times listening for the baby's first stirrings. He often lay awake listening for Andi to stop pacing the floor above him with the baby, to climb back in that big bed of hers and fall asleep.
Sometimes, long after that, he would stare at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own heart thudding in the darkness, and imagine her there in that pale muslin nightgown he'd seen her in once. Or worse, he'd imagine himself there beside her.
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