"I called him a liar, but then Ma came out to try to stop the fight. One look at the two of us and she knew what he'd told me."
Jesse bent his head, his voice thick. "She followed me back to the house when I went to pack my things. She told me how sorry she was about all of it and how she'd prayed it would never come out. She took a picture out of a secret box she'd hidden under the floor boards. It was portrait of my real father. She'd kept it all that time." Jesse swallowed hard. "I realized then why Zach and I looked so different. It was like looking at a picture of myself."
"Who was he?" Andi asked.
Jesse shrugged, closing his eyes. "She said his name was John, and that he'd died in a typhoid epidemic before he could marry her. She said she'd loved him." A tremor went through him. "That she loved me."
"She did, Jesse. I know she did."
Jesse slumped back down to the chair. "I know that, too. I suppose she did what she had to do, marrying Thomas Winslow. He claimed to love her and promised to raise me as his own son. I guess he tried, but he didn't have the heart for raising another man's bastard. She tried to protect me from him a hundred times. But I think she was afraid of him."
"Zach didn't know." Andi's words were a statement, rather than a question. She felt sure if he'd known, he would have told her.
He shook his head, his hand coiling into a fist on the tabletop. "Ma asked me not to tell him. She didn't want him to know about her... past. I decided she was right. It was a pointless hurt."
"But why couldn't you tell me, Jesse?" she asked sinking to a chair across from him. Her fingers brushed his. "Why all this time?"
"Why?" A shadow of pain crossed his face. "It's pretty damned obvious, isn't it? I had nothing to offer you anymore. Not land, or a home, not even a name."
"You think so little of me that you thought it would matter—?"
"It mattered to me," he snapped. "Me, Andi. I'm a bastard. I had nothing. I still have nothing." He saw steel in her amethyst eyes as she watched him.
"You're Martha Winslow's son. That's something to be proud of. No matter what names Tom Winslow called you, you're as much a part of Willow Banks as Zach was. Tom can never take that away from you."
"Don't you see, Andi? He already has." Without thinking, he made a fist of his burned hand and sucked in a breath.
She stood, reaching for the jar of chickweed ointment next to the sink and the gauze bandages she kept in a drawer. She gently spread the ointment over his burn, then wrapped his hand in gauze. When she was finished, they sat staring at each other in the dark, listening to the night sounds for a long time before she spoke.
"Jesse, I'm sorry about... Tom," she began, choosing her words carefully. "Sorry about all of it. But that part of your life is over. Your parents are both dead." She swallowed hard. "Zach is gone. You can make what you want out of this life. You can keep stubbing your toe on that same stone, or you can cast it out of your path. It's your choice." She slowly got to her feet and looked down at him. "It's always been your choice. I'm... I'm going to bed. Good night, Jesse."
She left Jesse sitting alone in the darkened kitchen, pondering her words. Fatigue pulled over him like a worn old coat. Or maybe it wasn't exhaustion. Maybe it was self-pity weighing him down. That, and the awful, niggling suspicion that the last six years of his life had been a waste.
When he'd finally vented the truth on her, he'd known what to expect in her eyes—pity, anger, even self-vindication. But he'd seen none of those emotions. Instead, he'd seen a woman who had loved him for half her life who'd been willing, one last time, to speak the truth to him. The truth that left him nowhere to hide.
On a long sigh, he rested his head on the back of his wrists atop the table, wondering how she'd gotten so strong since he'd left.
And so damn wise.
* * *
Yanking Rabble's reins around, Jesse backtracked two rods and pulled the horse to a stop, studying the torn-up sandy soil where a half-score of horses had trampled the ground yesterday. He didn't hold out much hope of finding anything much to tell him who they were. But all the same, he threw one leg over Rabble's flank and stepped down into the horse's shadow. He ruffled Mahkwi's fur as she came up to give him a wet, whining kiss. The wolf had barely left his side since the incident at the Raffertys yesterday. Now she seemed spooked and protective. The fact was, so was he.
Squinting into the noonday sun, he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. He balanced on the balls of his feet and inspected the crisscross of hoofprints. Judging by the depth of the prints in the dusty ground, the riders had been pulling hard. That he could attest to personally. They'd been hauling ass back to the rock they'd crawled out from under.
At this point, however, the prints seemed to split up. Some heading east, some west, and one, directly toward town.
Jesse frowned. Why would a man who'd just ravaged a local farm show his face in town? he wondered. Why, indeed? Did he hope to hide there anonymously amongst the good citizens of Elkgrove? Make himself an alibi? Was he a stranger or one of their own?
John Rafferty's words in the churchyard came back to him in a haunting echo: It's as if they know the comin's and goin's of folks around here.
Kneeling on the ground, he traced a finger around the crescent-shaped print, looking for its mate further on. He found the left front print, choked with a weed buried deep into the soil. This print looked virtually the same as its partner except...
He frowned again.
Pacing off a few more feet, he searched the ground. There. A clearer print this time. Here, too, a half-inch-deep slash protruded from the half-moon shape mark. The shoe was about to throw a nail. The knifing metal caught the faintest edge on the ground, leaving a telltale mark like a little red flag. There was something else about it too. Oddly, the left impression seemed consistently deeper than the right. As if the rider's weight were shifted more to that side. Inexperience or a loose girth could cause that. Or half a dozen other things. The loose nail wasn't much to go on, but at least it was a tangible clue.
Jesse leaned back on his heels. What was he supposed to do, lift every left front hoof on every horse in town looking for a loose nail? No, but for what it was worth, it wouldn't hurt to give the information to Sheriff Cobb.
Gathering Rabble's reins, he nudged the gelding's head up from the thatch of grass he was enjoying and mounted up.
From his vantage point, he could just see the distant half-shingled rooftop of the barn. In his mind's eye, he pictured Andi standing in the yard, scattering cracked corn for the chickens, the child with Jesse's brother's face planted on her hip. Or, Andi bent deep over the late summer garden, yanking weeds and harvesting the fruits of her labor. But more than that, he pictured her eyes, soft amethyst eyes, telling him what she couldn't say. And he remembered her words last night.
It's your choice, Jesse. It's always been your choice.
Was it? he wondered. Was it really his choice? Or had the choices made for them both those many years ago led them irrevocably to the impasse that seemed to yawn between them now?
He kicked the gelding, and aimed him back to Willow Banks. He had the sudden urge to see her, touch her, smell the sweet familiar scent that had always belonged only to her.
Maybe he was crazy for hoping, for wondering if maybe he could have something here with her after all. Perhaps the dreams he secreted inside him were simply smoke and she would blow them away.
Then again, he considered, maybe not.
* * *
Glad to have the house to herself for a few minutes, Andrea leaned back in the old rocker and set it in gentle motion with her foot, while Zachary nursed at her breast. Contentment washed over her as she watched him take nourishment. His small hand clutched the cotton fabric of her blouse like a kitten's kneading paw, and now and then he'd pause to toss a heart-stopping smile at her.
He felt noticeably heavier in her arms, an outward sign of the daily changes in him. That she was still part of that small miracle
only strengthened the irrevocable bond between them.
Soon he would be two months old. She could hardly believe it had been that long since that fateful day when Jesse had ridden back into her life. There were days that felt like Jesse belonged, as if he'd never left. And others when she half-wished he'd never come back.
She glanced out through the lace curtains at the parlor window and heard the giggles of the three Rafferty girls playing in the yard. Andrea told herself she wasn't waiting for Jesse to return, just curious where he'd gone. Perhaps he'd ridden by one of his new friends to pass the time of day. He seemed to be making quite a few new friends lately... if the number of fellows who'd dropped by Willow Banks was any indication. She certainly didn't mind and they were always quite pleasant to her. Even, quite thoughtfully, bringing her flowers now and then.
Though none since Sam had openly asked to court her, she suspected the men who had dropped by were all vaguely interested in that. She had, however, encouraged none of them and none had pressed his suit. And while Jesse had seemed genuinely happy to see them, their visits left him irritated and unreasonably grumpy. It occurred to her, with the smallest glimmers of hope, that he might be jealous of the attention the men gave her.
She supposed that what he'd told her last night had everything to do with that. He'd ridden off this morning without more than a few words to her and no clue as to when he'd be back.
Andrea was hardly surprised, after what she'd said to him last night. She sighed. Sometimes the truth was well-couched in silence. Her outspokenness, was a bad habit, no doubt one Jesse neither appreciated nor needed. She'd probably driven him away... if he'd ever truly been here in the first place.
The truth was, his confession last night had startled her. More than that, it had answered a hundred questions that had plagued her for years. Questions about Martha and Thomas's strained relationship, of Jesse's abrupt disappearance and questions that had plagued Jesse's only brother until the day he'd died.
A noise brought her attention to the door.
Jesse.
He stood in the doorway, lips parted as if finding her there with the baby pulling at her bare breast was the last thing he'd expected—or perhaps wanted—to see. She made no attempt to hide it from him. In fact, the tension in her shoulders relaxed at the sight of him, allowing him to drink in that part of her that nourished her son.
For a long beat, he did just that. He filled the doorway: imposing, dangerous, reined in. Yet, he stood poised there on the threshold, unsure whether to retreat or proceed.
For the first time she noticed a large pistol fit snugly into the cross-draw holster strapped to his hip. Noticed how well it seemed to fit him.
A plow boy with a gun.
No, she amended. A mountain man with a hoe.
Jesse's neck flushed pink under her scrutiny and he swallowed visibly. His penetrating gaze dipped to that bare breast again, then slid up to settle on her eyes. "I—" he began, then opted for retreat. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
She tipped her chin up, heat creeping through her. "Were you looking for me?"
He nodded. A jerky movement. "You can... uh, when you're done... I, uh, want to talk to you."
At the sound of Jesse's voice, Zachary unlatched himself and twisted to see Jesse, leaving her breast uncovered. She made no attempt to hide it. Zachary let out a coo of excitement that turned Jesse's cheeks a deeper shade of dusk. Without another word, he disappeared out the door.
Andrea sighed and redirected her attention to her son. "You happy to see Jesse, hmm-m?" she whispered catching her son's waving fist around her finger.
She glanced out through the curtains. "So am I."
* * *
Jesse cursed as he stalked out to Rabble and withdrew his Spencer Carbine Repeater from its scabbard. The metal made an angry swooshing sound against the leather.
God Almighty Winslow! Standing there like some callow schoolboy, gawking at her bare breast as if you'd never seen one before.
It wasn't any woman's breast you were staring at, a voice reminded.
Well, that's really it, isn't it? That's what I've come to. Catching stolen glimpses of Andi, half-naked, and not being... discreet enough to turn away.
Being fundamentally incapable of it, you mean.
Hell.
Jesse sat down hard on a stump in the shadow of the maple that shaded half the yard. Mahkwi whined and rested her head in his lap.
Admit it, the voice persisted. You want her.
No.
Liar.
Okay! So what? He jerked the trigger guard lever open with a vicious snap and emptied the magazine of one spent casing.
So what's stopping you from telling her?
All of Jesse's old, tired reasons sprang to his lips but they sounded just as hollow as the cold steel barrel of his rifle. In fact, the thought of heading back to Montana alone twisted his stomach like a bad meal. He wondered how he could have thought it so easy just a few weeks ago to walk away from Andi a second time.
As if conjured from his thoughts of her, she spoke behind him.
"You said you wanted to see me?"
Jesse jumped a little, then pushed away from the sprawling tree that stood sentinel in her yard and turned around. She stood, patting Zachary's small back where he lay against her shoulder. His gaze strayed involuntarily to her breasts, then back up again. But the picture of her in that rocking chair, her white shirtwaist open at the breast, lingered. He fitted the last of his cartridges into the butt plate of his rifle.
"What's that for?" Andrea asked her eyes widening.
Jesse snapped the rifle shut and rested it, barrel up, against the trunk of the maple. "You."
"Me?" Her brows dropped in a frown.
"You know how to shoot one of these?"
"I've... I've never had to learn."
"Well, that just changed." He looped the long lead tied to the maple around Mahkwi's neck, and the wolf whined in complaint, making it clear she didn't think much of being left behind. Jesse dug his fingers into the wolf's fur and gave her a reassuring pat. He walked toward Andrea and scooped Zachary from her resisting arms.
"Hiya, Corncob," he said, lifting Zachary over his head. The baby let out a squeal of delight. "Puttin' on a little weight there, aren't you, boy?"
Jesse's eyes flashed to hers in a silent attempt to lighten the scene they'd just had in the house. Andrea blushed. They looked so right together, the two of them. Clearly, Zachary was as crazy about Jesse as he seemed about him. Her heart gave a little jolt watching them.
Dropping a kiss on the baby's cheek, Jesse snuggled him against his shoulder and began walking toward Addie Rafferty.
"Jesse, what do you think you're doing?" Andrea asked.
"Don't worry about Corncob here," Jesse replied. "He'll be in good hands. Adeline has graciously agreed to babysit for a little while so I can corrupt you—"
Her eyes widened.
"—with some firsthand knowledge of my gun." He grinned a little wickedly.
"I don't think I want or need to know about your gun, Jesse."
"It's not optional." Adeline, on cue, walked up and held her arms out for Zachary. The baby looked as delighted to see her as he had Jesse. A line of drool followed the smile that spread over his face.
Andrea looked uncomfortable with the whole idea. "I don't know—"
"I do," Jesse cut her off. "With eight sisters and brothers you couldn't find a more qualified babysitter for Zachary, right Adeline?"
Addie grinned confidently. "Don't worry, Miss Andrea. The girls and I are just going to pick the last of those beans you've got climbing up the cornstalks by the vegetable patch." She jiggled the baby against her shoulder. "I'll take real good care of him."
"Thanks, Addie. We won't be far. Just down near the creek." Jesse scooped up his rifle and box of cartridges and took Andi by the elbow. "C'mon."
"But—"
"I said,"—he took her hand—"come on."
Chapter 15
> Dragging her by the hand, Jesse led her down the shaded creek past the rows of gracefully bent willows. Andrea nearly stumbled trying to keep up with his long-legged strides, but she didn't complain. Instead, she concentrated on the wonderfully illicit feeling of his hand holding hers. She was nearly breathless by the time they stopped at the small natural pond trapped between two hillocks and sheltered by a ring of oaks, willows, and maples. Blackbirds flitted between sturdy branches, and the creek that fed the pond made a gentle burbling sound as it rushed down the small waterfall into the pool.
"Here we are."
Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs when she saw where he'd stopped. "Why did you bring me here?"
His returning glance was puzzled. "Why not?"
Because it was our place, her mind screamed. But she merely tipped her head with feigned indifference. "I suppose one place is as good as any other."
"It's in sight of the house, but far enough so the shooting won't startle the baby."
"How thoughtful."
He frowned, and pointed to a fallen log thirty feet off where he'd set up a string of bottles and old tin cans in a tidy row. "I've set up some targets. Have you ever shot a rifle before?"
"I used your fath—Thomas's shotgun once to scare a fox away from the chickens. But I only shot it up in the air."
"A man is a much more difficult target," Jesse said. "But you'll do more damage with this than with a wavering pistol."
"I don't plan to shoot any men," she said, folding her arms.
"Planning and necessity are two entirely different things," he replied. "I want you to be prepared in case you ever have to protect yourself. I can't be at your side all the time."
Despite her unwillingness to admit the necessity for such a thing, Andrea remembered her dismal performance with the gun the day Jesse returned. If he had been a stranger... a raider... She shuddered involuntarily. "All right. What do I have to know?"
"I've already loaded it and I want you to keep it that way. But, so you know, the cartridges go in through the butt plate, here." He showed her the spot. "This gun holds seven .52 caliber rounds. The saying goes you can load it on Sunday and shoot all week. But if push came to shove, you could fire them all in less than a minute, before a man with a single shooter could get off more than a round or two. So quantity ought to compensate for what you lack in aim.".
Renegade's Kiss Page 20
