Or does he just want you? a small voice asked.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight at that, her most awful fear. It wouldn't be the first time a man had used her that way.
It's not like that with Jesse, she insisted. He loves me.
Maybe he loves Montana more.
Ah, there it was. Montana, the life he'd left behind. The life he'd loved. She could never force him to sacrifice himself for her. He'd only end up hating her for it. No, if Jesse wanted her, he had to want her body and soul.
What about your dream, Andrea? Would you give up the farm for him? Would you follow him to his precious Montana if that's what it takes?
For the first time, she considered that. She'd been as stubborn as he on that point. Perhaps it was time to let a few of her own dreams go, too. What was land compared with the joy she'd experienced in Jesse's arms today? At last she'd found the other half of her soul. The thought of losing Jesse to a piece of farmland seemed as impossible as losing him to Montana. Perhaps Montana was a place they could both start over—buy a new piece of land that would be Zachary's heritage. She curbed the impulse to dash out to the barn, to tell him just that.
No. She wouldn't beg him, dammit. It was his move. If he cared enough to make it.
Chapter 17
Elkgrove was in a dither.
Jesse knew it as soon as he pulled the high-box wagon full of wheat bushels to a stop under Joe Fergeson's hand-lettered sign at the front of his mill at the edge of town. Clusters of people gathered here and there on the dusty street, talking with the kind of animation Elkgrove reserved for whistle-stop campaigns and visits from British peerage.
Winding the traces around the brake handle, he thought back on the time when he was twelve, a Lord-Something-or-Other from London, England had come through Elkgrove on his way West to shoot wild game with an honest-to-goodness mountain-man trapper as a guide. Perhaps that was Jesse's first glimpse of the dream that eventually led him to Montana. He'd managed to carve out a life for himself there and become the sort of man he'd envisioned himself as being those many years ago. One wouldn't know it by looking at him now, perched on a wagon full of wheat, dressed in farmer's duds, but he'd achieved that moment of glory he'd strived for. Looking back, it hadn't been everything he'd hoped.
He wondered where that mountain man was now? Dead, perhaps, or, more optimistically, alone in some lonely cabin like the one Creed kept on the Boulder River in Montana Territory?
God, you're getting morose, Winslow.
Nearly four days had passed since his ignominious confrontation with Andi. He'd spent the first day trying to shake the head-splitting hangover he'd given himself, and the next three striving for some sort of equilibrium. He and Andi had spoken little since that day. In fact, barely five words had passed between them. Strange after the incredible intimacy they'd shared on that grassy bank.
He sucked in a deep breath. Even the wandering thoughts of that day made an ache of wanting curl inside him. Ruthlessly, he fought it down. What with Silas spending every evening at Isabelle's with Etta learning to read and Andi looking at him like something just shy of the plague, Jesse realized just how lonely a home could be.
The sound of voices brought him out of his thoughts. A pale-haired man rushed from storefront to storefront with a armload of Chronicles. Each stop seemed to intensify the commotion.
Jesse jumped down from the wagon as Joe Fergeson emerged from his mill with a welcoming smile.
"Jesse Winslow." Joe grabbed his hand in a bone-crunching shake. "How the heck are you, son? Got some wheat for me?"
"Sure do, Joe. You buying?"
"Always. You bring me that Hunter White again?"
"Yes, sir. It's the third season for it. As you know, the quality improves every year. This crop brought us about a hundred twenty eight grains per ear. You can't touch that size with Red."
Fergeson winked at him with a knowing smile. "Ah, you're Tom Winslow's son all right. He could sell fur to a shaggy dog."
Jesse felt himself blanch. "It doesn't take being a Winslow to know good wheat," he said more sharply than he intended. "All I ask is that you're fair with me."
Joe's brow wrinkled in a wounded frown. "Sure, Jesse, sure. I'm fair as the day is long and that's why folks bring me their wheat instead of hauling it up to Centerville."
Jesse gave his neck a small twist to work the sudden crick out. "I know, Joe. I didn't mean to snap at you."
He nodded. "It's all right. I reckon it's been hard on you, losin' your whole family like you did. You got a right to be a little testy, I reckon. I hear you got a colored fella hirin' out at your place. You should have brought him to help you with this load."
"Silas wanted to come, but I left him home with a shotgun in case we have any unexpected guests." Jesse glanced back at the crowded street. "What's all the commotion anyway? Is a circus coming to town or something?"
Joe shook his head. "Bigger. At least as far as the residents of this county are concerned. Those damn raiders made their first big mistake yesterday. Tried to make off with a small shipment of Federal gold off the Rock Island spur north of here. They managed to kill two of the guards and steal almost twenty thousand dollars worth of gold and currency before one of them was shot dead and two others wounded. The rest got clean away."
"Forgive me for pointing this out, Joe, but that sounds like bad news, not good."
"That's not the good part. The good part is the U.S. Army is so riled about this scum-sucking bunch of tuck-tail lowlifes, they've decided to assign a detachment to Elkgrove and the surrounding towns to root the cowards out of their holes. Somethin' we've been begging for fer weeks now."
Jesse smiled. "I guess the U.S. Army has its priorities. How soon?"
"Within the week they say."
"Maybe the raiders will be satisfied with all that gold and go away on their own," Jesse suggested.
"Folks are hopin' so. But nobody's countin' on it. Those bastards seem to want to squeeze Elkgrove dry." He shook his head. "Come on inside. We'll do some dickerin' on this wheat of yours. I've got some coffee on the stove."
Jesse nodded and glanced back out at the reverie on the street. The U.S. Army may make a show, but that didn't mean Elkgrove's troubles were over. If the raiders had gone beyond simple looting and pillaging to robbing gold shipments, he suspected they had just upped the ante. Unfounded though his suspicions might be, he believed that Elkgrove's problems were rooted right here and members of the gang lived here among them. That made them all the more dangerous.
* * *
Jesse deposited the draft for the wheat in the farm account at the bank and withdrew fifty dollars on-hand expense money, hoping to make it stretch until the corn harvest. He drove down to Biddle's Mercantile and Drygoods to pick up the few supplies they needed.
The bell jangled as he walked through the door. The rich scent of fresh coffee, mingled with barreled pickles, apples, and a hundred other smells, filled the air. The room was long and narrow with can-lined shelves stretching ceiling-to-floor to the back of the store. From the cross-beamed rafters overhead hung a mismash of iron cookware, tubs, and washboards. Meal and flour barrels lined the floor in front of the counter that ran halfway down the right side of the store. The portly A.E. Biddle looked up from the countertop he was dusting. His friendly smile faltered and he rubbed his palms over his ample aproned belly.
"Oh, hello, Jesse. I almost didn't recognize you without the beard. How's it going?"
"Fine. A.E. I have a list of things we need. Think you can fill this for me?"
A.E. looked down the short list. "You know I'd like to Jesse, but..."
"Is there a problem?"
The shopkeeper rubbed his jaw with thoughtful discomfiture. "You know I sell things on credit when times are hard, and I've done that for Miss Andrea for a while now."
Embarrassment crept up Jesse's neck. This was one bill Andi had kept from him.
A.E. continued, "But I just can't extend her credit lin
e any more than I already—"
"How much?"
"Huh?"
"How much do we owe?"
"Uh..." He fumbled with his books while Jesse shifted impatiently. The bell jangled behind him and someone came in. Jesse didn't look to see who.
"Let me see now... here we are." A.E. jabbed a sausage-like finger at the page. "Your bill comes to forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents. I don't charge any interest on that. That's pure—"
"I'll be paying that off today," Jesse interrupted. "If you could add up the charges on my list there I'll make it right with you."
Relief spread across A.E.'s features. "Very good, Jesse. Very good. I think we can fill that up right away. Care for a cup of coffee? Or an apple? Got some real beauties down from New York State."
Another man's voice cut him off before he could answer.
"The Winslows have their own little orchard, isn't that right, Jesse?"
Jesse turned to find Mitch Lodray smiling at him companionably. He held out his hand to Jesse and limped closer.
"That's right, we do," Jesse answered, taking his hand. "But this Indian Summer we're having isn't helping to ripen them up."
The corner of Mitch's mouth twitched up in a smile. "I understand you've been removed from farming since you left Elkgrove. How do you like getting your hands dirty again?"
Jesse didn't flinch. "I like it just fine, Mitch."
"Really? I heard otherwise."
"Oh? From whom?"
Mitch grinned good naturedly. "As a newspaperman, you must know my sources are a sacred trust. But I did hear you planned on heading back to Montana. That true?"
Jesse plastered an equally good-natured smile on his face. "Is this for the record?"
"Of course not."
"Really? No comment."
Mitch laughed. "These aren't affairs of state we're talking about, Jesse. I'm just curious. After all, your return was something of an item for conversation."
"Yeah, I know. Rumor had it I was dead."
"Then," Mitch said, his expression growing momentarily serious, "you've decided to stay."
"Let's just say I'm thinking about my options."
Mitch gave a small nervous laugh. "You know, I knew I'd run into you sooner or later, Jesse. Strange it would be today, though."
"Why's that?"
Mitch poured himself a cup of coffee. "I was just on my way out to see Andrea, this morning—"
Jesse stiffened.
"—pay my respects. Maybe we should ride out together."
"I'm not—"
"Was that three pounds of light molasses or dark, Jesse?" A.E. called out from behind the counter.
He frowned. "I don't know."
"Go with the light," Mitch suggested casually.
For reasons he couldn't explain, he called, "Make it dark, A.E."
Mitch shrugged and stood waiting for an answer. "What do you say, Winslow? Shall we ride together or shall I go alone?"
"Andi—Andrea's staying pretty busy these days," Jesse told him. "She doesn't have much time for visiting."
Mitch raised an eyebrow. "Keeping her all for yourself, Jesse? That's not very civil of you."
His tone was strictly a jesting one, but underneath it lay something else. Something Jesse couldn't quite put a finger on. "No. Not at all," he said at last. "If Andrea wants to see you she can. I'm not her keeper."
Lodray's mouth twitched again and he slapped Jesse on the shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it."
The years had changed Mitch Lodray and not for the better, he feared. Perhaps it was the War that had hardened him or the injury to his foot that made him limp, or maybe that damn ivy league education. He watched as Lodray scanned the small glass perfume bottles along the countertop and pick one up. A cold realization began to dawn on Jesse, seeping through his bones like icy spring water.
Mitch inhaled the scent in the tiny bottle and sighed. "You don't mind if I take her a little token of our friendship do you?" He flipped three two-bit pieces on the counter.
A token? Flowers would have been a token. Candy would have been a token. Perfume was a goddamned red flag!
An unreasonable jealousy gripped him. Mitch Lodray—war hero, tall, handsome, successful. An Elkgrove resident, born and bred. Just the sort of man Andi should go for.
Just the sort of man Jesse wasn't.
"Well?" Mitch repeated.
"Like I said," Jesse answered evenly. "I'm not her keeper." She'll probably be happy to see you, he thought. Ecstatic, in fact, to have someone besides me to look at for a change. Personally, he'd rather not be there to have his nose rubbed in it.
"Well, then, I guess I'll go on out," Mitch said. "Maybe I'll see you there, Jesse?"
Consciously, he uncoiled his fists at his sides and gripped the counter behind him. "I have a few more things to do in town. I'll be home soon." He emphasized the word home.
"Wonderful. See you then." He flashed Jesse a sparkling smile.
Jesse couldn't resist. "Say, Mitch, it's too bad about your foot. Must make kicking up your heels a little hard."
Mitch's smile turned smug. "As a matter of fact, the women love it." He shrugged. "A wounded veteran... you know. I can't keep 'em off me."
"Yeah..." Jesse nearly growled.
Mitch called out to the shopkeeper, "A.E.—I left the money for this perfume on the counter."
A.E. waved him off, trusting Mitch Lodray completely.
Jesse watched him limp down the street toward his horse, thinking he might trust a Rocky Mountain Diamondback with a sunburn more.
"A.E.—" he snapped. "Hurry up that order, will you?"
* * *
Andrea rocked the cradle in the butter churn up and down, up and down, glad to feel the cream beginning to lump. The muscles of her arm burned as it always did in this final step. She took a peek under the lid and saw little chunks of butter floating on the surface. God, she hated this job, but the end result always gratified her. It meant she wouldn't have to do this for another two days.
She glanced up at the sky. Gunmetal gray thunderheads roiled in the distance, taunting the dry land with the empty promise of rain. It had been weeks since the last rain and the unusual heat wave had taken its toll on her. She longed for autumn, with crisp nights and that peculiarly invigorating scent that belonged only to fall. It signaled a harvesting of the corn and an end to the long, hard workdays of summer.
But this fall, it would also signal an end to something else, she feared—her time with Jesse.
Four days had passed since the evening he'd proposed to her. Four days and nights of polite silence. In fact the first morning following their argument, she could have sworn he was ill, and when she'd slammed a drawer shut he'd hurried from the house holding his head. But she didn't ask him if he needed a headache powder. He'd been too rude.
She cursed him for the hundredth time for his stubbornness and herself for her pride. But how could she marry a man who didn't want to marry her? She couldn't bear the thought that his sacrifice would soon turn to bitterness and his marriage vows to resentment. She couldn't bear the thought of looking in Jesse's beautiful eyes and seeing not love, but resignation.
No, pride aside, she was right. She wouldn't allow herself or little Zachary to be lulled into a marriage that—
A low rumble in Mahkwi's throat cut off the thought. The wolf, who was lying beside Andrea on the porch, lifted her head from her paws and stared down the road. Her silvery hackles stood on end. Andrea's gaze followed the wolf's.
The trotting hoofbeats of a horse and rider coming up the road drove all thoughts from her mind. Jesse had taken the wagon. Her gaze darted automatically to where she'd last seen Silas in the south pasture, fixing a broken fence. Out of sight.
She looked back toward the road. One rider. Only one. If it were raiders, there would be more, wouldn't there? Her heart pounded as the rider rounded the curve. In her mind's eye, she pictured the rifle Jesse had so patiently taught her to shoot, leaning where she'
d left it against the kitchen wall. Damn!
The man trotted into the yard, sitting tall upon a blooded bay with black fetlocks. With his hat pulled low, she didn't recognize him at first. Then, with a chill that drove right through her bones, she knew him.
She couldn't breathe. Oh, God, not him. Not now.
He pulled his horse to a stop only a few feet from the porch. "Hello, Andrea—"
Mahkwi leapt to her feet and growled a low, rumbling threat. Mitch's horse crow-hopped sideways with a whinny of fear. Andrea actually smiled to see Mitch have to grab the pommel horn to stay on.
"Jesus, Andrea, call off that wolf!"
"I don't think I will."
Mitch struggled to restrain his horse, the confident grin gone.
"What are you doing here, Mitch?"
He managed to get his horse steady. "That's not very friendly of you."
"That shouldn't surprise you. Now, turn your horse around and go home. You have no business on my place."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"Yours alone, I suspect." She tried to keep her voice even, free of the betraying terror she felt bubbling up in her.
"Perhaps."
Mahkwi growled again. Mitch tightened his hand around the reins. "I didn't come to bother you."
"Go to hell, Mitch."
"You've got me all wrong, Andrea. I've changed. I'm not the boy I was when I left here. Will you just let me talk to you?"
"No."
His eyes narrowed. "I'm getting off my horse, Andrea. Call off that wolf."
"No."
Mahkwi took a threatening step closer and Mitch's hand closed around the revolver strapped to his hip. "I can be more persuasive, if you force me."
Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
He shrugged. "Self-defense? Call him off, Andrea. I want to talk."
"Mahkwi! Come!" The wolf's golden eyes turned to Andrea and immediately she padded to her side. Mitch tied his bay to the snubbing post and walked to the steps. The balance of power had shifted subtly in his favor.
Renegade's Kiss Page 24
