The Redemption of Jefferson Cade

by BJ James

  In the stillness he undressed her, and the discarding of each garment became an exquisite seduction. Each button slipped free, unveiling her body inch by inch, inviting a touch, a kiss.

  When she was cloaked only in sun-spangled shadows and the dark cascade of her hair, he discovered she was more beautiful than he'd dreamed. More desirable. With a final caress, his hands fell away to attend the task of un­dressing himself.

  When the last of his own clothing was cast away, seeing the apprehension of innocence, taking her hands in his, he brought them to his mouth. Lips and breath warming her cold fingers, he murmured, "Don't be afraid, Marissa."

  Bringing her nearer, he bent to kiss the tender flesh be­neath her ear. As she murmured an indistinct sound of plea­sure, he let his fingertips stray over her throat and down. When his hands closed over her breasts, his palms teasing their tips, the nipples hardened, as his own body had, with desire.

  "Don't be afraid," he said one last time.

  Marissa's answer was a whisper as he drew her down to the floor. "Never with you, Jefferson." When his lips fol­lowed the path of his touch she cried again, "Never with you."

  A virile man, Jefferson was far from innocent. He knew how to tantalize, how to excite, as he took Marissa with him from one degree of longing to another. Erotic forays discovered where to stroke, when to kiss, when to suckle, leaving her desperate for more, yet wondering how there could ever be. Then he tapped a secret well of unthinking hunger that spiraled into impassioned madness, intensifying every need.

  Always before, he was the sole maker of madness. Once passion had sufficed. But with the coherent thought he could manage beneath her touch, he knew passion for pas­sion's sake would never be enough again. And, as he found himself falling deeper beneath her spell, nor would anyone but Marissa.

  He'd never wanted forever. He wanted it now. But in its stead, he would make for her a beautiful memory to take to a new life. And for himself, a dream. The only forever he could have.

  Swept into the madness, a gentle man became more gen­tle. When she called his name in a voice husky with desire, there was no past, no future. They were only a man and a woman trembling on the edge of a world where neither had gone, and would never go again.

  Drawing away, he looked down at her. "Even the mak­ing of a beautiful memory can be painful. But only once." Sealing his promise with a kiss, he came down to her, whis­pering, "Only once."

  In a day bright and hot, a cry sounded as moisture laden air painted joining bodies in a sheen of gossamer. Then there was only a sigh of welcome as Jefferson went with Marissa into the last of rapture...while the world waited.

  The splash wasn't enough to wake him, but it did. As naturally as breathing, he reached for Marissa. He was alone. In her place lay the scarf he'd taken from her hair. Sliding on his jeans, he moved to the ladder that led to the ground.

  "No," Marissa called from the water's edge. "Don't come down, Jefferson. I don't think I could bear to leave if you do."

  "Don't go," he pleaded, though he knew it was futile.

  Marissa didn't answer. As he stopped short of the first rung, she turned to toss a stone into the pond. The water's surface was calm before she spoke again. "This day and this place have been magic. So I thought the pond could be a wishing well. It was greedy of me, but I've made two wishes."

  "What did you wish, Marissa?"

  When she looked up at him, her smile was bittersweet. "First I wished you wouldn't forget me."

  Jefferson said nothing. It was a wish already granted. How could a man forget a woman like Marissa? "And the second?''

  "The impossible."

  "Maybe it doesn't have to be, sweetheart."

  Her smile faltered. "You're wrong, my beloved friend. Though I've wished with all my heart, how could we meet again?"

  A knife in his heart couldn't hurt as much. "Wishing wells grant three wishes. Will you wish again?''

  "Yes." The stone was already in her hand.

  "Will you tell me the last?"

  "Not this time. Not this wish."

  Jefferson didn't pry. And though he knew what would follow the splash of the last stone, he wasn't ready for it.

  "Goodbye, Jefferson Cade." Her voice was soft, her words halting. "I won't forget you. I won't forget this day."

  "Marissa." He waited until she turned back, until then-eyes met. "If ever you need me...I'll come for you."

  "I know," she acknowledged and turned away again.

  He wanted to call out to her, to ask her again to stay. Instead, as silent as the wilderness, he watched her go.

  At the far shore, she stopped and raised a hand. It was then the storm for which the land waited lashed out in a blinding bolt of lightning and a rumble of thunder. When the world was quiet again, the path was empty. Marissa had gone from his life.

  * * *

  Heavy rain was falling when Jefferson paused at the edge of the clearing. Through the downpour, his gaze sought the half-hidden bower where he'd made love to Marissa Claire Alexandre.

  His sketch pad shielded by his body, a keepsake folded against his heart, he committed to memory this place. He would paint it, melding sketches and memories. Someday.

  Rain fell harder, spattering over the pond like stones in a wishing well. "One wish is true, Marissa."

  Lightning flickered, thunder growled. As quickly as it came, the rain stopped. As a mist shrouded the land, Jef­ferson waited for one more glimpse that never came. It didn't matter.

  "I won't forget."

  When he turned away, though the wilderness had been an abiding part of his life, he knew it could never be the same.

  He wouldn't come again.

  One

  "Well, hello, handsome." The greeting, addressing the lone patron at the bar, was lilting and feminine. Teasing a favorite customer.

  Setting his glass aside, a hand automatically going to his Stetson, Jefferson Cade smiled. A brush of his fingers tilt­ing the tan brim accompanied a pleasant greeting as teasing. "Afternoon, Miss Cristal."

  As she laughed in pleasure at the Western gallantry spo­ken in a Southern drawl, Cristal Lane slipped her arm through his. "What brings a Southern gentleman like you into town today?"

  In this land of old ranches and older family names, with time measured in half centuries, if not centuries, Cristal was counted as new to Arizona. But Jefferson considered the remark conversation, not a question, for she'd owned the most popular saloon in Silverton years enough to know the spring stock show held annually in the town attracted ranchers from miles around. As it had drawn him from the Broken Spur of Sunrise Canyon.

  But Cristal was also familiar enough with his reclusive lifestyle to believe the show, itself, would not merit one of his rare visits. As she silently signaled for the bartender to refresh the drink he'd hardly touched, Jefferson wasn't sur­prised when she suggested, quietly, ' 'Someone must be of­fering a spectacular horse to tempt you from your hideout."

  "Think so?" Shifting his gaze from her, he nodded his thanks to the bartender, then folded his hands around the glass.

  Her shrewd study drifted away to assess the needs of customers. Satisfied everyone was content, she looked again at the handsome Southerner, and inevitably at his hands.

  As with everything about Jefferson Cade, his hands were intriguing. Weathered, callused, the hands of a working man, an artist. A mix of rugged elegance and gentle strength. One of the times he'd been in town and stayed late to walk her home after closing, she'd teased him about his hands. He'd only laughed when she'd called them fas­cinating, saying it was natural that any living, breathing female would wonder about his touch.

  He'd asked what female? For in the four years since he'd returned to Arizona to work for Jake Benedict at the Rafter B, then Steve Cody at the Broken Spur, he'd done no more than speak a few pleasantries to any woman. Beyond the routine associations of ranching, he was happiest living his reclusive life.

  "Do I think so? Yes," she murmured to his reflec
tion in the mirror behind the bar. "It must be one helluva horse."

  Her use of the rare profanity recalled a late-night talk when she'd ventured another startling opinion.

  It must've been one helluva woman who spoiled all the rest of womankind for you, Jefferson Cade. She'd made the statement, then never mentioned it again. But he knew she was remembering the night and her words as her eyes probed his.

  Jefferson held her gaze for a long moment, then turned his face away. A virile face maturity had made more at­tractive, and the new touch of silver in his dark blond hair only complemented. His mouth was solemn now. Beneath the brim of the Stetson, his downswept lashes shielded his eyes. But if his head had lifted and if his lips tilted in a smile that touched his eyes, it would still make an attractive man startlingly handsome.

  He was immune, not a fool. He knew he'd caught the attention of a number of the female population of Silverton in the early days of his return. But he never acknowledged the most blatant flirtation with more than a courtly smile and a pleasant greeting. He became a master at making the most brazen feel he was flattered and perplexed by the ad­vances, a gallantry that, at first, had an opposite effect than the one he wanted. But through the years, as even the most determined found him ever elusive, his would-be lovers became friendly acquaintances, if not friends.

  Though she teased about his charm, Cristal's interest was platonic. As he recognized her honesty and wisdom, she became a close friend. A rare and trusted confidante.

  "If not for a particular horse, you wouldn't be here, would you, Jefferson? There's nothing else in your life. You won't let there be, because of a woman." Cristal voiced a long-standing concern, exercising the privilege of friendship.

  Only the narrowing of his eyes signaled this subject was off-limits. For once, Cristal wasn't to be deterred. "Do you ever get her out of your mind or your heart? This woman you loved and lost...do you ever stop thinking about her? Can you stop? Or do you spend each waking moment remembering how she looked, how she smiled, the way she walked? The fragrance of her hair?"

  Jefferson didn't respond. Then, pushing away from the bar, his expression unreadable, he looked down at her. "What I'm thinking and remembering," he said as cour­teously as if she weren't prying, "is that it's time to see a man about a horse."

  Fingers at his hat brim, a charming smile, a low, "Miss Cristal," and she was left to watch him walk away. Long after he stepped through the door and disappeared into the crowd, no less concerned she stared at the space where he'd been.

  "Cristal," a raucous voice called. "How about a song?" "Sure, Hal." She didn't need to look around to recog­nize a regular customer. "What would you like to hear?" "No preference, honey," he answered. "Just sing." With a last glance at the empty doorway, Cristal crossed the room. Despite the tightening in her throat, leaning over the piano player, aptly named Sam, she whispered in his ear. When he nodded, she looked over the room, her smile touched with sadness for a lonely man. "How about this one? An oldie for a friend."

  As the melancholy chords of the introduction ended, wondering what intuition dictated the old tune, she sang of a lady's choice to leave the man who loved her.

  "Easy girl. Nobody's going to hurt you. Not anymore." In a soothing singsong, Jefferson coaxed the nervous mare from the trailer. As she stepped down the ramp, ears flick­ing in suspicion, he didn't blame her. Even for a high-strung filly who hadn't been mishandled, the unfamiliar sur­roundings and the noise of the stock show would've been excuse enough for being skittish.

  When she'd come on the market as a difficult horse of­fered at a nominal fee, the most uninformed judge of horses could see promise. Which, given the bargain price, sent up a red flag that warned labeling her difficult was an understatement. Jefferson had driven to her home stable for a' preliminary look, taking Sandy Gannon, foreman of the Rafter B and an expert judge of horses, with him for a second opinion. Both agreed the filly was of a bloodline and a quality Steve Cody would approve.

  When the seller questioned who could tame the filly, Sandy replied that if Jeff Cade couldn't, then it couldn't be done.

  "Let's hope Sandy knows what he's talking about," Jef-ferson crooned to the filly when she finally stood on the ground. The truth was, Sandy knew exactly what he was saying when he praised the Southerner. Before assuming duties at the Broken Spur, Jefferson had spent the last two of three years at the Rafter B as second in command.

  Though he'd made a show of grumbling over losing a good horseman, Sandy had backed Steve and his wife Savan­nah's choice.

  Now, Jefferson had lived and worked in Sunrise Canyon for more than a year, loving each solitary day. "So will you, girl," he promised as he led the filly to a stall. "Some folks think it's lonely in the canyon, but it isn't. You'll see."

  Realizing he was talking to a horse that would run with Steve's small herd, he laughed. A sound too rare in his life.''A stranger would think the loneliness has driven me bon­kers. When it's driven me a little saner, instead."

  His string of chatter elicited a low whinny and a nudge, and he knew his faith in the filly hadn't been misplaced. Stroking her, he murmured, "You'll be happy here, girl. One day soon, when we know what fits, we'll choose a name for you."

  Slipping a bar over the stall door, he made a quick check of the other horses and stepped outside. After a long day

  and a four-hour drive across the surrounding Benedict land, it was good to steal a minute to watch the moon rise.

  In daylight or darkness, the canyon was beautiful. When he'd come to Arizona as a teenage runaway he'd been too young and his life too chaotic to appreciate the stark mag­nificence of the land. Ten years later, when he'd left the lowcountry again—running away as an adult—he hadn't expected to find anything to equal the lovely land he left behind.

  He was wrong. As an adult with an artist's eye, he rec­ognized the different degrees of beauty, the different kinds.

  The desert was his home now. Though he knew he could never go back, the lowcountry had been in his mind re­cently. Perhaps because, after years of neglect, he'd taken out his sketches and in the long winter darkness, he'd begun to paint again.

  A painting waited now on the easel. The light wasn't so good in the renovated cabin, but it didn't matter. Painting was something he did for himself. A final healing, an ex­orcism.

  Abandoning the soothing sight of the canyon in moon­light, he returned to the truck to retrieve his mail. No one wrote to him but family. Though he treasured the snapshots and letters, days could pass before he made a mail run. Given the size of the packet the postmaster'd had waiting for him, the time had been even longer.

  Jefferson cared deeply for his brothers, and he was never truly out of touch. The family knew to contact the Rafter B in emergencies. Sandy would relay any messages by tele­phone or rider. No phone calls, no rider meant everyone was well and safe.

  Tucking the packet under his arm, as the door of the truck closed, he whistled. Two clear notes sounded in the Tailing light, answered by a bark and the pad of racing feet.

  As he braced himself, a dark shape launched itself like a bullet at his chest.

  Letters scattered in the dust as Jefferson went down. A massive creature blacker than the night stood over him.

  Gleaming teeth bared in a grin, a long, pink tongue lapped at his face.

  Laughing, pushing the great dog aside, Jefferson mut­tered, "If that means you're glad to see me, Satan, I hope, you won't be quite so glad next time."

  Satan barked and danced away. Normally with his sentry duty done, he was ready to play. This night, as if he would hurry his master to abandon the game by helping him to stand, the dog grabbed his hand between his teeth. The slightest pressure could have caused injury but, as with all creatures trained by Jefferson, despite his fierce look Satan was as gentle as his master.

  The mock attack was a game, begun when Jefferson was new to the canyon and Satan a puppy with too much energy. Soon the dog should be taught the game was too dangerous
. ''Someone could misunderstand and put a bullet in your head." Jefferson cuffed him gently in a signal to let go. "Might bend the bullet."

  Satan trotted away again in the prance common to Doberman pinschers everywhere. Stopping short, his dark eyes on his master's face, he made a sound Jefferson interpreted as canine impatience.

  "Not funny?" Rising, the human side of the conversation dusted off his clothes. Gathering the mail, he declared in an understatement, "Considering that I would miss you, tonight's a good time to stop the game. As you obviously have."

  In the gloom settling over the canyon, he almost missed one piece of mail. Satan's pawing interest, combined with' the dull glint of its metal clasp caught his attention. Without both, the brown envelope would have blended with the shadowed Arizona dust. Perhaps to be discovered in morn­ing light. Perhaps not.

  Hefting it, he judged its weight. More than a letter, with only a blurred postmark. No return address. ‘‘What could this be?"

  Satan barked and paced toward the cabin. "You're right," Jefferson agreed. "I should go inside and have a look."

  Normally the Doberman refused to come inside. Tonight, he slipped past Jefferson when the door opened. Rather than stretching out on the hearth as usual in his rare sorties in the cabin, he streaked through the main room to the bedroom.

  "Come away, Satan," Jefferson scolded as the dog scratched at the bedside table. "There's nothing here."

  Nothing but a keepsake from his past, Jefferson amended as he herded the dog from the room. "Lie by the hearth," he directed. "After I check the mail, we'll have supper."

  Satan obeyed, instantly. Containing his agitation, he tucked his nose beneath his paws. His dark eyes were white-rimmed beneath the pupils as he tracked each move his master made.

  Jefferson sat at the table. Spreading mail over it, he plucked the brown envelope from the jumble. Satan whim­pered. "Hey." Jefferson moved it left, then right. Only Satan's eyes turned, never leaving the letter. "What about this worries you?"