The Redemption of Jefferson Cade

by BJ James

  Jefferson knew Satan had just acquired himself another human. From this day, he would be Marissa's constant companion, her protector. Added insurance that wouldn't hurt at all.

  When he'd shown her to her upstairs bedroom, Satan was by her side. With her permission, he was still there when Jefferson returned to the first floor and his own bedroom.

  Where long into the night, he lay sleepless, thinking about Marissa, the woman who was only a forbidden touch away.

  Five

  "Ouch and be damned!"

  Angry at himself for his carelessness, Jefferson dashed blood from his hand and returned his attention to the strand of barbed wire he was repairing. Where his attention should've been all along. "Except." he muttered taking a bandanna from his hip pocket to bind around his palm when the furrow across it bled profusely.

  "Yeah, except." Except he couldn't keep his eyes off Marissa. The bandanna slipped, and he bit back another oath.

  She'd been in the canyon two weeks. And for two weeks they'd kept a careful truce. By tacit agreement, they didn't discuss her life or his life, the past, the present, the future. Nothing more personal than the responsibilities that were part of ranch life.

  "Tiptoeing, like strangers." With that low growl, his gaze lifted again to Marissa. Admiring her, and her spirit.

  She'd certainly assumed a healthy share of the workload that was involved in the daily routine of ranching, and rais­ing and training horses. Beginning with her first day in the canyon. When he expected she would sleep late, or at least rest, she was the first up and moving about the kitchen as if she'd never been tired, much less exhausted. As if she were quite at home on the Broken Spur.

  Jefferson remembered that odd little lurch he'd felt when he'd stepped into the kitchen that first morning. Whatever he might have expected to discover it wouldn't have been a beautiful woman just taking a pan of biscuits from the oven. Five minutes later, he'd been seated at the table, a cup of coffee in his hand and a plate filled with bacon and scrambled eggs set before him.

  "Earning my keep. It's the only way this is going to go," she'd told him when he protested. The pleasant words and a determined look ended that discussion effectively and forever.

  Each day thereafter, breakfast was on the table promptly at five-thirty. Before he left the house, leftovers of bacon or sausage or whatever, were wrapped and ready for a lunch on the move. As he'd told her was his custom. Supper was never fancy, but she had a way of making plain fare not so plain. It was plentiful, and always ready at the end of each long grueling day.

  Through it all, they observed a careful truce, and he never touched her. "Tiptoeing." How else could they go? How long?

  When the blood had been stanched, or at least slowed to an ooze, he wrapped the bandanna more loosely around his palm, looped it clumsily with his right hand, then held the cloth with his teeth to secure a knot. Satisfied the makeshift bandage would suffice, he glanced one more time at the corral where Marissa put the new filly through the first paces of her training.

  Marissa in action was a sight to behold. But Jefferson needed to concentrate on his own set of chores, for be­holding the sight of her had led to his confrontation with the barbed wire. Turning away, thankful this was the last broken strand, he made quick work of it. Between the re­sounding strikes of his hammer, he could hear her low croon. He couldn't distinguish the words, but he knew by rote the string of constant instruction and praise she chanted as she taught the filly the first of a number of skills.

  When the repair was finished, Jefferson gathered his tools and stowed them in a small toolbox. Stretching the ache from strained shoulders, he glanced at the sun, judging the time. Almost noon, time to knock off for lunch. The day that had begun early and would run late, was hot and would be hotter in an hour or so. The filly shouldn't do much more. But he wouldn't interfere. Marissa was as aware of the dangers of overheating as he.

  And as he, she was inclined to take better care of the horses than of herself. Conscious of his own formidable thirst, foregoing the thermos he'd tucked into the toolbox, he crossed to the stream where the water ran clear and deep before separating into two branches. One meandered through fenced pastures. One veered past a grove of trees, then by the house.

  He'd discovered that at this exact spot, the water was sweetest. Kneeling on one knee in the shade of an over­hanging cottonwood tree, with his good hand he scooped up a palmful and drank. Thirst quenched, flinging aside his hat and the bandanna, he cleaned his wound, then splashed his face and head. As the cooling liquid sluiced down his arm and his body, he found his gaze returning to the corral, seeking out Marissa.

  The corral was empty. As he'd known she would before long, she'd completed this training session, then had taken the filly to the barn. His hand rebound, returning to the fence, he gathered up the toolbox, mounted his ground-tied mare and cantered to the barn. To her.

  "Good girl." Marissa petted the filly as she combed and curried her. "You're a pretty thing. Smart, too. Not to mention a bloodline that ranks with the royalty of horses. Gitano or Black Jack, or both, should get excellent colts on you."

  The scuff of a boot heel, the whisper of cloth against cloth, caught her attention. Looking toward the barn door, she saw him standing there. Her hands went still. Her crooning faltered. Silence amplified by the tramp of horses and the creak of wood was broken only by the thunder of her heart. "Jefferson."

  With sunlight at his back, he was only a dark figure. His hat was tilted over his forehead, shading an already shaded face, yet she felt the weight of his stare. Broad of shoulders, narrow-hipped, he was lean and strong in jeans that hugged his thighs before being drawn over boots with worn heels bearing a star.

  There had never been anyone like him. There couldn't be. Inexplicably nervous, clasping the currycomb, she rested her hand on the filly's neck. "How long have you been there?"

  "Not long." Long enough to see the gentleness in her as she cooled the horse and groomed it. She'd made a pet of every creature on the ranch. Including Gitano, Steve's Spanish stallion. And especially Black Jack, Savannah's mount—half wild, half mountain goat, all horse, the stallion had been moody and had moped around missing Savannah. Until Marissa had arrived.

  "Where's your shadow?" He referred to Satan, the most besotted of the lot. Next to Jefferson Cade, he amended.

  "He must have grown bored while I worked with the pretty girl." Laying comb and brush aside, she led the filly nto a stall and closed the door. Facing Jefferson again, she explained. "He scurried off a little while ago. Chasing a roadrunner."

  Jefferson chuckled. "He never learns. But if he should catch one, he wouldn't know what to do with it. I doubt bird or feathers are his favorite food."

  "Has he ever caught one?"

  "Never. Doesn't matter, The chase is the fun of it for

  Satan." The animals, always their safest subject. Something

  to keep his mind diverted from what he wanted. What he wanted... In an ungoverned impulse he asked, "Have you had lunch, Marissa?''

  The abrupt shift surprised her. Frowning, she searched for an idea of the time and drew a blank. "Is it time al­ready?"

  "Past time." He moved closer. "It's also past time I checked the herd deeper in the canyon. Since you haven't seen more than the main part of the ranch, I thought you might grab a biscuit and ride along. There's a nice spot for a picnic."

  Marissa had wanted to ride through more of the canyon. She'd wanted to ride with Jefferson. She'd wanted it for a long time. As he waited for her answer he moved closer, gradually becoming more than a dark familiar shape. He was color and light, wickedly rugged, wickedly handsome. She could think of nothing but Jefferson. There was only here and now, with the past and its grief and guilt forgotten in the thunder of her heart. But if he had work to do, she shouldn't hamper him. "Maybe you'd do best alone."

  "It isn't wise to leave you." With his uninjured hand, he pushed his hat back. His blue gaze was more than bril­liant. More than riveti
ng. "Even with Satan on sentry duty."

  "I see.’ Disappointment she tried to deny constricted her throat. He'd asked out of obligation. Not because he wanted to ride with her. But why should she expect it would be different? She'd treated him more like an enemy than a friend. The fault was hers, yet he'd borne the brunt of it.

  She'd allowed it with her silence. But how could a woman thought to be a wife and widowed such a short time explain the need, the awakening of long-dormant desire so soon after her husband's death? Wouldn't the man she lusted for feel disgust for one so unfaithful, even if only to an arrangement and a memory?

  "Marissa?"

  He moved closer, questioning her silence. Bringing with him the fragrance of the out-of-doors to mingle with the scent of hay, horses and leather. The fragrance and scent that never failed to bring him to mind, no matter where she was. A pleasing scent that made her wish for... No! She spun away, turning her back on him. She mustn't let her mind wander where it wanted to go.

  Laying the bridle aside, she reached out to take the sad­dle from the rail where she'd left it. Jefferson was there before her and she could only watch as he took it to the tack room.

  Seconds later, he was back, looming over her, jogging her memory with his presence as much as his words. "The ride, Marissa," he prompted. "Would you like to go into the canyon?"

  "I...no." Her eyes were downcast. Then, for no reason she could explain and casting caution aside, reversing her choice, she lifted her gaze to meet his. "Yes." Her voice was steady, her tone emphatic as she reached deep for the courage that had sustained her through other times of her life. Some as difficult. Others far more. "Yes, I'd like to ride with you, Jefferson."

  Jefferson made no comment on her change of heart as he reached for a pair of bridles hanging outside the tack room door. "I'll get Black Jack and The Lady from the pasture. The Lady is Savannah's favorite next to Black Jack, and as surefooted as the stallion. I'll have them sad­dled and waiting when you're ready."

  He was transferring the bridles to his left hand when Marissa gasped. Forgetting rules she'd laid down for herself and for him, she caught his wrist. "Jefferson!" Her eyes were riveted on the bandanna soaked in red. As she brought his hand with its bloody bandage closer, there was horror on her face. "What happened?"

  "Got bit by a stubborn strand of barbed wire." Lifting a shoulder in dismissal, he smiled ruefully. "Goes with the territory. There are days that if I met the man responsible for inventing the damnable stuff, I'd shoot him."

  "Stop it." She was frowning and cradling his hand in hers. "Don't make light of this. Surely you know an injury like this is dangerous and no joking matter." Then the desperate, worried questions poured out. "Have you had a tetanus vaccine recently? How deep did the barb go? Did you | clean it? You could get an infection, or worse. Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped. I would have. Surely you know that."

  When her worried tirade died more from lack of breath than questions, a pleased, deliberate grin curled Jefferson's lips. "Are you all done fussing over me? If you are, I'll explain."

  "I've just begun fussing, as you say. But I'll listen to your excuses." She swept a doubtful look over him. "If you have any."

  Her fingers still circled his wrist, as if he might run from her. When the last thing Jefferson wanted was to run. Standing compliantly in her grasp he addressed her ques­tions in perfect order. "I know an injury such as this is nothing to blow off. I had a tetanus vaccine last year, providing immunity for several years. The barb didn't go deep, so much as it grabbed and ripped."

  He caught a breath. "I cleaned it in the stream because, of course, I know it could become infected. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to interrupt your session with the filly.

  "And, yes," he finished softly. "I knew you could help, Marissa. I knew you would."

  "But you didn't ask."

  "I'm a big boy, now, sweetheart. I've lived here alone for over a year, and I was taking care of myself pretty well even before then." The endearment hadn't been intentional. But once spoken, it felt natural. Better yet, this time she didn't flinch. His grin grew. Hope for better days rippled through him. "Maybe I've been too alone for too long," he added thoughtfully. "If you'd like to fuss a little more, be my guest."

  "I intend to." Practically dragging him to the house, the dangers of living a lonely, isolated life were too clear to her. Too frightening. A horse could throw him, or roll on him. A snake could bite him. A rock could tumble from the rim of the canyon.

  The mental tabulation of dangers would have grown, but with the falling rock, they arrived at the steps of the house. When he had been marched up the last stair and directed to sit at the kitchen table and wait, he sat at the table and waited.

  There were first-aid supplies in the pantry off the kitchen. In no time, she was back. Dumping what she'd collected on the table, she left him again to fill a basin with warm water. With a towel and soap, she returned to the table. Sitting catercorner from him, her knees brushing his, she untied and unwrapped his hand, groaning. "The wire did a number on you."

  "It snapped." The terse explanation was enough. Both were familiar with the rapid recoil of wire that lost tension.

  "In that case, it's fortunate that this is the worst of it." She went to work on his wound. First, soaking his hand. Then bathing it with soapy disinfectant. "I don't want to hurt you."

  "You won't, sweetheart.” His voice was deep, a whis­per.

  Gradually her hands ceased moving. Then were still, cra­dling his. When she lifted her head, she found him waiting for her. Brown eyes held blue. Seeking. Perhaps finding.

  After a time, he smiled. "You never have, you know."

  Marissa couldn't respond. She didn't know what she felt or what she should say. Yet she didn't look away until Jefferson turned his hand clasping hers. Soberly, but with humor glinting in his eyes, he murmured, "Think I'm gonna to live, doc?" '

  Snapping back to real time, she said, "You might. After I paint this with antiseptic, and if you keep the bandage clean."

  "That stuff stings, but I'll try to be brave."

  "I'm sure you will be." Her tone was serious while his teased. "You always have been."

  She was winding the last length of gauze around his palm when he commented on her skill. "You know what you're doing, don't you, Marissa? If I'd needed stitches you could have done them."

  It wasn't a question but she answered. "I've studied medicine. Mostly obstetrics, to help on the estancias. Though practicing was never an option, I completed my studies..." Her voice broke, yet she continued her expla­nation. "I had completed the course. The trip was to be a celebration. When Alejandro fell ill, I planned to join Paulo and my parents later."

  Jefferson wanted to take her in his arms; He wanted to hold her and make her believe that with her or without her aboard, the plane would have crashed. And none of it was her fault. But it wasn't something he could make her be­lieve with one embrace, one denial. It needed time, and that time was not now. Instead he addressed her studies. "You studied to learn, but never to practice. Your husband's blessing didn't quite embrace a career."

  "He was very much of the old school where women were concerned. But he was a good man, Jefferson. Gen­erous to a fault. Kinder and more forgiving than I de­served." The bandage was finished, the tape in place. There was no more reason to touch him. "Whatever sham our marriage might have been, Paulo was kind and forgiving, and always supportive."

  "Kind, forgiving," Jefferson mused quietly. "You've used those words twice, almost in one breath."

  Marissa didn't explain. "He was that sort of man."

  "But you didn't love him." It had taken time to figure it out. But it was the only answer for her behavior. He met her startled look, seeing an answering regret in her expres­sion. It would hurt to speak the words. Yet, like a festering wound, it would hurt more if she didn't. "Did you love him, Marissa?"

  Color drained from her face, the pallor turning her eyes lightless black an
d bottomless. "Of course I loved him." Her voice shook and there was grief in the sound. "To know Paulo was to love him. Everybody who knew him loved him."

  "Everybody loved him. You loved him." Her father's friend had been good to her. In her words, kind. For that, he was grateful. Marissa was a caring woman. She would respond to Rei's kindness. But Jefferson went with his gut feeling.

  "You loved Paulo Rei." A clock on the mantel ticked off seconds before he finished. "But you weren't in love with him."

  Marissa stood hastily. Her chair tilted but righted at last. With competent hands only a little unsteady, she gathered up the first-aid supplies and repacked them into the kit. When that was done to her satisfaction, she took the basin to the sink to rinse it. Next she returned the kit to the pantry.

  As he followed every move she made with interest, it wasn't difficult to imagine her serving as an over-trained medic working among the people of far-flung estancias. Something he suspected, she would prefer over an official medical practice. She was good. Damned good. But she hadn't answered his question.

  She'd just stepped from the pantry, when he spoke again, taking up his conversation where it had broken off. "Were you, Marissa?" She stopped in midstride, her face still pale, her eyes still dark with grief. "Were you ever in love with Paulo Rei?"

  She drew that long breath she needed to gather courage. "No, Jefferson." Her voice was calm. Too calm. "I was never in love with Paulo. Ours wasn't that sort of relation­ship."

  That, he knew instinctively, was a great part of her guilt. A sham; she'd called her marriage a sham, and described it as not that sort of relationship. There were questions he would ask. But not now when she was so distraught. Rising from the table, he flexed the fingers of his injured hand. "Thank you for this, Marissa. It feels better already. If you're still interested in that ride?'' Pausing, he waited only for her slow, silent nod. "I'll saddle Black Jack and The Lady. We'll be ready when you are."

  Marissa tarried, wondering what she'd done. Long after his footsteps faded from the porch and the steps, she returned to the pantry to scavenge its shelves for an im­promptu picnic.