Just Jessie

by Lisette Belisle

  At the top of the stairs, Ben hesitated.

  Jessie felt a rush of recklessness. She turned and leaned her back against her closed door. His smile was wry as he flattened the palms of his hands on either side of her head.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Ben murmured, staring at her mouth.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said solemnly, agreeing, but unable to stop what was happening between them. She had chosen him, back there on that lonely road. He just didn’t know it yet.

  Ben smiled. “Tell me you want this as much as I do.”

  Jessie couldn’t deny it, didn’t even try. She wanted him to kiss her, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Slowly he drew her into his arms. She’d waited for this moment. She wanted to hold on to the sensation.

  Her silence drew him….

  Dear Reader,

  Fall is to be savored for all its breathtaking glory—and a spectacular October lineup awaits at Special Edition!

  For years, readers have treasured Tracy Sinclair’s captivating romances…and October commemorates her fiftieth Silhouette book! To help celebrate this wonderful author’s crowning achievement, be sure to check out The Princess Gets Engaged— an enthralling romance that finds American tourist Megan Delaney in a royal mess when she masquerades as a princess and falls hopelessly in love with the charming Prince Nicholas.

  This month’s THAT’S MY BABY! title is by Lois Faye Dyer. He’s Got His Daddy’s Eyes is a poignant reunion story about hope, the enduring power of love and how one little boy works wonders on two broken hearts.

  Nonstop romance continues as three veteran authors deliver enchanting stories. Check out award-winning author Marie Ferrarella’s adorable tale about mismatched lovers when a blue-blooded heroine hastily marries a blue-collar carpenter in Wanted: Husband, Will Train. And what’s an amnesiac triplet to do when she washes up on shore and right into the arms of a brooding billionaire? Find out in The Mysterious Stranger, when Susan Mallery’s engaging TRIPLE TROUBLE series splashes to a finish! Reader favorite Arlene James serves up a tender story about unexpected love in The Knight, The Waitress and the Toddler— book four in our FROM BUD TO BLOSSOM promo series.

  Finally, October’s WOMAN TO WATCH is debut author Lisette Belisle, who unfolds an endearing romance between an innocent country girl and a gruff drifter in Just Jessie.

  I hope you enjoy these books, and all of the stories to come!

  Sincerely,

  Tara Gavin, Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  JUST JESSIE

  Lisette Belisle

  To my husband, Frank,

  for his unwavering faith and support.

  All my love.

  LISETTE BELISLE

  believes in putting everything into whatever she does, whether it’s a nursing career, motherhood or writing. While balancing a sense of practicality with a streak of adventure, she applies that dedication to creating stories of people overcoming the odds. Her message is clear—believe in yourself, and believe in love. She is the founder and past president of the Saratoga chapter of Romance Writers of America. Canadian-born, she grew up in New Hampshire and currently lives in upstate New York with her engineer husband, Frank.

  She’d love to hear from her readers. She can be reached at: P.O. Box 1166, Ballston Lake, NY 12019

  Chapter One

  Stone’s End. The crooked sign hung from a sawed-off fence post. Ben Harding dug out the directions and checked again. This was it. Stone’s End. He’d been around, but he’d seldom seen such dismal-looking countryside. Fitting, he thought with a grim smile. He’d run out of places to run to.

  On the road in between jobs, he’d been hitting truck stops, camping out, living rough. Tonight, he wanted a bed. So much for freedom. He would trade it in a minute for a hot meal—anything as long as it didn’t come with a side order of fries. With a mental shrug, Ben swung his motorcycle onto the narrow dirt road. Lined with a stone fence, it snaked up a hill, then was swallowed in shadows.

  So far, lie wasn’t impressed with northern Maine—a cold, inhospitable place as far as he could tell. Miles of woods had given way to backcountry farms. A steady rain was falling, with encroaching dusk adding to the misery index. Fingers of fog rose from the ground and fat raindrops dripped from the trees. He went over a bump. That was another thing; the ad in the newspaper hadn’t mentioned potholes and washed-out roads. “Just follow the split-rail fence,” a gruff male voice had instructed over the phone.

  Leaning into a curve, Ben spotted a hulking red barn attached to a silo. A canopy of leaves stole the last of the daylight and shielded him from the worst of the wet. And there, dead center in the road, a hunched figure trudged along.

  Ben shouted, “Watch it, fella!” and swerved through a wide puddle. In his wake, mud splattered in all directions.

  “Hey, you!” In baggy pants and a shirt, the lone figure shook a fist. The motorcycle’s roar drowned out a volley of angry sputters.

  Relieved he hadn’t hit anyone, Ben almost missed the gray-shingled house—an odd assortment of shapes tacked onto a story and a half. He parked his bike and ducked under a roof overhang. A pale solitary light drew him toward the rear of the building. Ignoring the pull of weak muscles, he crossed the narrow, railed porch. His mood deteriorated further when he knocked on the door. A dog started to bark and the door cracked open.

  Baring his teeth, an ungainly dog, a brown-and-tan mix with coon eyes, poked his head around the door and growled. The door swung wider.

  “Damn sight about time you showed up,” Ben’s new employer barked, greeting him in a passable imitation of the dog. In the dim light, the white-haired old man looked as if he could use a haircut and a shave. “Ben? Ben Harding, is it?” He grabbed the dog’s collar and hauled him back inside. “Any relation to that Harding over by Bethel way?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not,” Ben said, regretting his haste in accepting a job over the phone.

  Ira Carlisle grunted, “Good thing.” With a stiff-kneed limp, he moved back and motioned Ben inside with a curt wave of his hand. “Man’s a thief, a chicken thief. Ain’t nothing worse, “cept maybe a fed.”

  Ben laughed, surprised at the rusty sound of it. Maybe he had been on the road a little too long.

  Watch it, fella. The words lingered after the roar of the motorcycle died in the distance. Jessie Carlisle swallowed the last of her sputters. The. silence closed in around her. It was a familiar silence. Sometimes she felt she was drowning in it. She remembered when Stone’s End had been a place people came to; now it was only a place they left. The farm was deep in mud, debts, broken promises and broken dreams. Jessie had forgotten how to dream.

  The biker’s warning had come too late. A thick spray of mud covered her in slime. Her hand shook as she wiped her cheek and left a long smear from brow to chin.

  “Fella,” he’d called her. The ul
timate insult.

  Treated as one of the boys, Jessie had known little softness, less comfort and no luxury in an all-male household. With her father claiming new clothes were a waste of hardearned money, she’d swallowed her objections and her pride, and had worn her brother’s hand-me-downs. As a teenager, she’d fared no better—all her pleas for pretty things had gone unheeded. Finally she’d stopped asking. At the memory of childish taunts, she ran work-roughened hands along the harsh denim of her blue jeans. Clumps of mud clung to her fingers and restored her senses.

  With a brisk impatient motion, Jessie pulled her wide-brimmed hat down on her head. Jamming her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin-lined denim jacket, she continued marching down the middle of the road. At the house, she went around to the back, where a shed served as a mud room. She let the door slam to vent her irritation. With a grimace of distaste, she sat on a dark pine bench to pull off her boots. Only her father’s strict code of morality prevented her from stripping down to the skin and wrapping herself in the large towel kept handy.

  Moments later, Jessie entered the country kitchen. The heat from the crackling fire in the fireplace reached out to enfold her. The dog raised its head with a glad bark.

  “Hey, Bandit” She bent to scratch the dog’s ears.

  Catching a glimpse of movement to her left, she looked up to find flinty blue eyes staring at her. A stranger, in his mid-to-late thirties, sat at the oak table with her father. A day’s growth of dark stubbly beard hid the man’s features, all except his mouth, which had a sensuous twist. His dark hair was thick and slightly long. A motorcycle helmet and gloves sat on the table by his elbow. Jessie’s lips tightened as she identified him as the biker who had nearly run her down earlier. Arms folded across his chest, long legs stretched under the table, he looked oddly at home. Despite his casual pose, she sensed a leashed strength, a restless energy. A faint flicker of curiosity narrowed his dark blue eyes as their glances collided across the room. Jessie reacted instinctively. Feeling unsettled, she decided she didn’t like him.

  Her father’s brow beetled into a frown. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, I just checked the mailbox.” Nothing from her brother—Jared hadn’t written in weeks. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change.”

  “A little dirt never hurt.” Her father waved her over. “Come, I want you to meet Ben Harding.”

  With rising color, she watched the stranger’s lips twitch in amusement at her less-than-immaculate condition.

  “Ben answered my ad in the paper,” her father explained.

  “What ad?” She threw the stranger a suspicious glance, then wished she hadn’t betrayed any emotion when his gaze hardened.

  “I advertised for a farm manager.”

  This came as news to Jessie. But perhaps hiring someone would eliminate some of the pressure. Her father had been sick all winter. Despite her efforts to manage on her own, the debts continued to mount daily. She couldn’t bear to think of failing, of losing Stone’s End. It would break her father. Yes, they needed someone—but this man would never do.

  “Ben, my daughter, Jess,” Ira added, as an afterthought.

  Ben stood. His voice was polite, a bit distant, as he stretched out a hand. “How do you do?”

  Surprised by the gesture, she reached out, then stared at her small hand extended toward his larger one. His hand was hard and tanned, long fingered and well shaped. And clean. Clenching her hand, she withdrew. “Sorry, I have to wash up.”

  “Sorry about the mud.” His smooth Southern drawl sounded foreign to her ears. One more thing to distrust. “I didn’t expect someone out walking in this downpour.”

  “That’s all right,” she murmured. But it wasn’t.

  “Ben will be staying, Jess,” Ira said. “We’ll discuss the job over supper.”

  Jessie said nothing as Ben settled his tall, lanky frame back onto the ladder-back chair. Accustomed to people passing through on their way to someplace else, she assumed he would move on—after she fed him. He looked as if he could use a decent meal; several, in fact. With his gaze following her from the room, she felt a shiver of awareness, as if he’d touched her with more than his eyes.

  Ben watched the girl leave and refused to admit she’d aroused his curiosity. Perhaps it was all that negative energy, he thought, recalling her barely contained animosity.

  Ira’s quizzing brought him back. “Where did you work last?”

  “Down South.”

  “Seems you got itchy feet.” Ira frowned at the list of references. “These go back two years. What did you do before?”

  Ben felt his stomach muscles tense. Under Ira’s keen gaze, he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax— the way the doctors had instructed. “I was in the military.”

  Ira met his eyes, then looked away. After fifteen minutes of questions, he appeared satisfied. Ben felt he’d been grilled by an expert. Then the daughter returned. Jess.

  Her altered appearance caught Ben off guard.

  To his surprise, she cleaned up to advantage. A little shorter than average height, she was slender. Young. Her hair was neither blond nor brown, but some soft silky caramel color in between. Drawn off her face, the practical hairdo revealed a wide brow and gray eyes. Her eyes held him for a long moment. Clear and candid, they shimmered from silver to pewter with suppressed emotion. Pink lips and a leftover winter-pale complexion made her appear vulnerable, yet she worked with brisk precision as she set the table.

  Round, sturdy plates sparkled white against a red-and-white checkered cloth. The cutlery gleamed. Seeing no evidence of another woman, Ben could only assume this young girl was solely responsible for the mouthwatering smells from the kitchen. With her small chin and firmly set mouth, he had yet to see her smile.

  Ira dominated the conversation over supper. “Jess pulls her weight around the place,” he said, offhand about her position.

  Ben made no comment.

  Jessie rearranged meat and vegetables on her plate and colored to a rosy hue each time her father addressed her directly. Ben suspected that for all her boyish appearance and abrupt manner, Jess Carlisle was uncomfortable around men.

  “I’ve had to depend on her since my son took off.” Ira spoke as if his daughter wasn’t present. Ben frowned, then dismissed the observation as none of his business. “Damn fool! Wants to see the world. We were getting along fine until I took sick.” Ira pushed away from the table, putting an abrupt end to the meal. “We’ll finish this discussion in the den.”

  Ben rose.

  Ira stopped midway across the room. “Did you get those new feed bills entered, Jess?”

  She nodded. “Yes, the books are all up-to-date.” Sliding her chair back, she reached for a plate.

  Ira walked out without a backward glance.

  Ben looked at the array of empty plates and serving dishes. “Let me give you a hand with this.”

  Her startled gaze flew to his, soft encountering hard. The wariness was mutual, he assumed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I can manage.”

  “If you insist.” Ben slid his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for the meal. I enjoyed it.” He meant it. He’d been embarrassed to go back for thirds. The stew had been thick and hearty, the bread homemade. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten freshly baked bread, not to mention apple cobbler—New England country-style; thick syrupy apple wedges covered with light-batter dumplings. Sweet.

  “I’m glad.” Her smile, though scant, softened the contours of her face to a youthful prettiness. “Dad’s waiting for you.”

  When Ben entered the den, Ira’s gaze was impatient. They discussed salary—a man wouldn’t get wealthy working for the Carlisles, Ben concluded.

  “The job’s temporary, just until my son comes home,” Ira said. “Think you can handle it?”

  “Yes,” Ben said firmly. Glad the interview was over, he stood. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “That suits me fine. I don’t like to stay in one plac
e too long.” A military brat, he’d been on the move most of his life, apart from idyllic summers on his grandparents’ farm.

  “Humph! None of you young fellers want to plant roots. At your age, you should be thinking about the future, a wife…” Ira went silent, his frown suddenly fierce.

  Ben shrugged. “Things tie you down.” He knew all about duty. He’d had his fill and preferred to go through life unencumbered. At this stage, he wanted peace, solitude. When life got too complicated, he moved on.

  “Get your gear. Jess will show you your room.”

  Dismissed, Ben left the den with mixed feelings about moving on. He followed sounds of activity coming from the pantry, a narrow utilitarian room off the kitchen. From the doorway, he silently observed Carlisle’s daughter putting away the last of the dishes. There was little to appreciate about the bleak farm, the owner or his daughter. Ben felt a stab of discomfort. He supposed he shouldn’t judge the girl too harshly. From all the signs, her life wasn’t easy.

  Hooking his thumbs into the belt loops at his waist, he leaned against the doorframe and waited for her to finish. His gaze wandered. A bare light bulb hung overhead. The wallpaper—green ivy climbing a white brick wall—was yellow with age. The linoleum was cracked. A hardy brilliant burst of lush purple, pink and white violets bloomed defiantly on the windowsill. His gaze lingered there for a long moment before turning back to the girl, slim and lithe in blue jeans. A thick navy sweater swallowed her breasts, if she had any. With little difficulty, Ben dismissed her figure as boyish and unappealing. His gaze drifted downward. The beaded fringed moccasins added a nice touch to her surprisingly dainty feet. Although he had to admit she had a certain coltish grace, he liked his women with a little more flesh, a few more years, and a lot more confidence.

  There hadn’t been many women lately. Ben knew the dangers in finding an ounce of appeal in this one. Luckily for him, she didn’t appear to realize she had any.