Just Jessie

by Lisette Belisle

  Jessie dried the last pot. She switched off the overhead light, turned, then gasped at a looming shadow. Recognizing the biker, she pressed a hand to her waist. “What do you want?”

  Though impatient, his voice was cultured, with a soft drawl to it. “Your father said you’d show me to my room.”

  “Your room!” Surely Dad hadn’t hired this drifter. When he straightened, she stepped back and stared up at him.

  “That’s right,” he responded to her challenge. “If you have any objections, discuss it with your father.”

  Jessie snapped her teeth shut. Dad hadn’t given her feelings a moment’s consideration in twenty-three years; he wasn’t about to start now. But how could she share her home with this stranger who threatened her with his steely eyes?

  They had three bedrooms—two up, one down. Her father slept in the downstairs bedroom. Ben Harding would have to sleep upstairs in the room opposite hers; they would have to share the bathroom. She started to object, then stopped. The man looked exhausted.

  Earlier, she’d noticed a slight limp. Evidence of strain and fatigue lined his eyes and mouth, nevertheless, his pride remained unbent. She wondered at that. She didn’t have to be told he needed this job. Yet instinct told her he would never bend, beg or break. Unable to condemn any-one without a fair trial, Jessie accepted the inevitable. He was staying.

  “All right.” Drawing a deep breath, she eased by him in the narrow doorway, anxious to remove herself from the small dark confines of the pantry. “I suppose you can stay.”

  “Thanks,” he murmured dryly.

  She ignored his sarcasm. “You can put your motorcycle in the garage out back.” She kept her voice courteous and distant, and felt relieved when he left.

  Ben wasn’t gone long. When he returned, he found the girl stacking sheets, blankets and towels into a neat pile.

  She placed a bar of soap on top and spared him a brisk glance. “This way.”

  Hugging the linens tightly to her chest, she led him up some dimly lit stairs. The fourth tread squeaked with age. The sixth, seventh and tenth joined in harmony. These ended in a small upstairs hall with three closed doors. Layers of wallpaper thickened the walls. Overhead, rain hit the tin roof with a staccato beat. Outside, the wind howled.

  Ben knew he should be grateful for any sort of shelter from the storm. But he wasn’t. Instead, he felt reluctant to accept the Carlisles’ hospitality. All he wanted was a temporary job, not an ailing old man and a helpless young girl. It felt like a trap. Like a fool, he’d let his momentary irritation with this slip of a girl influence his decision to stay.

  She opened the middle door to an outdated bathroom.

  “Who sleeps there?” With a nod, he indicated the second door and wondered if he would get any privacy.

  “I do.” With that terse announcement, she entered the room opposite. “You should be comfortable here.”

  Looking around, he had his doubts. Though spotless, the room was bare—no curtains, just a window shade. A bed. A desk. Some shelves. The room’s stripped-naked look echoed his lack of welcome in this house.

  The girl moved to the bed. With a smooth motion, she shook the sheet out over the exposed mattress. She hadn’t stopped working since he’d met her. Her small face had appeared weary even then. Now she looked exhausted, with pale violet shadows under her eyes, her mouth a tight line. Her shoulders drooped. Apparently, sheer willpower alone kept her upright.

  For some reason, that annoyed Ben. He reached for the sheet. “I’ll do that.” He just wanted her out. A woman, a bed—it was far too intimate for his peace of mind.

  There was a slight tug-of-war until she released her grip on the crisp white cotton sheet. It fell to the bed.

  “Thanks.” She started to leave, then turned back. “If it turns colder, you’ll find extra blankets in the closet. The mattress isn’t new, but it’s comfortable.” She blushed at the personal turn in the conversation. His eyes never wavered from her face. She drew in her bottom lip, as her composure slipped another notch. “Give me five minutes,” she finished in a rush, “then the bathroom’s all yours.” This time, she almost made it to the door. “If you need anything, just…”

  He lifted an eyebrow; her voice wavered, then trailed off. In silence, she closed the door. Left alone, Ben stared at the solitary window at the far end of the narrow room, expecting to see bars. Well, he’d lived in a lot worse places. He tossed his backpack to the floor, where it landed with a thud.

  When he picked up the sheet from the bed, he caught the clean, light scent—fresh air, apple blossoms and sunshine.

  Spring.

  Ben’s features broke into a reluctant smile. Girls like Jess Carlisle were out of his experience. He’d never met anyone remotely like her. Boyish and uncommunicative, she was almost awkward in her manner: Yet, she was undeniably domesticated, feminine in a fresh, natural way. Womanly, despite her youth. Though belated, her kindness had surprised him. Ben shook his head—women were experts at tying a man in knots.

  With the timely reminder, he made up the narrow single bed. It didn’t take long to store his meager belongings. After giving her an extra five minutes, Ben headed for the bathroom.

  He stopped short. On the landing outside the girl’s bedroom door, the large misbegotten dog—a collie-shepherd mixed with something indefinable—sat night watch over his mistress. Hair on end, Bandit growled at Ben.

  Ben was tempted to growl back.

  Chapter Two

  In the morning, Jessie added layer upon layer to her jeans and red-and-black buffalo-plaid shirt. She yawned. She’d slept poorly, disturbed by every real and imagined sound from the occupied room across the hall. Even now, with pale morning light peeking around her window shade, she felt Ben Harding’s presence. And resented it.

  His deliberate coldness spoke volumes, warning her to keep her distance. She shivered. Last, she pulled a green wool sweater over her head. It was one of her brother’s castoffs, his Henderson High varsity football sweater. She smoothed the large sweater low over her hips, recalling happier times when she’d cheered Jared on to victory. Unlike her, Jared had always been popular, confident, sure of his place in life. Loved.

  A bold letter H crossed her breasts. The sweater, like a protective cloak, kept her safe, just as Jared had. With only two years’ difference between them, they’d always been close.

  How could he have left?

  Things hadn’t been the same since. Her father had grown older. He’d let the farm go downhill. Lately, he’d grown testy, his moods erratic. With a troubled sigh, Jessie tidied her long hair into a thick braid. Her thoughts ran ahead to breakfast and the blueberry pancakes she planned to make—if her father hadn’t eaten all the berries. Ailing and housebound most of the winter, Ira Carlisle had complained of boredom more than anything else.

  Frowning, she reached for the door. She’d set her alarm early to avoid Ben. Ben. His name slipped easily off her tongue. But he wasn’t easy, comfortable or gentle. As if she needed a reminder, Jessie walked out of her room and collided with a half-dressed, full-grown male coming out of the bathroom.

  He’d shaved.

  Astounded, she bit back a comment. In addition to the black stubble, he’d shaved several years off his appearance. He looked younger, yet somehow more formidable. His face looked carved out of stone—with a discerning artist’s eye. A lean handsome face with a chiseled mouth and set jaw arrested her gaze. Only a slight bump from an apparent break marred the straight patrician nose. It was not a gentle face; there was too much evidence of living. Yet, experience was far more intriguing than perfection. A thin white scar slashed his left temple, giving it a sinister cast. In addition to the scar, there was too much intelligence, too much knowledge in his eyes. No, he was not an easy man.

  “Good morning.” Jessie absorbed the physical shock to her senses. His damp hair was slicked back, emphasizing his wide intelligent brow and dark-lashed, startling blue eyes. He was more muscular than she’d expecte
d. His bare chest was bold, with thick, coarse black hairs.

  He draped a white towel around his neck. “Is it?” He looked vaguely amused, with good reason. It was a typical Maine spring morning, a dew-wet world shrouded in gray mist.

  She felt a need to explain, “The fog will burn off later.” Her curious gaze skittered down the line of black hair arrowing to his waist. She released her breath. He was wearing blue jeans, unbelted, and his stomach was hard and flat, without an ounce of spare flesh on his ribs.

  Ben’s voice drew her attention back to his face, where a faint smile teased his lips. “Is it always this cold and wet in April?” His eyes mocked her obvious reaction to him.

  “Mmm,” Jessie murmured. Cold? Her face on fire, she cleared her throat. “Usually things warm up a bit in May.”

  Her eyes strayed again, then widened with shock. One, two, three—three round white puckered scars laced his side just below his ribs. Bullet-size scars. Her gaze flew back to his. His mouth tightened, waiting for her to comment. A hundred questions crowded her mind and remained unspoken. He could be a cold-blooded criminal! Had he paid for his crime? From the look in his eyes, she guessed he had. The thought made her shudder, but not with repugnance….

  “Excuse me.” She bolted down the stairs, fleeing from her response to a man who should have frightened her, but somehow didn’t. And that frightened her most of all. She skirted the parlor on her way to the kitchen and passed her father, who asked if she was sick, or ailing or something. Or something.

  The dog raised its head and whined. Unable to explain her reaction, Jessie pulled open the door and let Bandit out. A welcome draft of cold air struck her heated face.

  Her father’s voice drifted over to her, “About Ben…” He explained the man’s duties and ended with the warning, “He’s a hard man, Jess. Don’t get any foolish ideas.” As if she would!

  “Why did you hire him?” she asked.

  “I’ve had the ad in for a month. He’s the first response.”

  She couldn’t argue with his logic. Farm help was hard to get. Anyone qualified had his own operation. Even seasonal farmworkers were at a premium. Each year, local farmers seemed to depend on migrant workers more and more.

  “I want you to stay away from him. Do you hear?” he added.

  Jessie nodded. She didn’t need a lecture, which usually started and ended with the litany, “Like mother, like daughter.” She couldn’t dispute his accusation. Her memories were vague, but she’d grown up with the small-town gossip, along with her father’s disillusionment. Apparently, her mother had been a city girl. After seven years of marriage, Avis had gone back to the bright lights with the first man to sweet-talk her into going along for the ride. She’d left behind an embittered husband with two small children. After Avis, there was little softness left in Ira; she’d taken the heart out of him and left an empty shell.

  Jessie understood that her father’s warning about the hired hand was for her own good. In his clumsy way, he was only trying to protect her. She knew all that, but his lack of trust hurt.

  By the time Ben came downstairs, Jessie had restored her sense of balance. Nevertheless, she looked up with a start to find him halfway across the kitchen. Instead of warning her off, her father’s words made her more curious. Overnight, Ben Harding had lost the slight limp. He had an easy way of walking—tall and erect, and proud. He certainly looked fit. A night’s rest had done wonders for him. Jessie wished she could say the same of herself.

  She felt disoriented, as if her world had tilted.

  His eyes were direct—too direct. They looked right through her. With a brief indifferent nod in her general direction, he addressed her father. “Morning.”

  Feeling deflated, Jessie joined the men at the claw-foot table where her father liked to conduct business dealings over a meal. A stickler for routine, Ira frowned at Ben. “Breakfast is at six sharp. Be here, or you’ll miss it.”

  Raising a casual eyebrow to the verbal challenge, Ben helped himself to hotcakes and sausages.

  Jessie poured coffee. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two.” He drowned his hotcakes in sweet maple syrup, took a bite and released a sigh of pleasure.

  She swallowed a smile. The man had a weakness. She caught her father’s warning gaze. His dour mood put a damper on the meal. When conversation turned to the farm, she became aware of undercurrents. They needed a good season. They needed a strong hand to manage the large number of migrant workers they would be hiring shortly. Unfortunately, they needed Ben Harding.

  At the end, her father said, “Jess will show you around. Anything you need, just ask her.”

  Aware of Ben’s sardonic expression, Jessie couldn’t imagine him taking her directions seriously. No one did, except perhaps Fred Cromie. Fred had worked at Stone’s End for as long as she remembered. His wife, Hazel, had kept house until Jessie was old enough to take over. Among other things she’d taught Jessie—such as saving herself for the right man—she’d shown her how to cook. Somehow the two were inseparable in Hazel’s mind. In an age of microwavable gourmet dinners, Jessie suspected Hazel’s well-meant advice might be a little outdated. So far, she hadn’t put it to the test.

  After breakfast, Jessie hoped Ben would find his way around without her. When she ran out of indoor chores, she found him sitting on the porch railing. She shivered in the cold damp morning, grateful the fog had lifted. A pale sliver of sunlight penetrated the mass of black storm clouds.

  A quick flick of his dark-browed gaze on the letter H stretched across her chest left her feeling scorched. Branded. With her heart racing, Jessie pretended she hadn’t felt the unrestrained tightening of her breasts. She attempted a weak smile. “Ready to go?”

  Arms folded, Ben frowned at her. “Where to?”

  She slipped her arms into her barn jacket. “We could start with a tour of the property.”

  “Fine.” He peeled himself from the rail.

  Jessie climbed into the pickup and cranked the engine. It fired on the third try. The interior shrank when Ben climbed in beside her. As she backed the truck out of the driveway, the tires stuck and spun in a rut. She shifted gears. “The setup is standard. We’ve got nearly five hundred acres. Two hundred are tillable, fifty are set aside for grazing.” She threw him a glance.

  His gaze climbed the evergreen hills. “Any logging?”

  “We’ve had offers, but Dad refused.”

  “Isn’t logging profitable?” With a few more choice words on the subject, he took command of the conversation.

  Jessie relaxed under his businesslike approach. She knew about farming. Her family had owned Stone’s End for two hundred years. Generations came and went; the land remained. At times, it made her feel small. Who would provide future generations? Her brother was in no rush to settle down. And she didn’t date.

  At a break in the fence, they got out and walked. Jessie took a deep breath. The breeze stirred the tiny tendrils of hair escaping her braid. She stuck her hands in her pockets. So did he. In silence, they plodded through the field. Be-yond the shelter of the thick tree line, the wind raced through like a funnel, whipping her clothes around her.

  Ben felt the cold.

  Aware of the girl’s discomfort, he regretted their awkward start—not that he had any intention of putting her at ease. Encouraging her friendship would be a damn fool thing to do.

  He bent to scoop up a clump of dirt, crumbling it through his fingers. The rich scent of earth and minerals teased his nostrils. If there was anything he cared for, this was it. When everything else in his life had gone haywire, he’d turned back to the land, to the lessons his grandfather had taught him.

  “This is rich farmland,” he murmured with pleasure. “What sorts of crops grow in this climate?”

  “Potatoes…”

  Ben’s mouth twitched. With all his high living and wandering, he’d come to earth on a potato farm. If some of his old buddies could see him, he would never hear the end of it. He stra
ightened as the memory drove deeper. All his old buddies were dead.

  “And broccoli,” she added. “There’s also a large apple orchard. We rotate oats and corn for the cattle.”

  Ben stood on bare brown earth and thought of a green jungle where life was traded for the cost of white powder. Gradually, the girl’s soft voice penetrated his dark thoughts. The sinking blackness receded. He focused on her, on her voice—a steady flow of humdrum details, everyday words. Like a lifeline, he clung to them. To her.

  “We keep a herd of dairy cows,” she was saying. “The surplus milk goes to a co-op.” Her voice had a slight huskiness to it as she continued her stiff little lecture.

  What a funny girl, he thought, unable to understand why she’d captured his attention so totally. Serious, practical, boyish in her sturdy clothes and work boots, she was the kind of girl a man might want for a pal—if he was young and unscarred. Ben was neither. He raised an eyebrow. “With your father sick, you’re in charge of the entire operation?”

  “Oh, no. Fred’s retired, but he comes in every day.” Her slight smile turned into a frown. “He can’t do any lifting or heavy work. The dairy’s well equipped. We manage just fine. And there’s Cal Pierce, who helps out after school when we’re rushed. He lives just down the road at the next farm.”

  Translate that to a minimum of five miles. Ben had been in New England long enough to know “just down the road” could mean anything. What was he going to do with a skinny young girl, a semiretired hand, and this Pierce kid, Cal-who-helps-out?

  When he didn’t say a word, she continued, “For the seasonal work, we hire extra help.”

  “From where?”

  “Workers turn up every summer. They stay at the Pierce migrant camp down the road.”

  He digested the information. “I’ve worked on produce farms in the South. The setup must be the same.”

  She heaved a visible sigh of relief. “Fine. Then you won’t need me.” She broke off when he chuckled.