by Shirl Henke
"Leave us, Gus, por favor," Camella said to the fat cook, who was carrying a huge tin basin of scummy dishwater. He disappeared out the kitchen door as Cammie poured two cups of inky coffee and handed one to Lissa, motioning imperiously for her to have a seat on one of the chairs lining the long table in a corner of the big room.
"I have heard your ranch is in trouble. That is why I was going to send the message."
"Why would you care?" Lissa could not help but ask. "Surely by now Germaine Channault has told everyone who'd listen what a mess I've made of my father's splendid empire, not to mention what a whore I am."
A hearty peal of laughter burst from Cammie. "You are like him, you know? Jess always says things up front, too." She sobered and studied the redhead. "I made him a promise the day he left—to look after you for him."
This was a surprising and unlikely turn of events. "But why would he ask you? You and Jess . . . well, I thought you'd be glad to see me fail."
"He had no one else in Cheyenne he could trust. And he knew if I gave my word, I would keep it," Cammie added with a touch of inbred Spanish pride.
"I stand to lose J Bar if I can't get more hands to work the roundup—and bring in someone to stop the rustlers. I need Jess to save J Bar for Johnny."
"You need Jess to be your husband, I think." She watched as Lissa's face flushed beneath her sun-darkened skin.
"He doesn't want that onerous duty—but his son has the right to his protection. Jess owes me that much. I won't ask anything else," she said defiantly. "Do you know how I can get word to him?"
"Si. His brother Jonah runs his ranch in West Texas."
Lissa almost dropped her cup. "Ranch! He owns a ranch?"
Cammie could imagine the reasons for Lissa's outrage. "It is a small place, nothing like your grand estancia. I will send a wire today, but it may take a while to reach Jess, for he is probably off for hire. Jonah will have to track him down."
"Just tell him it's for Johnny or I'd never ask." Lissa was too shocked by Camella's revelations to say anything else. She stood up to leave, but the singer reached across the table and placed a slim brown hand on Lissa's pale wrist.
"You named his son Juanito." A sad little smile settled on her lips. "It was his father's name, John."
"I know that," Lissa said tightly. "It also belonged to my maternal grandfather." She paused. "Thank you for everything, Miss Alvarez."
"Camella. Please call me Camella, if you would. After all, we are both outcasts in Cheyenne, no?" She cocked her head and gave Lissa a mischievous grin.
Lissa returned it. "Yes, I guess we are, Camella. At least the men will speak to you. I can't even hire enough men to get me through spring roundup."
Cammie chuckled. "With me it is the men who do the hiring—and the paying. Maybe I can help, though. I know a few grub-line riders who might work for you. Let me see what I can do."
When she emerged from the Royale, Lissa blinked her eyes at the dazzling midday sunlight, then stepped off the plank sidewalk to unhitch Little Bit.
"Well, looks as if you finally found the right kind of place to work. Only I don't think a decent cathouse would take you on." Yancy Brewster slouched against the corner of the building.
Lissa swept him with a contemptuous look. "Oh, I imagine they would, Yancy. After all, they let you in. But then, you have to pay them instead of the other way around."
She turned and swung up on Little Bit, but before she could ride away, Brewster had stepped down from the walk and stood in her way. "You dirty whore, pretending to be a fancy lady, 'n all the while spreading your legs for a breed."
Cormac approached, growling low in his throat. Lissa commanded him to stay, then turned her attention to Brewster contemptuously.
"You're drunk. Is that why Cy Evers fired you? Dellia's luckier than she deserves, having her father break her engagement to you."
"I'll get Diamond E yet—'n see you brought low, too." A sly smile wreathed his face. "Just see if I won t.”
As Lissa pulled Little Bit's head around, Yancy was too slow to get out of the way. The horse's rump knocked him headlong in the mud while the pinto wheeled and galloped off.
By the end of the week, Lissa had half-a-dozen new hands, all hired through Camella's good offices. Moss still had not quit, for which she thanked what few lucky stars remained in her firmament, and the spring roundup was going as well as could be expected, considering that the rustlers were still on the loose.
The foreman reported another hundred head missing and suspected several thousand would be gone before they had finished the tally. Lissa racked her brains about who could be behind the destructive raids. Jess had wiped out a whole band of the thieves the previous year. Surely there could not be any survivors come back to take revenge on her. But it seemed even less likely that a whole new group of rustlers had settled in northeast Wyoming just to bedevil J Bar Ranch.
Was someone working on the inside again? Jess had caught two men last year who were in league with the thieves. Now, with her men's loyalties so strained, Lissa feared that one or more would not think it amiss to steal from the brand run by a fallen woman. But they would never dare steal from Jesse Robbins. Jess, where are you?
* * * *
The summer wind was scorching, even this far north, Jess thought as he pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes. Riding stoically beside him, Tate Shannon squinted at the horizon. Soon they would be in Cheyenne.
"We stoppin' in town for the night?" he asked Jess.
"No sense. Might as well ride on through to J Bar," his partner said levelly.
Shannon grunted but said nothing more as he studied Robbins's profile. After spending the past year riding with Jess, Tate knew how bad his friend hurt. Not that Jess had ever spoken of it, but Tate had watched the way his eyes would involuntarily light on women with red hair, and how he covertly watched small children. At first, when Jess was drinking pretty heavily, Tate had tried to get him to talk about his pain. But Jess refused, keeping it locked up inside. Finally Shannon had convinced Jess to go visit his kid brother. When they met up again in New Mexico, it seemed to Tate that seeing Jonah had given Jess a measure of peace. He pulled away from the beguiling oblivion of the bottle after that.
The black man had hoped in time that Jess might return to the wife and son he steadfastly denied, but he did not. They had worked several lucrative jobs in New Mexico. Even though Robbins no longer drank heavily, he took fearful chances with his life, almost as if he were tempting fate to put an end to his misery.
Then the wire had come from Jonah. Lissa's father was dead, and she was in danger of losing J Bar. She asked that he help her for the sake of his son. His son. Tate could still see the look on Jess's shuttered face when he read the words. He had a son. Never once in the past year had he spoken of the baby or speculated about its sex. After the long lonely months of denial, Jesse Robbins had at last been forced to confront his past. Tate Shannon only hoped he would come to his senses when he saw all that he had given up and take his family with him back to Texas.
"What you suppose she named the boy?" Shannon finally said, testing the waters.
"Let it alone, Tate. I don't intend to see him."
"That might not be an easy thing to do," Shannon said genially.
"It's a big ranch," Jess replied, indicating that the conversation was at an end.
They rode into the basin just as the sun was setting. An orange-and-gold haze surrounded the ranch house and lights glowed from inside, as if bidding them welcome. A few hands worked at chores down at the corrals or sat smoking and whittling.
"I'll head down to the bunkhouse," Tate said discreetly as they neared the big house. Without waiting for a reply, he turned his horse away, leaving Jess to greet his wife in private.
Lissa heard the approach of horses in the twilight stillness and laid Johnny in his cradle. She quickly walked down the hall to a window fronting on the road. When she pulled open the crisp yellow curtain and looked out, s
he dropped it with a sharp intake of breath.
Jess!
He had returned. Over the past two months, she had all but given up hope. But now as he approached the front door, what would she say to him? She watched him stride arrogantly up the walk, graceful and cat-taut as he had always moved. His hat shaded those magic eyes as it had the first time she had seen him, and he still wore the lethal revolver in its well-oiled holster low on his hip.
"Damn, I look a fright," she muttered, peering into the hall mirror. She had spent the afternoon riding with Moss to review how many head had been stolen in recent weeks. Her hair was snarled and dirty, and she had an unbecoming dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Her heart thudded like a runaway freight train, and her knees were trembling like a yearling at a branding fire. "Get a hold of yourself," she scolded as she heard the front door open and Clare's flustered voice bidding him enter. Lissa finger-combed her hair and brushed off the riding skirt she had not had time to change when she returned from the range.
Jess stood in the front parlor where the shy little maid had left him. She was as timid as Germaine Channault had been outspoken. He smiled to himself, thinking of how much Lissa must have enjoyed discharging the old harridan. Then he heard footfalls on the stairs and stepped into the arched doorway so he could watch her descend. She was as slim as ever, and her glorious mane of fiery hair tumbled over her shoulders. He ached to bury his face and hands in the gleaming curls and press her soft curves against his hungry body. Get a hold of yourself, he thought in anguish, schooling his features into an impassive expression as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Lissa could not keep her eyes from devouring him as he stood in the doorway, looking up at her. His clothes were dusty, and he needed a shave and haircut. How well she remembered the rasp of his whiskers over her sensitive skin. She wanted to touch the hair resting so inky-black against his white shirt collar. His face was guarded, and tension radiated from his body. She walked up to him without speaking, daring to stand close and look up into his silver eyes.
She still smelled of orange blossoms. His nostrils quivered as the old familiar fragrance swamped his senses. "Jonah's message said you were in danger of losing J Bar," he began without preamble.
She gave a shaky laugh. Well, what did you expect—that he'd fall down and kiss your boots? "Hello to you, too, Jess." She turned from his molten-silver gaze and walked down the hall to the library. If he wanted it to be all business, she would play by his rules.
"We've been under siege by rustlers since spring. Then after my father died, the hands started quitting.”
He followed her into the book-lined room and watched as she opened a ledger and shoved it across the desk. "I'm sorry about your pa," he said quietly.
"You have a good deal to be sorry for, but as to my father—well, don't be sorry about him. I'm not. If he hadn't died when he did—" She stopped herself before she blurted out the rest. What was wrong with her? He obviously had returned strictly out of a sense of duty. Why debase herself any further?
Jess watched the play of emotions cross her face and saw her swallow what she had almost said. Marcus Jacobson had never been an easy man. "I take it he didn't forgive you. You could've left, gone back East."
"I did, but when he had the first heart attack . .. well, it's over and done now. Here are the books. You can see our losses."
He scanned the books and asked a few questions about where and when the cattle had been stolen.
She explained, then added, "I rode out with Moss this afternoon to see how bad it's gotten. I think he wants to quit, too."
An unamused smile crossed his face. "Now that I'm here, he just might do it."
She shook her head. "No, I don't think he will. He may not like you but he'll respect your orders—so will the rest of the men. They always resent a woman trying to run a ranch."
He looked up sharply and closed the ledger with a snap. "I'm not staying, Lissa, once this is over."
"I know," she replied angrily. "You have your own place in Texas."
"Who told you that?" Already he had a pretty good idea, and he did not like it.
"My friend Camella," she dared him.
His eyes narrowed. "You better be a little more discreet in picking your friends."
"Really? As you well know, discretion was never one of my virtues. In any case, I'm every bit the outcast she is. And after all, Jess, we do have a great deal in common," she couldn't resist adding.
He ignored the innuendo. "You seem to be going out of your way to antagonize the good folks in Cheyenne."
"After marrying you, I didn't have to do anything else."
"I can't change that now, Lissa," he said bitterly. "I can only try to save your ranch."
"It isn't my ranch," she replied, willing him to mention Johnny.
"Well, it sure as hell isn't mine!"
"No, it's your son's—or do you even give a damn?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have quit a high-paying job and ridden eight hundred miles."
Realizing that a quarrel would solve nothing, Lissa seized control of her blazing temper. She would play a subtler game this time.
"I've had Clare fix a room for you. By the time you take Blaze to the stable, supper will be ready. We eat in the kitchen now, unless you'd prefer the dining room." She held her breath.
He tightened his jaw. "I'll sleep in the bunk- house. Vinegar can get Tate and me something—"
"No!" She took a calming breath and repeated earnestly, "No, Jess. I'm not attempting to seduce you. If you're going to run this ranch, you can't sleep with the hired hands. Even Moss has his own cabin, and he's just the foreman. You are my husband—in name. Everyone would expect you to stay at the house." Her voice was low and hoarse, breaking as she added, "Don't shame me this way, Jess."
He felt as if he had just been poleaxed. How could he refuse? She was probably right. It would be hard enough to whip the J Bar hands in line and deal with that surly old ramrod. He would have to sleep under the same roof with his wife. But not in the same bed. "All right, Lissa," he said, expelling his breath on a sigh. "I better go talk to Symington first thing."
"I'll hold supper until you come back," she said and began to fiddle with the papers on the desk as he left the room.
* * * *
Jess knocked on the door to Moss's cabin and waited as a chair scraped across the planks and footfalls sounded. The old man squinted into the darkness, then swore softly and stepped aside, letting Jess enter the cabin.
"Did Lissa tell you she sent for me?"
"Nope. But it don't surprise me none," Symington said sourly, his eyes moving from Jess up the rise to the big house.
"Yeah. I'm staying there, Symington. Does that put a burr under your blanket?" He was damned if he would explain his sleeping accommodations to anyone.
Moss shrugged disgustedly. "Hell, she married you all legal. It ain't none of my business."
"No. It damn sure isn't," Jess echoed softly. "I hear the rustlers have hit harder than ever this year."
Symington had a bottle of whiskey on the table along with a half-filled glass. He did not offer any to Robbins but gulped down the rest of the tumbler and ran his shirtsleeve across his mouth. "We're down over a thousand head this past month. Reckon some of them fellers you shot up musta come back."
"Only if they're wearing sheets and clanking chains," Jess replied without levity. "How many new hands hired on since I left last year?"
Symington barked a humorless laugh. "Only thing hands was doin' round here was quittin'—til Miz Lissa brung back six er seven new men from town. Over a month 'er so ago."
"I'll need a list of their names. Tomorrow first thing, you show me the places where you've been hit." He turned to go, then paused. "Lissa says you wanted to quit but didn't. You got any problem working for me, say so now. I don't like being crossed."
Cool gray eyes clashed head-on with angry brown ones. "I stayed on 'cause of Marcus Jaco
bson. I rode fer his brand since I was a slick-ears myself. If he wanted her 'n her boy to have J Bar—well, I reckon that's good enough for me. You bust up them rustlers. I won't cause no trouble."
"Good," Jess flatly, then walked out into the cool night air.
On the way up to the kitchen, he stopped at the pump in the backyard and washed up. As he dried off, he replayed the encounter with Symington in his mind. The old ramrod hated his guts as much as Jacobson had, but he was loyal to the brand. Moss would probably stay on after he left. That was good. Lissa would need the help. Maybe then she could hold on to the place for her boy.
Her boy. That's what Symington called his son. Not Marcus's grandson. Not even your boy. Don't think about him. Jess finished rolling down his sleeves, combed his fingers through his wet hair, and headed toward the amber light of the kitchen and the rich smells of fresh rolls and fried chicken.
The table in the center of the room had two settings on its bright green cloth. Lissa placed a platter of golden chicken in the center of the table and fussed with two big linen napkins.
He observed the nervous little maid, who bobbed a curtsy to Lissa and then left the room, looking for all the world as if he might take a bite out of her instead of the chicken.
"Where'd you get her?"
"Clare used to work for the dressmaker in town, an old tyrant. I offered her a job when I fired Germaine."
He grinned. "No surprise there." As he pulled out her chair, the fragrance of orange blossoms smote him again. When she turned back to look up into his face with luminous gold eyes, his breath caught in his throat.
"Ger maine always hated me, and I never understood why. She's in town now, living off the stipend my father left her in his will. It was a lot of money. I don't know why she doesn't go back to Canada."
"Why didn't you go back to St. Louis? Sell the ranch and let someone else deal with the rustlers?"
Her jaw stuck out at that stubborn angle he had learned to recognize. "No one's driving me away. This ranch belongs to our son." She waited for him to ask about his son, but he merely bit into his chicken. The meal continued with little conversation.
