by Shirl Henke
Finally he wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed his plate away. "My compliments to Clare. That was excellent."
"Clare didn't cook it. I did." There was a note of unmistakable pride in her voice. She was pleased with the incredulous expression on his face.
"You couldn't boil water when I left here."
"I've learned a lot of things this past year. While I was living with Aunt Edith, I had her cook teach me. I rather enjoy it."
"You always plan on coming back here to fire Madame Channault?"
"Maybe," she replied enigmatically. "What did Moss say?"
"He'll stay. Said you hired some new men in town."
"That was long after the rustling had started again. I know what you're thinking, but this isn't an inside job unless one of the old-timers is involved."
He studied her. "You think that's possible?"
"Anything's possible."
"Any offers to buy the place?" He had some suspicions but did not voice them aloud for the present.
"Not directly." She paused, pleased with the glint of interest she saw in his eyes. "Lemuel Mathis hoped to marry me ... if I got a divorce from you."
"I take it you turned him down," he said levelly, cursing himself for the flood of relief that she had done so.
"He only wanted the ranch, not us."
Mathis is a fool. "He might be behind the rustling then."
"I doubt it. Pompous old Lemuel, a cow thief?" She dismissed the idea as absurd.
Jess stood up and helped her with her chair. The small courtesy made them seem as intimate as a real husband and wife, used to sharing meals and conversation. Lissa found that she enjoyed the illusion far too much. He could not leave them again. She simply would not let him ride away without a fight.
"I'll show you to your room," she said breathlessly.
He gestured for her to lead the way, then picked up his saddlebags from the kitchen chair and followed her upstairs. When they reached the guest bedroom, the soft sound of a baby whimpering echoed from the other end of the hall.
"Johnny rarely wakes at night. Did I tell you I named him John? It was my maternal grandfather's name as well as your father's. He is John Jesse Robbins." I'm babbling.
Jess felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. John Jesse Robbins. My son.
Lissa noted his sudden look of vulnerability. "Would you like to see him?" The minute she asked, she cursed herself. Too soon! The expressionless mask dropped in place again.
"No, Lissa. I don't think so." He closed the door to his bedroom, leaving her standing alone in the empty hall.
Chapter Nineteen
Jess awakened to the smell of frying bacon and freshly made coffee. In spite of being exhausted from the long ride, he had lain awake for hours the preceding night, listening for sounds of Lissa quieting Johnny and visualizing her with the baby. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed sleep from his eyes. A man could get used to sleeping in beds this soft if he were not careful. But Jesse Robbins was always careful.
"How the hell can I sleep and eat under the same roof with them?" he muttered to himself. There was a bar of soap and fresh water in the basin by the window. Pulling his razor from his saddlebag, along with a change of clothes, he shaved and dressed. Sooner or later he would see his son. Lissa would make certain of that.
Lissa. Just being in the same room with her during dinner last night had nearly driven him crazy. Vowing to get the trouble at J Bar under control quickly and escape, Jess headed downstairs like a man facing execution.
Lissa was at the stove, deftly forking the last of a hearty rasher of bacon from the iron skillet. She set it on the table beside a platter of fluffy biscuits and a dish of freshly churned butter. Hearing his footsteps, she looked up and smiled. "Good morning."
He could not help but notice the delightful domestic picture she made in the kitchen setting. It was quite different from how he had first envisioned her when they met last year. The spoiled darling in silks now had a smudge of flour on her freckled nose and wore a simple yellow cotton dress covered by a white apron. Her hair was pulled atop her head in a loose bun with wispy tendrils escaping all around, as if she had fastened it hastily.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked almost shyly.
"Cooked," he replied, "if I'm lucky."
She regarded his saturnine expression, trying to ignore the smell of shaving soap and leather. "You're lucky. Fried over easy all right?"
"Fine." He poured himself a cup of scalding coffee from the big granite pot on the stove and looked out the window.
"Are you always this sociable early in the morning?" she asked as she broke three eggs into the skillet. How little I really know about him.
He grunted a nonanswer and watched her with hooded eyes over the rim of his cup. After sipping the steaming brew he said, "Thank God your coffee's better than Vinegar's."
"Thank you, I think, knowing that ink he boils until it'll float a horseshoe."
"No such thing as coffee too strong—"
"Only men too weak," she chimed in, delighted when a genuine smile flashed across his face. She slid the eggs onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. "Help yourself to bacon and biscuits." She gestured to the place setting at the table as she used the back of her hand to push a wayward curl off her forehead.
Standing so close, Jess could see the fine sheen of perspiration on her face. He wanted to touch the damp, springy wisps clinging to her slender neck and run his fingers over the moist skin in the deep vale between her breasts. Instead, he took the plate with thanks and sat down.
Lissa quickly fixed herself an egg and joined him at the table. "What do you think Moss can show you this morning?"
He shrugged and took a swallow of coffee. "I'll see if they're still driving them along the same route as before. Whoever's doing this must be able to ship them from the railhead in Nebraska."
She digested the disquieting idea, then said, "You think it's someone in the Association, don't you? To have that kind of connection."
"Could be. Or it could just be an experienced thief who's worked out a deal with some shady buyer. That's the way it's usually done." He wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed back his chair. "Thanks for the breakfast, Lissa."
She looked up at him with liquid gold eyes. "Be careful, Jess," she said solemnly.
He nodded and walked out the kitchen door, trying not to think about how Lissa would look in the kitchen of his small home, cooking over the open hearth. He did not own a fancy stove. You could buy one, an insidious voice whispered.
When he approached the corrals, they were deserted. Most of the hands had long since ridden out. Symington stood in the stable door, engaged in conversation with a big, burly man whom Jess recognized as the fellow who did the smithing for J Bar, Jethro Bullis. Two other men whose names he did not recall stood back, taking in the discussion. As he approached, their argument carried on the hot dusty breeze.
"I ain't stayin', Moss. Not with her up there spreadin' her legs for that damn breed," the smithy said, unaware of Jess's presence. "Where I come from, his kind don't screw white women."
"Jethro, you better throw a soogan over that mouth of yours—"
"Just where do you come from, Jethro?" Jess interrupted Moss in a low deadly voice.
The big man turned to Jess and spat a lob of tobacco juice into the dust near Jess's boots. "What business is it of yourn, ya red nigger?" His pockmarked face mottled with anger.
"I wondered if it was hell. That's where you're headed if your dirty mouth lets out another word about my wife," Jess said quietly.
Jethro threw up his hands with a nasty grin that revealed a mouthful of blackened teeth. "I ain't armed, breed. You wanna take me, you do it in a real man's fight."
"I don't brawl with troublemakers. You're fired. Pack up and get out." Jess watched in disgusted resignation as a few of the remaining hands began to drift toward them.
"You can't fire me. Only Mr. Jacobson's daught
er can—"
"I told you not to talk about her," Jess said, wearily unbuckling his holster and handing it to Moss. Damn, if he broke a knuckle on this brute, he would be furious, but he dared not shoot an unarmed man, and he had to establish his authority over the hands at once. The smithy's ugly words about Lissa enraged him, but he forced himself to remain calm. Casting a swift glance around the corral area, he saw no potential tools to aid him in the uneven contest.
Jethro outweighed Jess by a good fifty pounds and was six inches taller. Grinning nastily, he stepped forward and swung. Jess ducked and landed a solid punch to the smithy's paunch as he sidestepped. However, instead of the gasp of expelled breath he expected from Jethro, all he heard was a slight snort. Beneath the fat was a wall of solid muscle.
Jess danced away as Jethro swung again, this time grazing his cheek. The smith was slow and clumsy but strong as a steer and mean as a bull in rut. Jess feinted to the right, then came in for a hard left jab that landed squarely on Jethro's jaw. The pain from that punch radiated all the way up his arm, but the smithy only shook his head and laughed.
By this time, those hands not yet out on the range had gathered and bets were being made with the odds favoring the smithy, who finally caught up with Jess long enough to strike him in the midsection. The force of the blow did expel his breath. Before he could move out of range, Jethro followed up with a second punch to his face that struck dangerously close to his right eye.
He gritted his teeth and sucked in some air to clear his ringing head. As he dodged away with Jethro in pursuit, Jess edged toward the open doors of the stable. If only he could lure the smith inside. He got his wish, but not in the way he wanted. Jethro took a punishing blow to his midsection but kept on coming, enveloping Jess in a deadly bear hug. They fell to the straw-covered ground inside the stable door.
Unfortunately, Jess landed on the bottom, the smithy over him, with a meaty fist raised. When he brought it crashing down to Jess's face, the smaller man twisted away, bucking off his opponent, whose fist connected with bone-jarring force with the hard-packed earthen floor.
As Jethro cursed, Jess rolled up and seized the first weapon that came to hand, a singletree taken off a broken set of harness. Big and clumsy, the wooden post left stinging splinters in his hands as he swung hard at the advancing smithy. Jethro went down to one knee, incredibly not knocked flat by the blow which had hit him squarely across his right shoulder and upper arm.
His damn arm isn't even broken! Jess braced himself and swung again as the smithy reached one huge paw toward the weapon. This time he connected with Jethro's hand and was rewarded by the crack of bones breaking and a sharp, high-pitched squeal of agony. Without pausing for breath, Jess swung again, this time striking the giant across his face. Jethro went down with blood spurting from his broken nose and lacerated mouth. He was out cold.
Jess dropped the singletree with an oath. His right eye was half-closed already, his head and left shoulder were pounding, and both hands felt as if someone had used them for pincushions. He staggered to the door, where the now subdued hands had watched the finale with awe-filled expressions on their faces.
"Show's over." Jess spat blood from a split lip and gestured to Jethro. "Pile him on a wagon and haul him into town. I'll send his wages. Anyone else want to quit, speak up right now." He swept the crowd with a shrewd glance. No one spoke up. "Good. Get back to work."
When they shuffled off, he turned to Moss. "Give me a few minutes to clean up, and I'll meet you back here."
Moss nodded in amazement. "Never seen the beat of it. Nobody's never knocked out Jethro afore."
"I reckon they just never had the right tool," Jess said grimly, then turned and headed to the house.
No one was in the kitchen when he walked in the door, but he could hear the sounds of voices upstairs. Trying to recall where Lissa kept her medical supplies, he began to search the pantry. Quickly locating the basket, he fished through it for what he needed, then carried it over to a small mirror above the sink.
He worked the pump handle until a gush of clean, cold water splashed into the basin, then lowered his bruised, bloodied face and hands into the cool depths.
Hearing the water, Lissa left Johnny with Clare in the sewing room and headed for the kitchen. She found Jess inspecting his injuries over the sink.
"My God, what happened to you?"
"A ton of blacksmith," he muttered.
She took the washcloth away from him and dabbed at his swollen eye. "Jethro?" She shivered in revulsion. "You're lucky he didn't beat you to death."
"He won't be beating up on anyone for quite a while," he replied with satisfaction.
She froze. "You didn't. . ."
He sighed. "No, I didn't kill him, but if I look bad, he looks considerably worse."
She resumed her ministrations. "How could you beat a man his size with your fists?" She took one hand and opened it, examining the abrasions on his knuckles and the red, angry weals on his palms.
"I couldn't. I used a singletree," he replied, wincing as he flexed his right hand.
"A singletree!" The image of Jethro Bullis being flattened by Jess wielding a huge wooden pole seemed ludicrous. A small hiccup of tension-purging laughter escaped her.
"I'm glad you find it amusing," he said testily.
She continued cleaning his wounds. "Well, not exactly amusing, but—" Suddenly it occurred to her that there must have been a reason for the brawl. She sobered. "Why did you and Jethro fight?"
His face grew shuttered. "Moss is waiting. Just let me dig out a few of these big splinters." He reached for a pair of tweezers.
"That cut above your eye should be stitched. Why the fight, Jess?" she repeated as she threaded a needle. When he did not reply, she said softly, "It was about me, wasn't it."
"No. It was about me," he said flatly.
Realizing that she would get no further satisfaction from him, she changed the subject. "I can't reach you standing up. Sit down," she instructed, holding up her needle.
He pulled over a kitchen chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on the back. Lissa stood close beside him and carefully put two tiny stitches into the angry gash over his right eyebrow. As she worked, she chewed on her lip in concentration, remembering how she had sewn up his injuries last year. The same electric tension crackled between them now, like lightning before a high plains thunderstorm.
Jess, too, was unable to forget the past. His hands gripped the chair back tightly, then quickly let go as pain from the splinters lanced deeply into his palms.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, but I don't think it'll leave much of a scar. Your eyebrow almost hides it," she said breathlessly, unable to meet his eyes.
"It's my hands, not the cut," he replied, also unwilling to look into her lovely face. But he could see the sweet swell of her breasts. He felt himself growing hard and swore silently as she took one of his hands in hers and turned it palm up.
How small and pale her hands looked, holding his larger bronzed one. How well she remembered the way those long, beautiful fingers felt caressing her. She forced herself to pick up the tweezers, praying she could stop trembling. She set to work, pulling over a dozen jagged bits of wood from his hands. Then she bathed them with alcohol and put a healing ointment over the abraded knuckles and raw sores in his palms.
"I really should bandage them—"
"No. I've got to be able to use my hands or I'll be a dead man."
He started to get up just as she reached over to the sink to set down the ointment jar. His arm brushed her breast as he stood. Her eyes flew up, startled and fathomless, locked with his. They stood frozen that way for a moment, a scant inch apart yet not touching, their breaths melding together in the summer heat.
Lissa reached up tentatively, almost as if she were afraid of frightening him, and caressed his cut lip with her fingertips.
Suddenly Jess grabbed her with both hands and pulled her flush against his body, lowering his mouth to hers. She opene
d for him, feeling the hot fury of his invasion, tasting the mixture of coffee and blood in his mouth. She cupped his bruised face in her hands and gentled his fierce, angry kiss, then laved at his cut lips delicately with the tip of her tongue. He nearly went mad with the pleasure of her exquisitely feminine touch. A trembling began deep in his gut, radiating outward in undulating waves until it reached his fingertips. He started to pull at the buttons on her bodice.
The low, keening wail of a baby broke the summer stillness and Jess froze. Struggling with every fiber of his being, he set her away. When he released her, his hands left greasy smears on her sheer cotton dress. "I've marked you, Lissa," he said raggedly.
Then he turned and walked quickly out the door.
* * * *
Jess and Moss rode over the places where J Bar cattle had been taken recently, confirming his suspicions about the professional nature of the thefts. They spoke little, only exchanging essential information about the rustling and the details of running a large spread.
On the way back toward the ranch house, they saw the vultures circling at a distance. When they rode to investigate, they discovered the source of the trouble at the largest water hole within twenty miles of the main buildings. Over a dozen cattle were dead, some lying half submerged, others nearby.
"How long you think they've been dead?" Jess asked as they examined one steer's swollen belly.
"In this heat . . . hell, hard to say. A day, maybe, but no more. The hands check here often."
"It's poisoned, all right," Jess said, gingerly tasting the tainted water.
Symington threw down his hat and cursed long and colorfully. "Stealin' I can understand, but this is just plain dirt-ornery."
Robbins's eyes narrowed. "Not if they want to force us to drive the cattle to the upper Lodgepole for water."
The ramrod's face was red with fury as he spat in the dust. "Far enough to the east to string 'em out. Easy pickins for rustlers."
