“He’s trying to protect me, and I hate it. How can I hope to keep my granddaughter safe if I don’t know what’s going on?”
Jessie winced at her use of the word granddaughter, at the emphasis that convinced her that the woman more than half believed it. That she was desperate to keep believing the child that she clearly loved was her own flesh and blood.
“Zach worries about you,” Jessie said gently, “the same as I worried about my mother.”
“Zach told me about your mother, and I’m sorry. But don’t you think, if she were here, she’d encourage you to go get medical attention?”
Jessie shook her head and closed her eyes as the world spun around her. When the carousel ride stopped, she managed, “I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.” Though how in the world would anything ever be fine again?
“You’re sounding like my son, trying to convince me.” Mrs. Rayford pouted, folding her thin arms in front of her. “You young people forget we older folks have known our share of heartache. We persevere. We have to, no matter how terrible the pain is.”
“Except my mother wasn’t just playing the frail prairie flower,” Jessie said abruptly. She immediately regretted her rudeness, but chances were, she’d never get a better chance to shock the woman into giving her straight answers. “She had stage-four metastatic cancer. And she died without knowing what happened to her other daughter, died before she ever had the chance to meet her only grandchild.”
Mrs. Rayford’s head cocked, reminding Jessie of a bird considering whether to risk pecking at a tempting morsel. Behind those glittering eyes, Jessie sensed the rapid-fire calculations as the woman tried to decide whether to play dumb or take flight.
Frowning, she went for the first choice, “So your sister had a child at one time? How odd, she never mentioned it to me.”
Though pushing here and now probably made Jessie the world’s most ungrateful houseguest, now that she’d tipped her hand, she had no choice but to play it. “What I want to know is this— Did my sister give you Eden? Of her own free will?”
Nancy Rayford staggered a step or two and grabbed the doorjamb as if she needed it for balance. “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about. What does any of this have to do with my son, Ian’s, daughter?”
Jessie came painfully to her feet, taking an unsteady step nearer as the world did another slow roll. But that didn’t stop her from pushing even harder. “The one you lied about, you mean?”
“I didn’t! I would never.” An age-spotted but well-manicured hand went to Mrs. Rayford’s forehead and her eyes scrunched as pain flashed over her expression. “My head— I’ll need my pills. I have to have my medication.”
Though Jessie’s every instinct urged her to rush to the older woman’s aid, she forced herself to stand her ground. “Convenient, isn’t it? How you come down with a headache every time somebody asks you a tough question.”
Zach’s mother covered her eyes with both hands, tears sliding down her face. “A migraine. I’m sure of it. Please, help me to my room. Or call Althea if you would, dear.”
This close to the truth, Jessie wasn’t about to let Nancy Rayford off the hook. “Did you. Take. My sister’s child? And do you know who killed her?”
The older woman wept piteously, collapsing against the door frame. But she did not let herself fall.
“Tell me,” Jessie pleaded, “tell me right now. Because whoever hurt my sister meant to kill again today. And next time, they could kill your last son. Is lying worth that risk?”
A stair creaked, and she heard the sound of boots stalking down the hallway. She braced herself for the coming confrontation with Zach Rayford. But it wasn’t Zach who appeared, glaring as he grasped Mrs. Rayford’s shoulders to support her.
It was Sheriff Canter, red-faced and so furious that Jessie half expected he would shoot her on the spot.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “What are you doing to this poor woman?”
“She attacked me in my own home. That’s what she did!” Mrs. Rayford cried.
Before Jessie knew what had hit her, she found herself roughly spun around and cuffed.
“What?” she cried. “I didn’t do anything to her! You can’t do this!”
“Watch me,” Canter growled through clenched teeth, marching her out of the room and down the staircase so quickly that it was all she could do to avoid being dragged along.
* * *
When a female jailer escorted Jessie out of her cell the next morning, Zach stood with his hat in hand. He had no idea what to say, or how to make what had happened up to her. Considering that she still wore smudges of ash and had only been allowed to dress in her filthy clothing she’d worn the day before, bailing her out wasn’t going to cut it. With the rings of fatigue beneath her green eyes and the red-hot anger in them, he wondered if she’d toss the insulated mug of strong black coffee he had brought her in his face simply because he was a Rayford, but he took a chance and handed it to her, anyway.
She accepted it and stared up at him suspiciously, the hair that had escaped her messy braid framing her face. “Are you sure this isn’t poisoned? Because if your mother had her choice...”
“Not here,” he said, for the shabby waiting area contained a motley collection of those waiting to arrange bail or waiting for a friend or loved one to be processed out. Bored and restless as they were, they would hang on every word. As would the jailer and the deputy behind the counter. Besides, Zach’s heated discussion with Canter had left no doubt that the sheriff would be happy for another excuse to arrest her.
Though yesterday’s had been so flimsy, anyone with half a brain could see right through it. Even his mother had been horrified by the speed at which her accusation had snowballed out of control. Or so she’d claimed when Zach had demanded to know why the sheriff, who’d allegedly come to question Jessie about the man who had attacked her, had arrested her instead.
“Let’s get out to the truck,” Zach said now. “But first, here’s your jacket. I brushed it off as well as I could.” Seeing her looking so exhausted, so vulnerable, he wished he could do more. Wanted to wrap her up and carry her out of here. To take her home and tuck her into bed. His bed.
She drank down half her coffee and then handed him the mug. As she slipped into the jacket, she asked, “You bring my shoes, too? I wasn’t wearing any when the sheriff—”
She darted a look at their audience and then gestured down at the cheap canvas slip-ons she’d evidently been provided. “Or do I get to wear these lovely parting gifts?”
“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s jail shoes. I didn’t know about yours. But I have your keys and cell phone in the truck.”
Her face flushing, she reclaimed the coffee before making a beeline for the door. Outside, heavy clouds darkened the morning, and the temperature had dipped into the upper twenties, thanks to the Canadian air mass that had rolled in. Judging from the bitter winds, the forecasted ice storm might be coming sooner than the weather people had predicted.
Inside his pickup, the atmosphere felt even colder, even after Zach had started up the engine and turned the heat up high.
“I fought like hell to get you out last night,” he offered, still frustrated over Canter’s arrogance, along with his unwillingness to turn her loose in spite of Zach’s mother’s refusal to press charges. Not even the explanation that Jessie might need treatment for a concussion had moved the stubborn SOB. “Best I could do is get you bumped up to the head of the line for your arraignment and be here waiting once the bail was set.
“She lied,” Jessie blurted, hugging herself in an attempt to warm up faster. “Your mother lied to get rid of me because I confronted her about Eden.”
You’re right, he wanted to say. The habit of defending his frail mother was hard-wired. Or defending family against outsiders—but was
Jessie really an outsider anymore?
“My mother was upset,” he said, hating himself for it. “She was overwrought about the fire. My great-grandfather built that barn. It had been standing longer than the house has. Longer than my mother’s been part of the family.”
He pulled into the street.
“That doesn’t excuse what she did for a second, but I am sorry about your barn,” Jessie said. “What about the animals? Did all of them make it?”
Hearing the fear in her voice, he was quick to answer, “Lost one of the horses. It was that mare that panicked and knocked you down. Headed back for what she probably figured was the safety of her stall.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, knowing that she really meant it. That she cared about the animals every bit as much as he did. “Another has a crisped tail and some minor burns, but the rest are gonna be fine. And your Gretel’s hanging in there, too, after a blood transfusion. I told the vet, do whatever you need to. Anything to save her.”
Closing her eyes, she sighed. “Thank God, and thank you, Zach. I was so afraid— I know this might seem crazy, but that dog’s the best friend I have.”
His heart ached for her, that she had no one else to turn to. But then, no human friend could have done what Gretel had to save her mistress. “Darn good friend to have. Whoever hurt her, she returned the favor, judging from the blood trail your attacker left. But I have to tell you, Doc Burton says she’s not out of the woods yet.”
“In the last few months, I’ve lost my mom, Henry, my job—and now probably my sister. I can’t lose Gretel, too, or I swear I’ll lose my mind, Zach. You understand?”
“Better than most people, I imagine,” he said, wishing there was more he could do to ease her pain. “That’s why I told the vet I’m picking up the tab on this one.”
“Thank you,” she repeated, wiping at her eyes. “And thanks so much for coming here to get me. Last night was—it was awful.”
“I’m sorry, and I know you won’t believe this, but my mama’s been beside herself with worry. She says things got away from her, that Sheriff Canter misunderstood what she said.”
“Canter’s nothing but a two-bit bully,” she said bitterly. “By the time I get through with that jackass, he can kiss that badge of his goodbye.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, figuring she must be feeling better if she was fighting mad and ready to set the world right. Or Rusted Spur, at least.
“Where are we heading?” she asked as he slowed down to make a turn.
“Straight to Margie’s. I figured you’d want a shower and to get some real sleep. I’m betting you didn’t get a whole lot of it last night.”
She grimaced. “The one time I nodded off, one of my cellmates swiped my blanket. That’s in addition to the dinner tray and breakfast they snatched out of my hands, too. Right down to the sour milk.”
Zach swore, imagining what a shock it must have been to a woman as classy as Jessie to rub elbows with life’s rougher elements. “They hurt you? Anybody touch you, Jessie?” He’d personally take care of anybody who had dared, right up to the jailers and Canter himself.
She favored him with a wan smile. “Seriously? You think I was going to fight a couple of drunk tank frequent flyers over some stinky, threadbare blanket and a couple of meals I couldn’t identify on a bet?”
He shook his head, admiring her sass. “I hope not, and anyway, I’ll sweet-talk Margie into making you something a lot better.”
“Why? You feeling guilty about what happened to me? Because you’re not the one to blame here.”
“Really? I figured you would want to slug me. ‘Sins of the mother,’ or something like that.”
Jessie laughed, and he smiled, relieved to know that she could find anything about this funny. But Jessie sobered quickly, uncertainty in her eyes.
“You think it’s okay for me to stay here? I wouldn’t want to bring down any trouble on your friend Margie.”
“I can tell you, she’d never turn you away.”
“Even considering where I’ve been?”
“She’s never judged me, not once,” he said, “even when I spent half my high school years stirring up trouble.”
As it turned out, Margie was a lot more understanding than even Zach would have imagined.
“Trust me,” she said after Zach quietly explained Jessie’s issue while she was upstairs getting cleaned up. “It’s not the first time someone innocent’s run afoul of good old George.”
“You?” he asked, incredulous.
Laughing, Margie slapped her plump thighs, causing all three dachshunds to bark until she shushed them. “Me? Canter wouldn’t dare, not if he doesn’t want everyone in town to know why he never got invited to boys’ slumber parties back in the fifth grade.”
“Why not?” Zach threw up his hands. “On second thought, that’s probably one of those things I don’t really want to know.”
She smiled and headed for the kitchen, leaving him to follow. “You hungry, too? I can make omelets for two as easy as one. Or do you think Jessie would rather have some of my banana pancakes?”
“The kind with the real maple syrup?” He hadn’t forgotten her whipping up a batch when he’d stopped by to say hello a few days after his return to Rusted Spur. But his gratitude went deeper, dating back over the years she’d cooked him other meals, too, on other mornings when he’d been too damned scared to go home.
When she nodded, he said, “Absolutely, and I’d love some, too. Thanks.”
“Good,” she said. “Now why don’t you go and set the table in the breakfast nook, where you two won’t be disturbed.”
“You sure you won’t marry me?” he asked with a loopy grin.
“I’m pretty sure I dodged a bullet the first time you asked me,” she said, laughing at the memory of a ten-year-old boy’s gratitude when she’d relented on her threat to call his father about his forgotten homework.
Mainly, Zach understood now, because she’d had an inkling he’d be beaten for the foul-up. Just as he understood that she must have been the one who’d sent a Children’s Protective Services worker snooping around, that she hadn’t believed the stories he’d come up with to explain his bruises.
Though Zach had been horrified—and nothing had come of the investigation except sore rears for him and Ian for “spreading lies about the family”—it had given him courage to know someone cared about them. Had given him the confidence that another adult believed what was happening in their house wasn’t right. If he hadn’t had at least that, he might have believed what his dad said about his and Ian’s treatment being normal. Might have bought all that bull about the Bible itself demanding that his father not “spare the rod.”
With the perfect timing she must have developed keeping one step ahead of kids as rowdy as he’d once been, Margie was just bringing out the pancakes and some bacon she’d fried when Jessie came downstairs wearing a pair of form-fitting black jeans and a nubby violet sweater that made the green of her eyes stand out. In spite of her ordeal, she looked far better than she had any right to, her red-gold hair gleaming and her skin glowing.
The thought of her, scrubbing off the layers of ash and county jail under a hot shower, sent pure need spearing through him. Desire for the one woman in the world he should stay farthest from.
But painful as the decision to help her had been, his sense of honor wouldn’t let him step back, no more than his ill-timed lust would leave him alone.
“I was coming down to thank you, not to bother with the brunch because I’m so tired,” Jessie admitted. “But the moment I smelled that coffee and bacon, I mysteriously got my second wind.”
“And wait until you taste these banana pancakes,” Margie said. “Now, Zach, you be a good boy and go get that syrup I just heated while I pour the co
ffee.”
Jessie caught his eye and grinned. “Yeah, Zach, be a good boy,” she said before turning, all innocent, toward Margie. “You don’t need to go through so much trouble. Let me help, please.”
“Nonsense,” Margie told her. “You were dead on your feet when you came in, and no wonder, after what that tin-star tyrant put you through.”
“I’m only glad your other guests were all out, so they didn’t have to see me taking the walk of shame in my fabulous footwear.” Jessie looked down, her expression pained, as if she were still seeing the grungy canvas jail shoes instead of the stylish black boots she now wore.
Utterly impractical boots, with their mile-high heels and the straps across the ankles, thought Zach, except he liked them. Liked them enough to wonder how she’d look wearing them and nothing else. As he headed for the kitchen, he thought of sticking his head under a cold faucet. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Huh!” Margie said emphatically, her voice loud enough for him to make out. “If you ask me, if anyone should be ashamed, it’s George Canter. See if I vote for that bully next November. Well, not that I voted for him last time, either, after he harassed my poor lost boys the way he did.”
Jessie murmured a question Zach couldn’t quite make out.
“No, not my sons. My husband and I were never blessed with children,” Margie answered. “I meant those boys I taught, the ones who had so much trouble in their home life. You ride a child like that too hard and too early, you’ll break him down—or drive him miles from home. The girls, too, so many of them, I tried to take them under my wing over the years.”
Troubled—and somehow ashamed—to be lumped in with Margie’s other “projects,” Zach stalled, washing his hands at the sink before returning from the kitchen, tiny pitcher in hand. But he hesitated in the doorway, seeing Jessie seated with her head bowed as Margie leaned over to hug her and speak quietly in her ear.
“Should I go back out?” he asked, feeling nine kinds of awkward.
“You’re fine,” Jessie said, dabbing at her eyes with a cloth napkin. “I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all. And Mrs.—I mean, Margie, here—reminds me so much of my mother, back when she was still well.”
Lone Star Redemption Page 18
