The Woman Who Loved Jesse James

by Cindi Myers

  Eventually, things calmed down. More pressing matters drew the lawmen away. Zerelda recovered her strength and Jesse was able to return home once more. Life began to seem more normal—or as normal as it can ever be for a man with a price on his head and the people who love him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Jesse said at breakfast one morning late that spring, when we had returned to our home in St. Louis. “We should move.”

  “This house is a little small,” I said. “Especially with a baby on the way.”

  “Yes. We need a bigger place.” He stirred sugar into his coffee. “What would you think about moving to Tennessee?”

  “Tennessee? You want to leave Missouri?” Jesse was a Missouri man born and bred.

  “I think it’d be good to get away for a while,” he said.

  “I agree.” The spoon rattled against the cup as I stirred my tea. Too many people here knew what Jesse looked like and where he lived. As hard as it might be to live among strangers, I believed it would be safer.

  And after so many months at his mother’s farm, I was weary of the constant press of other people around us. I longed to have Jesse to myself for a while, as lover and husband and confidant—the two of us, safe in our own little world.

  “Then we’ll do it.” He smiled at me across the table. “I’ll find us the perfect place.”

  In June, we moved to a house in Edgefield, near Nashville. “You’ll have to get used to hearing me addressed as Mr. Howard,” he told me. “John Davis Howard. Whatever you do, don’t call me Jesse.”

  This decision startled me, and made my stomach clench. The danger must be greater than I’d feared, if Jesse felt compelled to take an alias. “All right. What if I call you Dave?” John was his brother’s name, as well as my brother’s and my brother-in-law’s.

  “Dave.” He tried the name out. “All right. What should I call you?”

  I giggled at the idea of being anything but ‘Zee’ or ‘Sister.’

  “Come on,” he chided. “If I’m to have another name, so must you.”

  “When I was a little girl, I always wished my name was Josie,” I said.

  “Josie.” He tried the name out on his tongue. “I think I could grow to like it. Then Josie you’ll be.”

  Jesse—Dave—told our new neighbors that he was a wheat speculator, which explained both his long periods of inactivity, and his travels, as he still spent time away from home, visiting his mother and old friends.

  For the first time in my life, I was free to spend as much money as I wanted. Though I was careful not to be too extravagant, I bought some fine furnishings for our new home, including a lovely cradle for our soon-to-be-born baby. Not having any faith in the safety of banks, Jesse kept cash hidden around the house, along with jewelry worth thousands of dollars. No mention was ever made of where the money came from. I knew, but chose not to dwell on it. In those moments when guilt over our sins plagued me, I told myself the money had been taken from those who deserved to lose it. And I reveled in the knowledge that because of Jesse, I would never want for anything again.

  Sadly, as much money as Jesse made, we never kept it for long. Jesse let cash run through his fingers like water. He wagered freely on horse races and in faro games, losing thousands of dollars at a time, but never distressed about it.

  We were friendly with our neighbors, but not overly so. We had to always be on our guard not to give away our true identities; I lived in fear that I would call Jesse by his real name. For his part, Jesse usually referred to me as ‘dear’ or ‘sweetheart.’

  On nights when Jesse was not out riding or gambling, he stayed at home and we sat together in the parlor. I read to him from popular novels of the day—we enjoyed The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Around the World in Eighty Days. While I read, he would sometimes rub my feet, his big hands tenderly caressing my arches and toes, and soothing my swollen ankles. We talked about our baby, and what we would name it— after Jesse if it was a boy, and either Mary or Susan if a girl.

  I went into labor in the early hours of August 31. I lay staring at the ceiling between waves of pain, determined not to wake Jesse until I had to. As any woman does, I had both dreaded and looked forward to this moment. I couldn’t wait to welcome my child into my arms, but so many things could go wrong for both the baby and me in the complications of labor and delivery. In between my contractions, I prayed fervently that everything would go well.

  Never a sound sleeper, Jesse soon sat bolt upright in bed, one hand instinctively reaching for the pistol kept ready on the bedside table before he even opened his eyes. “It’s all right,” I reassured him.

  He laid the gun aside and shifted to look at me. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I managed a shaky smile. “I’m fine. I think our child has decided it’s time he made his entrance into the world.”

  Jesse’s face paled as the knowledge hit him, then he threw back the covers and began pulling on his trousers. “I’ll ride into town for the doctor,” he said.

  “No. Don’t leave me!” Alarmed, I shoved myself into a sitting position.

  “I’ll stop and ask a neighbor woman to come sit with you.” He was already putting on his boots and reaching for his gun belt.

  “Can’t you stay with me?”

  “If I do that, who’s going to deliver this baby?”

  “Can’t you do it? You’ve delivered foals before and it can’t be so very different.”

  He’d gone all white again, and I feared for a moment he might fall over in a faint. The idea that Jesse James, fearless outlaw and reputed killer, would collapse at the idea of delivering a baby struck me as funny, and I began to giggle, until another powerful contraction cut off the sound.

  My bitten-off cry of pain sent Jesse into action once more. “I won’t be gone long,” he said. “I’ll send the neighbor woman over.”

  “Jesse no! I’m afraid in the midst of the pain I might say something to give you away.” I lived with the fear that something I did might one day lead to Jesse’s downfall. I had made a solemn vow that outside the confines of our bedroom I would address him only as Dave or Mr. Howard, and so far I had been able to keep this promise. But in the throes of childbirth, who knew what I might say?

  I could see that Jesse was torn. More than anything, he wanted to be away from my pain. But he hadn’t remained a free man for so many years by taking unnecessary risks. He set aside the gun belt and began rolling up his sleeves. “All right. But if anything goes the least bit wrong, I’m off for the doctor.”

  I knew my husband to be a brave man, but the bravest I had ever known him was that night, when he sat on the side of our bed and held my hand as I fought the waves of pain. He never flinched when I cried out, though his face paled and sweat bloomed on his forehead. He wiped my forehead and gave me sips of water, encouraging me as I labored to bring our son into the world. I found all the encouragement I needed in his eyes; when Jesse looked at me, I believed I could do anything.

  Jesse Edwards James entered the world around noon, cradled in his father’s hands. Hands more accustomed to holding a gun or a horse’s reins cut the cord and bathed the newborn, then tenderly bathed me as well. Exhausted, but happy, I cradled our child to my breast and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.

  We named the baby Jesse Edwards for his father and for the newspaperman John Newman Edwards, who had done so much to champion and defend Jesse. But officially he would be known as Tim Howard. I’ll admit I cried a little over that—that my son couldn’t even be addressed by his real name. But everything we did was necessary to protect Jesse, and to protect us as well. Jesse didn’t want the horror that had visited his mother and her family to come home to us as well.

  Jesse was as proud a father as anyone ever knew. He delighted in showing off his son, proudly carrying him to church on Sunday, or on shopping trips downtown. In the evenings, he would rock the baby while I cooked supper, sometimes crooning off-key lullabies that made me laugh.

  But I s
ensed a growing restlessness in Jesse as well. Never had he spent so many weeks at home, idle. Each day he read the papers, and where once they had been filled with stories both praising and reviling the James gang, now weeks went by with scarcely a mention. Though Jesse could not risk being recognized in public, he missed being talked about by strangers. He had not lived in true anonymity since before his seventeenth birthday and the absence of a spotlight now gnawed at him.

  I think the worst moment for him was in early September, when the papers were filled with news of the robbery of the Bank of Huntington in Huntington, West Virginia. Four men entered the bank in the afternoon and took off with $10,000. There was much speculation that one of the robbers was Cole Younger and another Frank James. The other two bandits—Tom McDaniel and Thomas Webb, both acquaintances of Frank and Jesse and the Youngers—were eventually captured, though they refused to give the names of the accomplices.

  Seeing other men hailed for this daring crime—one of them his own brother—Jesse fumed. “A year from now, the public will forget Jesse James even exists,” he said one morning over breakfast, slapping the latest paper down in disgust.

  I thought this wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but I knew enough to hold my tongue. “No one will ever forget Jesse James,” I said placidly. “Would you like more coffee?”

  Annie and Frank came to visit soon after that, bringing gifts for the baby and their warm congratulations. I was thrilled to see Annie again, having missed the company of another woman. I was wary of getting too close to our new neighbors, who could know me only as Josie Howard. With Annie I could let my guard down and be Zee again.

  Soon, men began gathering at our house. Most were familiar faces, such as the Younger brothers, minus John, who had been killed in a gun battle two years previous. Our old friend Clel Miller was there, along with Bill Chadwell and Charlie Pitts. They poured over maps and railroad timetables while Annie and I served coffee and cake. Annie and I exchanged wary glances, but we kept whatever fears we shared to ourselves. This was the lot our men had chosen, a path we’d known about when we took our vows to stand by them, for better or for worse.

  Much as I feared for Jesse’s life and worried about the justness of his actions, I knew in my heart that if he had been a different kind of man I would not have loved him so well. I couldn’t have given my heart to a dull, law-abiding farmer the way I had given it to Jesse. His danger and daring drew me as much as his strong arms and piercing blue eyes. It was as if the flaw in me needed the flawed part of him to make me complete.

  On June 25, 1876, General George Armstrong Custer and his Seventh Cavalry were slain in the Battle of Little Big Horn. Jesse read and re-read the accounts of the slaughter, impressed by the magnitude of the defeat, though he had no soft feelings for the Union Army.

  After all these years, Jesse still saw himself as a soldier, though his was a cause many had long abandoned. He had held on so long I think he felt the cause was him—if he let go of it now, what would be left of him?

  In early July, he kissed me goodbye and he and Frank left for a visit to their mother. Though Zerelda and I had grown closer after Archie’s death and her long recovery from the injuries she suffered that same night, we still were prone to clash, so I was happy enough to use the difficulty of traveling with an infant as an excuse to remain behind.

  Content to tend my house and care for the baby, I gave little thought to Jesse’s activities in Missouri, until a bold headline caught my eye as I waited in the store one day for a few small purchases. “Frank and Jesse James strike again!” the large black letter shouted.

  With trembling hands, I picked up the broad sheet and added it to my purchases. As soon as I was out the door, I walked around to the side and sat on a bench. With the baby cradled to my shoulder, I held the paper with my free hand and read the account of the robbery of an express train at a place called Rocky Cut, Missouri.

  The tale was the stuff of fiction: masked robbers silhouetted in the glare of the train’s headlight cutting through the black of night. The ghostly figures waving a red lantern as a signal for the engineer to stop. With the echo of the squealing brakes still reverberating in the night, the men overran the train and applied themselves to the two safes in the express car. The newspaper reported they had stolen over $18,000. “The two daring leaders of the gang were none other than the notorious Frank and Jesse James.”

  I read the account with a measure of doubt. The papers had gotten many things wrong before. But whether or not they were guilty, lawmen were once more determined to find and arrest Jesse and his brother. All that evening I sat by the front window and rocked my baby and watched the road for my husband’s return, or for signs of any strangers who might have figured out that Mr. Davis Howard was not who he seemed to be.

  Jesse returned a few days later, saying nothing about his activities while he was away, though he brought a jar of pickles and a pail of lard from his mother, and greetings from the rest of the family.

  The newspapers soon lost interest in news of the robbers, their headlines given over instead to the upcoming presidential election in which Democrat Samuel Tilden faced off against Republican Rutherford B. Hayes. Sentiment ran both for and against Tilden among our intensely Democratic families and friends. Jesse followed the campaign closely in the papers, and sat up nights in our parlor, debating politics with Frank and Clel Miller and others who stopped by.

  Just when I had begun to think things had settled down, the papers reported that a man named Hobbs Kerry had been arrested near St. Louis. The name meant nothing to me, but when Jesse read the news, he blanched white, then red. I half-rose from my chair, afraid he was ill. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The St. Louis police have arrested Hobbs Kerry,” he said. “He’s offered to give them the name of every man involved in that Missouri Pacific train robbery last month.”

  I sat down again, my legs too weak to support me. I didn’t have to ask if Jesse’s would be one of the names Kerry would give the police. And if he gave the police a name, he might very well give a description, too, one good enough for their police artists to draw a likeness of Jesse. I smoothed my napkin across my lap and tried to remain calm. “Has Mr. Kerry been to our home?” I asked. I couldn’t always keep track of the men who visited Jesse.

  “No.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “I hear Baltimore is very nice this time of year,” he said. “I’ve been thinking we should go there.”

  The following day, we loaded a hired wagon with most of our household goods and moved to Baltimore. Before we left, Jesse dyed his hair dark brown and began to grow out his beard. He bought a top hat, a long frock coat, and a silver-head cane. The effect was of an older, dignified man. I admit it was a good disguise, but I couldn’t help miss the handsome young adventurer who had swept me off my feet.

  I had never seen this side of Jesse before. In the days that followed, he was often angry and impatient. He no longer slept, but prowled the house at night like a restless animal. He talked of revenge on all who had wronged him—Detective Allan Pinkerton; Archie Clement’s killer, Bacon Montgomery; Missouri Governor Hardin, and others.

  When we made love in those dark days it was like lying with a stranger. Gone was the smiling, light-hearted man who had teased and tempted me, replaced by a more solemn, intense partner who approached lovemaking with a kind of desperation, seeking release from whatever demons tortured him.

  I had first come to Jesse as a naïve girl. Now I played the part of willing courtesan, eager to provide the release he sought, more aware than ever of my own needs and desires. If he wanted to take me in total darkness or with every lamp blazing, from behind as I stood washing dishes or three times in one night I was a compliant, even eager partner. With his body joined to mine I was sure I would find the key to the secrets that tortured him. As the person who loved him most and knew him best of any on this earth, why shouldn’t I be the means of his salvation as well, and thus of my
own?

  Chapter Nine

  I have never been to Northfield, Minnesota, but for me it will always be a cursed place. I picture a cold, windswept town set on a plain as level as a brick, the sky flush against the horizon like a flat blue wall. To me, it is as desolate and embittered as any battlefield, and if I had the power to damn a place, then I would rain curses down on its streets and buildings.

  I will never know what attracted Jesse to Northfield. Some speculated he was there to strike a blow for the South, by destroying the bank that was partly owned by former Mississippi Governor Adelbert Ames. Part of the Reconstruction government that sought to crush the South after the war, Ames was despised by all true Southern patriots.

  Some speculate the James and Younger gang sought to prove to the world that their influence extended far beyond Missouri—that they were a national band to be reckoned with.

  Others believe they chose Northfield because they thought it would be easier to get away with a crime in an area where they were not widely known.

  Whatever their reasoning, they arrived in Northfield in late August and early September. I know that Jesse was away from home for several weeks during that time, while I passed long days and lonelier nights with only baby Tim—little Jesse—for company.

  In fact, I had no inkling that anything out-of-the-ordinary had happened until the morning of September 14. I had just sat down to a pile of mending when a knock at the door made me jump. Josie Howard didn’t have many visitors and living with Jesse had made me suspicious of strangers. I tip-toed to the front window and looked out. But only a small boy waited on the stoop, a folded piece of paper in his hand.

  My curiosity further piqued, I opened the door to him. “Telegraph for Mrs. J. D. Howard,” he said.

  “I’m Mrs. Howard.” The lie came easily from my lips now, scarcely seeming like a lie. If Jesse had taken the name of Howard I, as his wife, had naturally taken it also. I accepted the folded piece of paper and tipped the child a penny, then closed the door and opened the note right away, not even waiting to sit down.