Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1)

by Kallypso Masters

  “Like in the Tom Tom movie?”

  She awaited an interpretation from Greg.

  “Thomas the Tank Engine Train. He loves trains.”

  “Ah.” She turned to Derek. “Well, I’m not sure how they dress in that movie, Derek, but I was thinking maybe a century and a half ago.”

  Never one to dwell in the modern world or to do anything in the ordinary way, Tillie never failed to surprise him. “I’m afraid we didn’t pack anything like that.”

  “No worries! I have a closet full of the costumes that we use on mystery weekends here. I’m sure I can find something that will fit each of you. We’ll raid the closet first thing in the morning.”

  At least he wouldn’t be the only one dressed in period costume. Making a spectacle of himself in a crowd wasn’t his thing.

  But having a date of sorts with Tillie would make up for it. Greg’s mood lifted as he contemplated how this might work out.

  * * *

  True to her word, right after breakfast the next day, she called them up to one of the bedrooms and began pulling out various pieces of vintage apparel, holding it up to one or the other of them. She’d either put it back inside the wardrobe or set it on the bed for them to try on in the bathroom. They tried on clothes until they found what each wanted to wear. When they returned, she’d laid out several hats on the bed for them to choose from.

  “How about this one, Daddy?”

  Derek had picked up a newsboy cap and placed it on his head. Tillie adjusted it a bit. “Authentic,” she proclaimed.

  “What’s a thentic?” Derek looked to Greg for the answer.

  “It means the real deal. That hat’s perfect for you.”

  Tillie handed him a small bundle of vintage newspapers. “Here. The perfect finishing touch. You’re selling newspapers. Lots of boys did that when they were a little older than you are. Even Walt Disney did.”

  “He did? I want to go to Disney World someday.”

  “Oh, if you do, then on Main Street you can see what many American cities looked like at the turn of the last century.”

  “Daddy, will you take me to there?”

  “I’ll talk to Mommy about it.” They’d talked about taking him when he was six or seven, but he didn’t know who would wind up going with him now. “I’m sure one of us will make sure you get to Mickey’s house someday.”

  Derek began jumping up and down. “Yay! Disney World!”

  Greg shook his head and met Tillie’s gaze. “The boy hears only what he wants to hear.”

  “I’m sure one of you will make his wish come true,” she said, smiling before returning to the walnut wardrobe. “Now, we need to put the finishing touches on your outfit.” He’d selected a three-piece suit made of homespun tweed. She assured him this is how Jesse James might have dressed, not like the stereotypical western outlaw most people expected. “He probably eluded authorities so long because he looked the part of a businessman.”

  He watched her rummage through a wooden box until she removed two matching metal spurs. “These should do the job.”

  Before he knew what she intended to do, she knelt in front of him and lifted his right pants leg to position the metal band onto the worn boots she’d found for him. Perhaps donning the persona of Jesse James was messing with his mind, but staring down at her in her long dress with her hair in a loose topknot, his thoughts were far from wholesome at the moment.

  Get your mind out of the gutter.

  Still, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her and do the job himself.

  “Help me up, kind sir?” She reached out her hand, and he lifted her to her feet. “Thank you.”

  The breathlessness in her voice sent all PG-rated thoughts out the window. Or was it the way she stared into his eyes at the moment? If they were alone, he’d have kissed her again, only much more deeply than he had in the cellar. He wanted to…desperately. Judging by the blush in her cheeks, she’d have welcomed it, too. Was the fantasy of being kissed by Jesse James or by sedate old Gregory Buchanan putting color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes?

  “You need a hat, too, Daddy.”

  The spell broken, the two of them blinked back to the present. She appeared to be as stunned as he felt. Had his grandmother cast them under some kind of spell? No, she was merely an eccentric old lady with a romantic heart.

  “Um, I think I have the perfect one.” Tillie turned away and rummaged in the wardrobe again, retrieving another hatbox. “Wait until you see this.”

  She lifted a western-style hat out of the box. “It’s called a Boss of the Plains and is exactly like the one Jesse used to wear. And look!” She poked her finger through a hole in the crown of the hat. “There’s even a hole where the sheriff or posse took a shot at ol’ Jesse as he rode out of town with their money.” It appeared to him more like a cigarette burn she’d put there herself to match the story, but who cared?

  “Daddy! That’s the hat the bad guy was wearing in the basement!” The boy’s eyes had grown wider, but he seemed more intrigued than afraid. Had Derek seen ol’ Jesse himself haunting the cellar?

  Greg faced Tillie, who seemed equally surprised. “So Jesse haunts the place, too?”

  She shrugged. “I have no firsthand knowledge of such.”

  Could he have broken that window? Maybe, but how could a disembodied spirit move a heavy shelf? He’d watched the movie Ghost with Nancy, about the extent of his knowledge of apparitions. Patrick Swayze sure needed a lot of extra energy to kinetically move any objects in Demi Moore’s world.

  However, Tillie accepted the idea in stride, holding the hat toward Greg. “Try it on?”

  When she asked him that way, he didn’t care what kind of fool he appeared to be. Saying no wasn’t an option. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

  Tillie attempted to place the hat on his head, but fell a little short of the mark until he bowed toward her to make it easier. After she settled the hat into place, she surveyed her work, tilting her head for a moment to assess it before readjusting. “I think cocking it a little to the right will give you a more devil-may-care air.”

  After making sure Derek was occupied with some accessories he’d found in a nearby box, he whispered, “Is that how you see me, Miss Tillie? Devil may care?”

  “No. I…um…I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  He pressed his finger against her soft lips before she burst his ego bubble. Once again, he had to rein in the urge to kiss her. “I’ve always been a solid, respectable, upstanding citizen, if you will. Stepping out as an outlaw might be a nice change of pace. Especially with someone as lovely as you on my arm.”

  Her cheeks grew rosier, and she cleared her throat. “I don’t think I’d have been attracted to a real-life bad boy if I’d lived in those days, but it’s exciting when we’re playacting.”

  To be seen as a bad boy nearly made him laugh, but remembering his persona, he bowed and tipped his hat. “I’ll do my best not to compromise your morals, little lady.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she giggled. What a sexy sound. Everything about her aroused him.

  Tillie’s smile faded, and she held her hands against her cheeks as she backed toward the door. “Um, if you all leave these clothes on the bed, I’ll freshen them up before this afternoon. Meanwhile, I’d better go down and prepare a light lunch to tide us over.”

  Was she feeling the same magnetic attraction he did? Would she run away to protect her heart from being hurt? He couldn’t swear he wouldn’t hurt her when he returned to Minnesota. Besides, it would be impossible for them to maintain a long-term relationship, even if she had any romantic interest in him.

  What happened to his firm resolution not to let her get under his skin? The future loomed bleak on the horizon in terms of their having anything beyond this brief interlude together.

  Why, then, did he want to see where this attraction took them?

  Chapter Twelve

  Tillie tried to calm her racing pulse as she hurried up to her room for a much n
eeded break from her guests. Well, one in particular. She took out her journal and opened to the next blank page. Mrs. Foster had taught Tillie to journal her thoughts, ostensibly to strengthen her writing abilities.

  She’d never felt such a strong attraction to any man before. Not that she was a virgin. After all, she’d been young and foolish enough once to mistake lust for love. Not that others weren’t exploring the opposite sex during college, but living off campus, she’d actually gone out of her way in a period of extreme depression and loneliness to find a boy to date. That decision turned out disastrously for her when the boy’s condom failed, and he promptly ditched her to suffer through weeks of a pregnancy scare before her period came. She’d decided right then she wouldn’t be the one left to pay such a steep price for a moment of passion.

  But she hadn’t met a man who made her want to rush to her doctor to go on birth control—well, until that kiss in the cellar. Of course, that might be the beginning and ending of any relationship between them.

  Oh, I hope not.

  Honestly, until that kiss, she didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Perhaps if she’d loved the guy or even had an incredible orgasm the likes of which she read about in novels, she’d think differently afterward. But Tillie could take care of her own physical needs and didn’t intend to suffer through any more awkward, mediocre sex merely to rack up notches in her pencil post bed. As if she’d have kept track. Although her bed’s marked-up baseboard and the broken spindle in the headboard spoke to a livelier history than her nonexistent sex life.

  Until Greg, she hadn’t met anyone worth opening up to and risking the consequences that might come of their actions. None of the men she’d casually dated made her heart race and her breathing stop. Mark Peterson had asked her for a date at a particularly lonely time, but he came in here like he owned the place. He always seemed more interested in the house than her anyway, except for those awkward fumblings on their second date.

  Like most women, she wanted to live the romantic dream of happily ever after one day. She’d been pursued by a few men over the years. Had even gone online to a dating site for country girls when her biological clock told her she ought to find someone, marry, and settle down, but most of the men she’d been attracted to had told her up front they wouldn’t leave their family farms. No man was worth giving up her haven, her happy place.

  Not even you, Greg Buchanan.

  For more than a decade, she’d never permitted her body to wander in a direction that her head screamed would only lead to heartache—and a potential baby to raise alone. While today that didn’t carry the stigma it had for her mother and grandmother—or her poor great-grandmother—Tillie never found any man worth rushing into anything with.

  Until Greg.

  No, including Greg.

  Use your head, Matilda.

  He might as well be from Siberia as from Minnesota. When he left here, chances were she’d never see him again. She was sorely tempted to go up for that sleigh ride, but given the fact he wasn’t being truthful with her, that should be the deal breaker right there. At a minimum, she deserved honesty.

  So why did she allow her body to override her head right now for a relationship that would be fleeting at best?

  Clearly, you’ve been lonely too long.

  Right or wrong, she wanted to explore these feelings with him, even though it might be over in the next couple of days. Greg was safe. Their interactions would be dictated by the presence of a five-year-old boy. Derek would keep things from going too far. She could flirt, safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t lead to anything more than she could handle.

  Even if they did decide to keep in touch beyond his stay here, having a sexual relationship shouldn’t be out of the question down the road. Thank God for safe and effective contraceptive choices!

  She paused the scratching of her pen a moment.

  Oh, Tillie, what are you doing here?

  I have no clue, Mrs. Foster.

  Had her grandmother or even her mother justified their moments of passion in the same way or had they been overcome in the heat of the moment? All these years, Tillie prided herself in remaining level-headed around the men she dated, keeping them at a safe distance. Why couldn’t she do the same with Greg?

  Because logic and practicality escaped her when that man came near.

  How could she long for something she hadn’t particularly enjoyed? Because novels she read spoke of how good it could be with the right person, leaving her to wonder what making love might be like with Greg.

  Intuition told her he would make the experience good for her. His firm, gentle hand would…

  Stop fantasizing about a guest who will be gone from your life in a few days.

  Unless she decided to accept his invitation to join him in Minneapolis this January.

  But that was two months away. No way on earth would she be making love with Greg anytime soon, if ever. So why not live out some fantasies, play dress up, flirt a little? Mrs. Foster always encouraged her to take chances, not be so serious, and to follow her heart. Judging by the way he set her heart to pounding, she already knew what it wanted.

  With him, she would make memories that wouldn’t leave her to face any regrets. She had a reputation to uphold in the community, or her business might suffer the consequences.

  Oh, the memories they could make! Enough for her to be able to reflect on this period in her life much like Mrs. Foster did with her second husband and Joseph Hill.

  * * *

  Greg and Derek waited in the dining room near the stairs to Tillie’s room for her to join them. He took a photo of his newsboy son and texted it to Nancy, telling her what their plans were for the evening.

  The squeak of a stair step alerted him to look up. Like an image from Little House on the Prairie, Tillie appeared wearing a long dress made of green calico and a prim bonnet that, unfortunately, hid her hair. She carried a reticule wrapped around her wrist, something he’d learned about while consulting on an Ingalls family preservation project in South Dakota. Over her shoulders, she wore a short black satin cape.

  “Amazing.” The word “sexy” followed in his mind, even though almost every part of her was covered. Removing his hat, he held it over his chest and affected an elaborate bow in her direction. Standing upright once again, he extended his elbow. “Shall we go? I do believe we have a train to catch.”

  Tucking her hand inside his elbow, she grinned. “I’m honored to know you’ll be joining us, Jesse, and not to hold up the train.”

  “I never mix business with pleasure, ma’am. And this evening will be pure pleasure.” A tug at his coat sleeve reminded him they weren’t alone. “Yes, Derek?” he said, glancing down.

  “Daddy, if you and Miss Tillie are pretending to be somebody else, who can I be?”

  “How about Jesse Jr., since you’re my son?”

  The boy beamed and nodded his approval.

  Turning toward Tillie again, Greg asked, “And to whom do I owe the pleasure of traveling with?”

  “Why, you may call me Miss Zerelda—or Miss Zee, for short.”

  “I assume after my wife, not my mother.”

  “Oh, most definitely your wife, Jesse.”

  He hoped they wouldn’t confuse Derek, but the boy seemed to understand they were pretending.

  Greg drove them the five miles to town, and they waited in the depot for the departure of the train. Other patrons smiled at them and took photos while Greg showed his son the displays of railroad memorabilia.

  When the boarding whistle blew, they were shown to a table for four. Derek and Tillie sat across from each other at the windows, with Greg beside his son. The fourth seat could have been filled by a single passenger, but he was grateful no one was traveling alone today.

  When the tuxedoed conductor arrived at their table, he smiled at Tillie. “Good to see you again, Miss Tillie.”

  “Good evening, Gabriel. But today, please call me Miss Zee. And I’m pleased to introduce
you to Jesse James and his son, Jesse Jr. They’re visiting from Minneapolis.”

  “How do, folks.” Gabriel punched their tickets before addressing her again. “It’s always a pleasure to have my favorite innkeeper on board.” He met Greg’s gaze. “But I don’t want any trouble on here this evening, Mr. James.” He winked and smiled again. “We’ll begin serving dinner soon. Let me know if there’s anything I can get for you folks.”

  Greg shook his head, grinning, as Derek watched out the window. The train rolled out of town with Tillie pointing out beef cattle farms to the boy and the various distillery buildings to Greg along the way. She seemed to be in her element. Her love of history and this community were evident. Nothing would tear her away from this place. All the more reason to leave her behind when he returned home.

  But he didn’t want to think about that now. He still had a few days with her and planned to make the most of them.

  She’d probably ridden this train a dozen times at least and talked about the various highlights, explaining the importance of the many rickhouses they passed. “They’re merely multistoried buildings where the aging process for bourbon occurs. The placement of each barrel on the ricks is crucial to how the final product will taste. The extreme heat and cold in the seasons also factor in. Each distillery has its own formula for what’s best for each label they bottle, whether it takes two years or twenty to reach the bottling plant.” He listened with rapt attention, but barely glanced outside the window. He couldn’t take his eyes off Tillie and the way her face lit up when she spoke about this place she loved so much.

  Why not entertain a discussion about Jesse’s history? “Have you ever thought about the possibility Jesse James didn’t die in 1882?”

  She cocked her head. “Are you one of those revisionists who swear he lived to the ripe old age of a hundred and three or four?”

  About what he expected her response to be. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Seriously, a history buff like you should know better. And haven’t that man’s claims been debunked by DNA tests of his exhumed body? They might have even conducted tests on Jesse’s remains by now. So no, I don’t entertain the possibility at all.”