He dressed in layers to combat temps in the thirties and pulled a skull cap over his head, donned his helmet, and wheeled the Surly ECR cycle he’d bought to replace the one destroyed in the accident out the front door and down the front steps. He’d barely had a chance to break it in yet.
The brisk air was hardly noticeable, perhaps because his body had been numb since losing Tillie.
Greg had left early enough that he made it through the city before rush hour and within fifteen minutes headed south along the banks of the Mississippi. He wasn’t surprised half an hour later to find himself at Minnehaha Park. He’d come here a lot in the past couple years and had spent much of his childhood roaming around the banks of the creek and exploring behind the falls each winter.
Today, he found no such comfort and clearly would need to keep going, even if it was the first time he’d biked in a long while and his legs were screaming even after such a short ride. Might as well take a break here. He dismounted at the statue of Hiawatha carrying Minnehaha, but the poignant couple that loved and lost only brought up memories of when he’d carried Tillie after she’d sprained her ankle. He could almost feel his arms around her now.
I miss you, Tillie.
A strong blast of frigid air hit him full in the face, momentarily shocking him out of his maudlin mood. His eyes watered.
Absolutely the jolt he needed. Was he going to let her go on thinking the worst of him? Even if she didn’t want him in her life, he needed to set the record straight as to why he’d returned to her after the accident. He couldn’t do more than apologize for his initial intentions, but he didn’t give a damn anymore about proving Jesse James lived beyond his murder in 1882. He no longer cared about any of that.
All that mattered was doing everything in his power to convince Tillie she was the only treasure he wanted. He hopped on the bike and began the journey back to his place. He’d catch a few hours of sleep so he wouldn’t be a danger on the road and set off again to Samuels to surprise Tillie. Might as well drive rather than wait around for a flight. If he called saying he needed to talk, she’d simply tell him not to bother and hang up—as politely as she could, no doubt.
This had to work. Life without Tillie would be so much colder, darker. He wanted her sunshine back in his life. He intended to win her over again, even if it meant sticking his neck out and looking like a damned fool.
* * *
Tillie wrapped her arms around herself as she stared out the office window at the tree under which she and Greg had romped in the leaves. The pile was long gone, but she could still feel the strength in his arms as he caught her, see his eyes gazing at her as though he, too, experienced the same incredible awakening she had.
Had that been part of the act as well? If so, he’d missed his true calling.
Her head told her he wouldn’t be returning and that she should be grateful she’d dodged that bullet. But her heart hurt so badly she couldn’t even gear up to greet her weekend guests who would be arriving tomorrow afternoon or evening. At least they hadn’t asked her to prepare their suppers. Maybe by Saturday morning, she’d be ready to work in the kitchen again.
A chill went up her spine, and she crossed the few steps to the fire to warm her hands. But nothing would warm her heart.
Not until she got over Greg. Clearly, she’d made the right choice. She couldn’t trust him, and how would the two of them be able to build a lasting relationship without trust?
None of the women in her family had been able to rely on the men in their lives. Did that mean she could never count on the men in hers? So what if Greg believed the myth that Jesse James survived his assassination? What difference did it make to her?
Because I don’t want people to think I’m another crazy Hamilton woman.
Tillie blinked a few times. Where had that come from?
She remembered the taunts aimed at her mother and grandmother. In her infrequent moments of lucidity, her mother had told Tillie countless times that Tillie’s grandmother claimed to be the daughter of Jesse James. The neighbors labeled both women as being touched in the head—and that stigma had spilled over to Tillie in school when children plastered the label on her as well.
She’d blocked that out of her mind until now and wished she could do so again.
Three generations of Hamilton women had been abandoned by the men who fathered them, Tillie’s own father included. She didn’t even know the man’s name, but growing up had imagined he might be a famous movie star or someone rich—all of her imaginary fathers were handsome. Had her grandmother conjured up the legendary outlaw as her father figure after growing up on the local lore, not realizing she was off by about sixty years from his last visit here before he was killed?
Well, I used to pretend Cary Grant was my father, after falling in love with him while watching old movies, and he died a decade or more before I was born, too.
The three generations of women preceding Tillie had something else in common—three women left pregnant and unwed, each of whom at some point succumbed to mental illness. All three had committed suicide. Although her mother’s death had been ruled an accidental overdose, she’d still died at her own hand.
Tillie might have been next if not for Mrs. Foster.
Had they been delusional or merely unable to take being called ‘the crazy Hamilton women’ whenever they were seen in public? Only sometimes the people didn’t always refer to them as women, but much more derogatory terms. It didn’t help that her grandmother and mother had proudly proclaimed the news. If Tillie believed them, Jesse James would have been her great-grandfather.
Preposterous.
She refused to entertain the notion that a man known to have died in the early 1880s returned to the house she lived in—albeit in the late 1930s—and impregnated her great-grandmother despite being in his eighties or nineties.
I’m not one of the crazy Hamilton women!
She dashed away the tears spilling from her eyes. Perhaps conspiracy theories and revisionist history were all the rage nowadays, but she’d had to live with the stigma of those claims her entire life. While she regretted belittling Greg when he tried to bring it up on the train, she refused to go there again.
Of course, Greg couldn’t possibly know why his words had such a negative effect on her. The man was curious about any number of topics, which was part of what attracted her to him.
Oh, how her heart missed him. Perhaps it always would.
She owed him an explanation and an apology at the very least. She might never win him over again, but she could try.
Pivoting on one foot, she started toward the birthing room before heading back to the office to retrieve her revolver. She’d promised Greg to keep it with her even if she didn’t expect to have to use it, but had taken to sleeping with it by her bed lately. Better safe than dead.
In the parlor, she stared up at the Christmas tree they’d worked together to decorate. She hadn’t bothered to turn it on at all today. Its cheerful colors would only emphasize how bleak her world had become in the past two days.
She should have trusted her instincts from the start. Greg wasn’t of her world.
No, that wasn’t how he’d made her feel at all while he was here.
Why the pity party tonight? She’d never had trouble being alone in this house before. In fact, it had become her escape from a world she didn’t fit into. A place she could pretend to live in a bygone era where she imagined the world to be happier, even though she knew every generation had its heartaches. No one living in this house had found utopia—including Mrs. Foster, who had her share of heartache, but didn’t let it hold her back from experiencing two romantic relationships in her life.
Greg had never been unkind or hurtful to Tillie. He’d only inadvertently triggered a sad memory for her.
“Oh, Mrs. Foster. I’ve lost him.”
The thing she feared most—being abandoned—had come to pass. Only he hadn’t abandoned her; she’d pushed him away. All to protect
her heart from being hurt—and from being labeled crazy.
How’s that working for you, Tillie?
The woman’s voice was as plain as if she stood right next to her.
If the pain in her chest was any indication, not so well. She’d used Mrs. Foster and this house as an excuse to hide away from reality since she was eight. Perhaps that wasn’t what she needed anymore. Once her weekend guests left, she’d call Beckie and see if she wanted to go see a movie or play—or simply have a cup of coffee. She missed having someone to talk with. Guests spent only a small amount of their time with Tillie, usually at check-in and over breakfast.
Too exhausted to haul herself up the stairs, she grabbed an afghan off the seat of the rocking chair and stretched out on the sofa, but immediately flashed back to when she and Greg had made out here Thanksgiving Day.
Turning onto her side, hoping to tune out the nagging thoughts in her mind, she tried to fall asleep.
Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. What was that? What had jarred her awake? She listened for the sound again, but the house remained silent. A glance at the fob watch in the lights of the Christmas tree told her it was after two in the morning.
Thump.
There! What was that? Sounded as if it came from the cellar. She sat up and reached into her pocket and took out her phone, punching in 9-1-1, wanting to catch the burglar in the act.
She whispered, “This is Tillie Hamilton at Jesse’s Hideout B&B in Samuels. Someone’s broken into my house.” Her whisper became shrill. “He’s still here!” She started around the sofa, preparing to flee the house.
“We’ll send someone right out. Can you get out of the house safely?”
“I think so.” She made it to the doorway of the hall, but heard footsteps coming up the cellar stairs and darted back inside the parlor. “He’s coming up the stairs. I can’t get out without him seeing me.” Why hadn’t she escaped and then called for help? She wasn’t thinking clearly, that’s why.
“Hide and stay on the phone. Help is on the way, and I’ll keep this line open.”
Tillie hoped it wasn’t a raccoon or another animal, but after the attempt last month, she couldn’t take a chance. Thank God she had her revolver, but she didn’t want to confront whoever was down there. Surveying the room, she ducked behind the wing chair in the corner to the right of the entrance. Perhaps he wouldn’t come inside the room far enough to see her.
“Please don’t say anything,” she begged the dispatcher. “I don’t want him to find me.”
Why now? Greg had been here for weeks, and nothing had happened beyond that one broken window just before he first arrived. Had the person been watching the house all this time waiting for him to leave?
Who the hell was in her house? And what did they want?
The sound of footsteps nearing the cellar door set heart racing. Had she locked it? She always did, but the effort of going down there a few hours earlier had exhausted her. She simply couldn’t remember! Sweat broke out on her forehead as the invader tried the doorknob.
Tillie said a prayer for angels to come and protect her. “You, too, Mrs. Foster!” she whispered. No one would have messed with her if she’d been here. He slammed his body against the door twice before breaking the bolt.
Oh no! He’s right outside the room!
She had no proof it was a man, but also no doubt. Apparently, he wasn’t concerned about stealth. Had he seen her through the window? Did he know which room she was in?
Tillie’s chest constricted to the point she could barely breathe. If he only glanced inside the room, he wouldn’t see her. She disconnected the phone, turned off the ringer, and lay as still as possible, holding her breath—and her revolver.
The footsteps came to the parlor entrance. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath. When the intruder moved toward the stairs, she released her breath quietly. Now what? She couldn’t make a dash to the front door without being seen.
How long would it take the sheriff or his deputies to make the five-mile drive if they weren’t already cruising around this part of the county?
Tillie decided her best bet would be to try and escape before he came back downstairs. She waited for him to open one of the bedroom doors and darted from behind the chair. By the time she reached the hallway, she heard a squeak on the stairs. He was on the landing!
Run!
Hoping to make it to the dining-room door unseen, she ran through the birthing room, but had barely made it to the dining room when a male voice shouted at her to stop or he’d shoot.
She recognized his voice immediately.
Keeping the Smith & Wesson hidden in the pocket of her dress, she turned to face the barrel of Mark Peterson’s gun. What on earth was wrong with him? Why was he threatening her? The sneer on his face was one of triumph—but what had he succeeded at? The sheriff’s department had people on the way already. God, she wished they would hurry. What was going on here?
“Where is it, Tillie?”
It? “Where’s what?”
“We both know what I’m here for. You and Mrs. Foster have thwarted my family for too long. I want what Jesse James left behind.”
All she could focus on was the gun pointed at her. Was she fast enough to outshoot? She barely went to the range once a month anymore. Mrs. Foster had insisted she train much more regularly. Thank God the woman had convinced her of the importance of a concealed carry permit. She’d never needed to use it until tonight, but was glad she was armed.
Was it better to keep him talking until someone came?
Deciding to stall, her first thought was what his family had to do with anything in this house. “If I knew what it was, I’d give it to you to get you out of here. But honest to God, I have no clue. Greg searched for some elusive treasure, too, and couldn’t find a thing, either. Why don’t you people give up on these ridiculous claims and leave me and my inn alone?”
“You sure he didn’t find the treasure himself and run off with it?”
Was she? Thinking back to their last conversation, she didn’t have the impression he’d left because his mission had been completed. No, because she’d thrown him out. But he seemed to have given up on uncovering whatever Mrs. Foster had written about even before he’d come out of the cellar that night.
“No, but he’ll be here any minute.” She wasn’t above lying if her life depended on it. “You don’t want him to find you here threatening me.” Once more, her focus went to the gun, which wavered in his hands. Dear God, don’t let him accidentally squeeze the trigger.
He grinned—snarled, more like. “I saw him load his suitcases. Don’t lie to me again, Tillie. I’m smarter than all you crazy Hamilton women.”
Don’t let him goad you, Tillie.
But he had been watching the house. Her gaze returned to his eyes. There was a wildness there she hadn’t seen before. All this time, she’d thought he was merely grabby, but having his hands all over her had only been a distraction for getting his hands on whatever he thought was hidden in this house.
The last thing she wanted to do was piss him off. Or let him see she herself was armed until she needed to. “I’ve heard the same stories you have. But I’ve lived here more than fifteen years without so much as finding a single thing that belonged to either of the James brothers.” She moved behind the table.
“Don’t move,” he hissed.
What on earth was he thinking of doing? Clearly, he had no intention of letting her go until she told him where this so-called treasure could be found. If he was thinking rationally, he’d realize she’d have put it in safekeeping herself. Would he kill her when she couldn’t produce what he wanted? Of course he would. Otherwise, he had to know she’d go to the authorities and have him arrested. Her hand tightened on the grip of the revolver.
“Amelia Foster told my grandfather Jesse James left behind something more precious than any other treasure he’d hidden anywhere else in the country. Then that greedy bitch dumped him and dug her claws into D
r. Foster so she could have it all to herself.”
Dumped him? Greedy bitch? How dare he skew reality that way? Wait a minute. “Your grandfather was Mrs. Foster’s first husband?”
He nodded. “She bilked him out of everything.”
How could that be? They’d both been penniless, according to Mrs. Foster. She’d left him because he’d cheated on her. While she’d been working for Dr. Foster at the time, and the two married within a year of the divorce, Mrs. Foster was too honorable to have had an affair outside of marriage. Still, it had been quite a scandal in the community from what the woman told her—and she relished every minute of it.
But Tillie had no intention of setting the record straight with someone truly delusional or stirring up any more hatred or anger in Mark.
Was that a siren? Might he assume it was an ambulance on the way to the hospital? The sound ended abruptly, still far in the distance. She glanced toward the door, but wouldn’t be able to dash across the room, open it, and escape before being shot.
He followed her gaze before casting an accusatory look at her. “Tillie, tell me you didn’t call the sheriff.”
She could lie, but perhaps knowing the authorities were minutes away might make him run.
She nodded, hoping he would see that there was no escape now.
Instead, he shook his head before a bone-chilling, sinister smile came over his face. “You shouldn’t have done that, Tillie. I’ll be long gone by the time they find your body.”
He intended to kill her. Mark raised the gun toward her head. In one fluid motion, she lifted her revolver, hidden in the skirt pocket of her dress, and dodged to the side as she squeezed the trigger.
A single scream of pain reverberated after the two gunshots split the night air.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Greg exited at Clermont onto the highway to Samuels, and his adrenaline began pumping, whether from the black swill he’d been mainlining since he’d left Minneapolis this afternoon or the fact that he was close to Tillie. Damned if he’d let her push him away before he had a chance to explain what he’d decided about them. He loved her, for God’s sake. That should mean something.
Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1) Page 27
