Just Jessie

by Lisette Belisle

  “You’re an outsider.” The sun struck her face.

  “Is that what you think I am?”

  Her silky eyelashes fell. “I don’t really know you, do I?”

  “Does a man have to be born here to be accepted?”

  “Not really.” Her mouth tilted in a rueful smile. “But it helps if his great-grandfather was.”

  Shaking his head, Ben finished his drink, then loaded the tomato plants into the truck bed. He caught her wistful glance at a packaged rosebush, an exotic hybrid white tea rose edged in pink, and added it to the order. He insisted on paying for it.

  Jessie hopped down. “Roses never survive the winter here.”

  Ben closed the tailgate with a firm thrust. “Then you can enjoy them for a season.”

  While Jessie stood there, slowly digesting that, wondering how to thank him, a truck camper—a dusty, tired-looking vehicle with Texas license plates—pulled to a stop. The driver got out.

  “Good day.” He looked middle-aged, dark-haired, dusky-skinned. “My name is Ramon Morales.” He spoke in precise English with a touch of an accent. “This is my wife, Rita.” The woman nodded shyly from inside the truck.

  Jessie smiled. “Hello.”

  “This is my daughter, Serena,” Ramon added with fatherly pride. The teenage girl was lovely. “And my son, Miguel.” They were obviously one of the many migrant farmworker families who followed the harvests and came to Maine each summer.

  Before anyone could stop him, the toddler tumbled out of the truck and ran off. “Miguel!” his mother called out.

  Ben caught the squirming bundle in his arms. Miguel’s little feet were still pumping. Ben grinned. “Hey, slow down.”

  Miguel stopped abruptly, his small plump hand touching the scar on Ben’s face. “Does that hurt, mister?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I got one, too.” The boy located a tiny white scar on his knee. “My mama kissed it better. Did yours?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Bemused, Jessie wondered, had anyone comforted Ben? Her heart twisted at the reminder of the awful wounds in his side. Had anyone helped him recover from his injuries?

  The boy’s mother thanked Ben. Jessie noted his gentleness. Why did he hide behind a gruff exterior? To keep people away?

  To keep her away?

  “We are looking for the Pierce campground,” Ramon said.

  The Pierces operated the only camp for miles. Jessie explained, “It’s another six miles up the road.”

  A moment later, as she watched the truck drive away in a cloud of dust, she felt a spurt of compassion. In her experience, a hard-luck story often accompanied the typical transient farm family. What about Ben? Like the migrant seasonal help, did Ben lead a nomadic existence? Did he choose it, or had it chosen him? Did he have a family? A wife? Children? It struck her that she knew very little about Ben Harding. Except that he was running from something.

  When they got home, Jessie checked the mailbox. There were letters, bills, nothing from her brother. How long had it been since she’d heard from Jared—a month, two months?

  What was going on with him?

  Ben unloaded the tomato plants. Without warning, he put out a protective hand. “Don’t move, he might be dangerous.”

  “Who?” She caught a movement in the shrubs. A young male moose ambled over. He was grayish brown, tall and gangly with humped shoulders. His wide set of antlers were still in velvet.

  “I said, don’t move.” Ben dragged her back against him when she stepped forward. “Damn it, Jessie! Can’t you just obey?”

  She resisted the sensuous pleasure of being pressed against him. “I don’t have to take orders.”

  “If you’d just listen.” His hand pressed more urgently against her waist; his thumb grazed the soft underside of her breast, the most intimate invasion in her limited experience.

  At her sharp inhalation her breast lifted, then gently came to rest against his hand. She felt him freeze. Then he moved—hastily, awkwardly, totally unlike himself. Ben shifted his hand lower to her waist, but somehow that only made the situation more intimate, her awareness more keen-edged. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Aware of every living cell in her body, she supposed she should explain—about the moose—but she couldn’t find the words to tell him it was safe, because suddenly she didn’t feel safe at all. “Ben, it’s only a moose,” she managed.

  “You can’t predict what a young male animal in the wild will do.” Rasped against her ear, the words set a gentle flame coursing through her. “He could lose control.”

  Were they discussing the same male animal?

  “What are we going to do?” Jessie shifted uneasily.

  Ben groaned. “Wait until he goes away.” His voice sounded oddly constricted. Her move had been innocent; his physical response wasn’t. She stiffened, then tried to wriggle away. He muttered something she didn’t quite catch. Her face turned red when he finally snapped, “Will you stand still?”

  At that point, she welcomed any interruption, even Fred, who had stopped to admire the tomato plants. “Well, now, I see you’ve been to town. These are mighty fine tomatoes.”

  Ben unleashed a volley of curses. Fred looked frankly shocked—then he started to laugh. Jessie sputtered. Ben glared at them. “What’s wrong with all of you? Can’t you see that moose? He might charge any minute.”

  Fred cackled. “That’ll be the day!”

  “Ben, it’s only Beauregard,” Jessie said. The stumptailed moose just stared back with dark, long-lashed morose eyes that never seemed to blink. “He arrives about this time every year. He’s a nuisance, but he’s a family pet.”

  Fred slapped his knee in glee. “Jessie’s right. Dumb moose comes a-courting one of the cows.”

  The joke was on Ben. Feeling guilty for leading him on, Jessie waited to see how he would take it.

  A slow smile crept over his mouth. “Well, now, you don’t say,” he drawled, imitating Fred’s Down-Easter accent.

  “Gentle as a babe,” Fred assured him with a chuckle.

  Beauregard didn’t move an ear. His upper lip hung three to four inches over his chin. The animal began to nibble some leaves from a shrub. Jessie walked around the moose and rubbed its nose.

  “That has to be the ugliest animal in creation,” Ben murmured with a wry shake of his head. When she agreed, his smile grew with a gleam of appreciation, perhaps even admiration.

  Jessie dropped her hand, aware of undercurrents. No one had ever looked at her that way.

  “You should smile more often,” Ben said, then took a deep breath, as if he’d said too much.

  Jessie felt a small pain in the region of her heart. Just a small one…

  That evening, Ben watched Jessie carry the new tomato plants into the garden. Instead of helping, he headed for the barn, determined to keep his distance. Otherwise he might be tempted to test the limits of his willpower. Looking distinctly out of sorts, Homer wheezed a greeting and cast him a jaundiced eye. For once, Ben could sympathize with the penned-up animal.

  Ben felt trapped. Jessie was growing more appealing by the day. After years of ignoring women, why did he have to develop a soft spot for this one? If he was going to get out of Stone’s End with his heart and hide intact, he couldn’t get involved.

  Later, no amount of self-lecturing could ease his conscience when he viewed the results of her hard work. Her garden was planted in even rows, freshly tilled, not a weed in sight. He suspected he would never be able to eat a tomato without thinking of Jessie.

  The following day, Ben planted her rosebush just outside the kitchen window where she could enjoy it.

  Feeling like a condemned man waiting for parole, he marked off the middle of June on the calendar and asked Ira, “When did you say Jared was coming home?”

  Ira looked away. “I didn’t say.”

  Where was Jared? Whenever the topic of her brother came up, Jessie was just as closemouthed as Ira.

  A few d
ays ago, Ben had gotten some idea of her devotion to her conspicuously absent brother when he found her changing the spark plugs on the old truck. “That should give it some life,” he’d teased her. “Who taught you to work on cars?”

  “Jared.” She wiped a greasy black streak on her cheek.

  “I suppose he knows everything about cars.”

  She’d smiled at his wry observation. “And tractors.”

  “Of course.”

  The answer had amused Ben. He wanted to trace the mark on her cheek with his thumb, turn her mouth up for his kiss, make her forget all about cars, and motors, and her brother.

  Jared.

  The thought of Jessie’s brother stopped Ben from reaching for her. Was there a mystery surrounding Jared? According to the terms of employment, Ben would be free at the end of summer; fall at the latest. He had to be free.

  Chapter Five

  In the morning, Ben pulled on a clean shirt. Rolling his sleeve to the elbow, he noticed the button had been replaced. A tear had been mended. The stitches were neat, almost invisible, but he knew they were there. He closed his eyes in pain. Jessie.

  Not giving himself time to think, he went to find her in the milk barn. “I don’t recall asking you to mend my shirt.”

  Fred was with her—cleaning out stalls.

  Pitchfork in hand, she wrapped her slim fingers around the wooden handle and propped her chin against it. “Well, it needed mending, and I was doing some mending, so…”

  At her innocent response, he released a furious breath. “I don’t need your mending!” Mending, meddling, making him want things he knew he couldn’t have.

  “Then I’ll stop,” she said reasonably.

  Ben didn’t want her being reasonable. “Oh, no, you don’t.” He reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. “If you’re going to mend my clothes, I insist on paying you a fair price.”

  “Fair!” She tossed the pitchfork aside, barely missing his boot by a scant inch. “How about a dollar a shirt? Two dollars a meal?” She advanced on him and stood toe to toe. “Is that the going rate? Oh, and about those second helpings.” She tilted her head. “What would be fair?”

  Fred burst out laughing. “She’s got you there.”

  Ignoring the urge to close the remaining space and kiss her outraged pride away, Ben frowned. “Tell her to cooperate.”

  The older man folded his arms. “I love a good clean fight.”

  Jessie continued. “If I put a price tag on the laundry, before long you won’t be able to afford to live here.”

  Before long she would own him, body and soul!

  Shocked out of his anger, Ben left before he got himself further entangled. How had he gotten himself into such a mess? He had to resurrect a barricade, put some distance between them. His mouth set, he left two dollars on the kitchen table.

  As luck would have it, he was on hand later when she found it. Apparently determined to match his stubborn display, ounce for contrary ounce, she fetched an empty mason jar and set it on the sideboard. She dropped the money into it. Ben knew he should have been satisfied, yet somehow he wasn’t.

  The jar stood between them, like a glass wall. Thick, impenetrable as steel. Each time she looked at it, Jessie felt a dull nagging ache in the region of her heart. She could see Ben, hear him. But she couldn’t break the barrier he’d erected; she couldn’t touch his lonely soul. She stared at the jar and felt the urge to cry. It stood there—a harsh reminder and a bitter affront to her pride.

  Over the next few weeks, she watched the jar fill with crisp dollar bills. One day, there was a five. With a tight smile, she wondered what she’d done to deserve it.

  Ben didn’t come home that evening. Jessie drew her own conclusions. He never missed a meal. This was his way of shutting her out. She was still angry with him, and he with her, apparently. But now the anger had acquired a sting. He didn’t call; he simply didn’t turn up. A loner, Ben clearly had no intention of answering to anyone, least of all her.

  The weather was warm, almost sultry for June. At loose ends, she left her father napping in his recliner and strolled to the pond. Years ago, she’d discovered a secret cove. The forest grew around it, thick and wild with underbrush. Tall cathedral pines sealed it from prying eyes. A fallen log formed a natural bridge across the narrow gap of water.

  Balancing, Jessie crossed the small inlet. Fed by a clear, cold mountain stream, sheltered by a virgin forest, the land gently curved around to form a freshwater cove. A soft breeze feathered the tall pines. With the stillness, her tension drained. Not a ripple stirred. Free from daily restrictions, she shed her inhibitions, stripped off her shorts and cotton shirt and waded into the water. The water cooled her bare skin.

  She caught her reflection and felt something stir within. A yearning that was new. She wished she were more voluptuous. Would Ben think she was womanly if he saw her naked? Feeling hot and shocked and agitated, she dived into the depths. The cool water slid over her and she wondered what it would feel like to have a man’s hands slide over her. The mere thought of Ben’s touch aroused her. Would he be disappointed in her slight breasts and boyish figure? She recalled how he sometimes looked at her, and she felt a slow curl of sensuality deep within.

  She swam until she was exhausted, until her emotions were spent. If anything, the recent episode over money had proved that Ben felt none of the things she felt. Why had she thought he might care? He wanted to pay her! Feeling older if not wiser, she waded out, got dressed and started the walk home. As night fell, the trees held shadows, and the road home stretched before her, long and empty.

  Ben returned to a darkened house. His evening in town hadn’t provided any notable distraction. Ira had turned in; there was no sign of Jessie. Heat lightning flashed in the distance. Feeling restless, Ben made a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he paced. Then he started to worry.

  With a storm on the horizon, what if Jessie was out there somewhere—hurt, trapped? There were wild animals. His concern drove him upstairs to her room. Ben entered without knocking.

  The sight of blue walls with ruffled sheer white curtains at the windows stopped him cold. On a bedside table, fresh wildflowers sat arranged in a milk-glass bowl. A wellthumbed paperback novel lay open, facedown, beside it. A thin white cotton nightie sprigged with delicate blue flowers drew his attention to the foot of the brass double bed. With an effort, he tore his eyes away from the lace-trimmed bodice.

  Nevertheless, a seductive image of Jessie wearing it remained indelibly engraved in his head. The sticky heat of the day lingered in the light breeze coming through the open window. The room was Jessie. Where was she? Common sense told him she wasn’t his responsibility. She knew how to take care of herself. She didn’t need him. Ben left her room untouched.

  Another half hour and two cups of coffee didn’t help. She was innocent, untouched, out of bounds. He’d sworn to leave her that way. With a crash, he set his mug down. He ran a furious, frustrated hand through his hair. Who was he kidding? He was worried about her. He cared! Hell! He went out and fired up his motorcycle.

  Under a thin sickle of moon, the bike’s single beam pierced the darkness. A couple of miles down the road, Ben saw her coming out of the woods. She swung from the footpath onto the narrow strip of road. Caught in his headlight, she walked toward him with that lithe, lyrical grace that marked all her movements.

  He shifted the motorcycle into low gear and let it roll towards her. “Isn’t it late to be out alone?”

  “It was so hot. I went for a swim.”

  “A swim?” His gaze swept over her, not missing a thing.

  Her legs were long, bare in cutoff denim shorts. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Her breasts lifted and fell with the movement. “The water was cool—I couldn’t resist.”

  Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Had it ever occurred to her that she might tempt a man? Her cotton T-shirt clung to damp breasts. Seeing no evidence of a swimsuit, he knew s
he’d been skinny-dipping. Inwardly, Ben groaned as his imagination filled in the rest. Naked, her body would be sleek—long legs, trim hips, narrow waist and small, high breasts, nipples that puckered when exposed to the cold water. Despite the temptation, Ben knew he could never take her innocence and walk away a free man.

  Nevertheless, his relief in finding her safe broke down barriers. “I was worried,” he confessed.

  “You were?” A soft, incredulous look grew on her face.

  Ben laughed. “Don’t look so shocked.”

  “I’m not” Her low laughter spoiled her quick denial.

  “Anyway, you shouldn’t be out after dark.” He stretched out a hand. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Jessie held back. “It’s perfectly safe out here.”

  He wouldn’t accept that. “Climb on. It’s late.”

  Jessie stared at him, while her heart dipped in her chest. All the emotions she’d felt at the pond came flooding back. Her nipples felt tight, her body felt fluid with the tug of desire. Deeply aware that she couldn’t bear casual contact with this man, she held back. Could she trust Ben not to hurt her? What did she really know of him? He was a stranger, a drifter—a hard, embittered man who carried scars on his soul like some men carried college credentials.

  At that moment, Ben looked like a black knight on a monster machine. A faint odor of oil and metal, mixed with pine trees and damp foliage, penetrated her senses. The bike downshifted to a mechanical purr that started a humming inside her. The night vibrated with supercharge. He waited for her to choose.

  Jessie knew his patience wouldn’t last forever. Feeling gauche and immature, she reached out and gingerly placed one hand at his waist as she swung a leg over the back of the bike. As if they were performing some natural dance, her legs aligned with his and her arms circled his waist. Her body strained with the effort not to melt against him. The bike took off. She clung tightly, her breasts crushed against him as the force of the takeoff threw him back. Could he feel her heart pounding? She hoped not. He would probably laugh if he knew how she reacted to him— like a pathetic, love-starved adolescent. Struggling to regain some space between them, she pressed back but couldn’t find an inch as the road rose before them. The wind rushed at her. Perhaps some of her stiffness penetrated to him.