by Shirl Henke
He smiled coldly. "Just exactly how many women do you think a man like me can get in Wyoming?"
She slapped him in pure reflex. The sound was magnified in the evening stillness, like the crack of something breaking. Her heart.
He could see the spitting fury in her amber eyes and grabbed her wrist as her hands curved like claws. The suddenness of the movement threw her off balance and she fell against him, breathing rapidly. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she tried to push away, kicking at him with slippered feet.
"Let go of me, you miserable, whoring—"
When she raised her other hand, he grabbed it too in self-defense. "Calm down, Lissa. This is no time for a tantrum. I thought you were trying to convince me you're all grown up." He felt her go very still in his arms.
Lissa forced her chin up and looked into his eyes. They glowed like silver in the fading light, revealing the intensity of his emotions, emotions he was trying not to reveal.
He could smell orange blossoms and feel the old familiar pressure of those soft, luscious breasts, grown fuller now. Feeling himself losing control, he shoved her back and released her.
"What I do in town—and with whom—is none of your business, Lissa. I told you nothing could ever work out between us. As soon as the ranch is safe, I'll be gone. Next time you're in trouble, you'll have to get someone else to bail you out." He kept his voice level and low, feeling a stroke of anguish for every word he spoke.
His face was set in harsh, forbidding lines, yet she had felt him trembling when he pushed her away. "For a man who just spent the night with a lusty woman like Camella, you don't seem very well satisfied, Jess." She dared him boldly, moving closer. He stepped back. She smiled. He poured himself another drink.
"Like I said, you need a bath. I'll have Clare heat the water." She turned and swished from the room, then paused at the door and added, "Oh, the tub room is at the end of the hall opposite my bedroom."
He nodded curtly, wanting to refuse but too hot, achy, and generally miserable to resist the temptation, which he knew entailed a great deal more than soaking in a bathtub.
Later, when he heard the maid carrying water upstairs, he closed the tally book and walked into the hall. "I'll carry those buckets. They're too heavy for a woman your size," he said to Clare.
She took one look at his battered face and nearly dropped the heavy buckets of steaming water before he could take them from her. "Yes, sir, Mr. Robbins." Bobbing her head, she rushed back toward the kitchen as if her skirts were on fire, calling out, "There's more hot water on the stove."
Once he had filled the big porcelain tub, Jess searched the commodious room's cabinets until he located what must have been Marcus's soap, a plain, unscented bar. Setting a big thirsty towel beside the tub, he walked over to the door and grimly turned the key in the lock. Lissa was the most incredibly determined female he had ever met.
For a while, he had had her believing that he had slept with Cammie, but she was becoming alarmingly perceptive—or he was becoming disgustingly transparent. With a muttered oath, he pulled off his boots, then hung up his guns and shed his clothes. Standing in the middle of the floor, he looked at the filled tub. It was sparkling white and oversized, probably custom-built for Jacobson's long legs. The old boy would be rolling in his grave now if he could see Jess climbing into the clean water, to pollute it with his dirty Indian and Mexican blood.
Blood literally. He winced as the hot water soaked into the cuts and abrasions on his hands. A damn good thing no one in town had started trouble. His gun hand would not be reliable for several days. He laid his head back and soaked, trying to keep his mind on the problem of the rustling and off Lissa and his son.
Finally he lathered up, starting with his head and proceeding down until he was well scrubbed. So busy was he, splashing and washing, that he did not hear a key turn from the other side of the lock. When the door opened, his head jerked up and water flew in every direction. He squinted through eyes burning with soap.
"You forgot to bring up rinse water," Lissa said matter-of-factly as she crossed the floor carrying a big bucket of cool water. She wore a thin, peach- colored robe, belted securely around her waist. The front of it split to her knees when she walked, revealing a delectable length of calf and slim ankle. "Kneel in the tub and I'll pour it over your head."
"How the hell did you—"
"I have a master key to all the locks," she interrupted smugly.
"I'll remember that. Put the water down. I can rinse myself." He looked up at her, as out of sorts as a wet tomcat.
Lissa did not move, but her eyes did, devouring every soap-covered inch of his body, so familiar now. She took in the scar across his side, a neat, narrow ribbon of white against his bronzed skin. "You never did tell me how you got my stitches out," she said in a suddenly thickened voice.
"I cut them out with that." He gestured to the evil-looking Bowie knife attached to his gunbelt. "Will you get out of here before this soap hardens and I crack?" he said testily.
"And here I was going to offer to dry your back," she replied breathlessly. "Oh, well, suit yourself." She bent over and set the big bucket of water on the floor beside the tub. It was filled to the brim and some sloshed over the edge, wetting the front of her robe. The sheer fabric clung to her breasts, revealing that she wore nothing beneath it.
Lissa brushed at the offending droplets. Her nipples hardened beneath the silk. "How clumsy of me." She looked up at him and read the molten desire in his eyes. "Are you certain you wouldn't like me to rinse you off? The water's cool . . ." she added suggestively.
"Get out of here, Lissa," he said through clenched teeth, followed by a string of colorful epithets.
"Whatever you say, Jess." She stood up and walked primly from the room, a slow smile spreading across her face as she called over her shoulder, "Dinner will be ready about seven."
Although Lissa set out splendid beefsteaks to fry and cut up fancy string potatoes, along with a slow-simmered pot of snap beans, Jess did not eat supper at the house that evening. While she was busy in the kitchen, he slipped away and rode out as if the devil were chasing him.
Seeing him, Lissa muttered to herself, "You can use the steak for that shiner! Perverse man." She threw down the spoon with which she had been stirring the beans. As if to underscore her ire, Johnny planted one chubby fist in his mashed potatoes, sending them squishing all across the table and over poor Clare who was luckless enough to be holding the squirming boy. She turned a baleful eye on the baby, who gurgled innocently. "I'm sorry, Clare. I'll take him."
"That's all right, Missus, he's such a love. I don't mind, really." She fussed with him, cooing and coaxing until he had eaten most of the remaining soft food.
Ever since the rustling had grown worse and men started quitting, Lissa's increasing anxiety had caused her milk to begin drying up. She could feed him once or twice a day, but that was about all. His diet had to be supplemented with other foods. It was fortunate he'd begun teething quite early. At least one male Robbins was cooperating. She smiled at the messy child as Clare was cleaning him off.
"I'll take him now." She sighed. "Why don't you fix us each a small portion of that steak and potatoes while I change him? No sense waiting for his father," she added tartly.
* * * *
Jess rode aimlessly for several hours. When it was full dark, he found himself at the cold spring pond that had been their trysting site the preceding summer. He slid off Blaze and walked to the edge of the water. "Just what I need, an ice-cold drink to cool off."
He cursed himself for coming here of all places, as if he needed further reminders of how desperately he wanted her. She was playing with him again, teasing and taunting, just as she had before, and this time there was no Marcus Jacobson to interfere. They were married.
Lissa loved him. Jess accepted that fact with an almost reverent awe, but he could not bear to see that very wondrous love die by inches. And he was sure that if he stayed with her i
t would slowly die. They would be snubbed, even verbally insulted. Their complete isolation would grow. And the boy, his son, would be just as much a pariah as he. Perhaps Johnny would come to hate his father for the curse of his blood.
If he stayed at J Bar and lived in Marcus's house, Jess knew he would come to despise himself more every time he saw the disgust in other men's eyes. He could not live off a woman's largess. If he had been the kind of man who could, Lissa would not have loved him in the first place. The bleak alternative of taking her and Johnny to his hard-scrabble spread in Texas was an even less inviting option.
"I have to finish this work and get the hell out of here," he snarled, furious with her stubborn determination to use her woman's wiles on him once more. At least she had not tried to force him to see his son. Jess was not certain he could survive that.
"What I need is a good stiff drink."
Remembering that Vinegar kept a stash of bad but potent whiskey in his cookhouse, Jess rode back to the ranch. He was in need of a sleeping potion.
* * * *
Lissa could not sleep that night, worrying about where Jess had gone. Perhaps she had played her hand too quickly. Surely he would not just ride away. Would he? Her restlessness awakened the baby, who fussed. She went over to the crib and picked him up.
"You're probably hungry, aren't you? Let's see if I can feed you a bit more." She started to unfasten the front of her nightgown, then stopped, deciding to go downstairs and get the book she had been reading. Perhaps if she had her mind occupied by something other than Jess, she would be soothed and able to give Johnny more milk.
She carried the baby downstairs, stopping by the kitchen for a glass of milk for herself, then went to the library and picked up her copy of Tom Sawyer. Arranging herself comfortably in the big overstuffed chair by the window, with the lamp burning steadily over her shoulder, she settled in to feed Johnny, who fussed until he was tugging greedily on her nipple. Stroking the soft hair on his dark head, she felt blissfully at peace.
"Still something left for you, little one," she said softly as she opened the book and began to skim for her place.
Jess walked up from the stable and quietly entered the darkened house. Several shots of Vinegar's ghastly swill had done nothing to soothe the ache of desire, but at least everyone appeared to have gone to sleep. Perhaps this was one short-term solution. He could ride out each evening and avoid the house until Lissa and the baby were in bed.
Satisfied with his idea, he pulled off his boots in the kitchen and started off down the hall, then detoured by the study for another drink of decent whiskey to wash the taste of Vinegar's offering from his mouth. The door was ajar, and a light flickered dimly from the kerosene lamp by the window.
He approached the high-backed chair from behind, unaware of its occupants. Lissa, too, thought she was alone in the room as she snuggled Johnny at her breast. Only the sharp intake of breath from behind made her sit up and turn her head.
"Jess!"
He stood mute, looking at the breathtaking picture illuminated in a golden halo of light. Lissa, with her sheer silk robe and gown open. And his dark-haired son nursing contentedly at one pale, heavy breast.
Chapter Twenty-One
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth as he stared dumbly at the incredible vision. Lissa's angry words jolted him from his stupor quickly enough.
"You're drunk!" She put Johnny up on her shoulder and covered herself as the child fussed.
"I wish I could get drunk," he said bleakly.
"Is that the only way you have the nerve to face your own flesh and blood?" She held the boy out to him.
Johnny kicked energetically and squirmed, upset at being disturbed while he was still eating, even though he was well filled by now. "Look at him, Jess. Johnny is your son. Named after your own father—who saw nothing wrong with marrying a woman of mixed blood."
"Leave my father out of this. You don't understand anything about him—or me." He turned away and stalked from the room to the sounds of the baby's rising cries.
The next day dawned as gray and somber as the mood in the house. One of the sudden late-summer storms had rolled by, seeming to miss J Bar with the roiling clouds that often dumped hail and sleeting rains on the hot plains with fierce vengeance.
Jess had already eaten and ridden out by the time Lissa brought Johnny downstairs. After breakfast, the skies cleared and a brilliant yellow sun emerged. Lissa decided it was time for them to settle matters once and for all.
She carefully packed a large hamper with slices of sweet smoked ham, a wedge of hard cheese bought dearly from Union Mercantile in Cheyenne, crisp homemade pickles, and a big loaf of crusty fresh-baked bread.
Jess had ridden out to the herd by the Squaw Creek water hole, she learned from Vinegar. This noon she and Johnny were going to arrive in time to take him for a picnic. As she selected various delicacies, Lissa tried not to think of what she would do if Jess publicly rejected Johnny.
His anguish had been a palpable thing when she caught him watching her feed their son last night. Surely she was not misreading the situation so badly. He had avoided Johnny for the same reason he avoided her, not because he did not care, but because he cared far too much. This was the gamble of her lifetime. She had to convince him that they could be a family if only he was willing to take the chance.
Lissa loaded the feast into the buggy as Cormac stood by, tail wagging eagerly in anticipation of the forthcoming outing. When she climbed the steps to the porch, Clare was standing with Johnny and the rest of their necessaries. "Here's the blanket, Missus, and an extra one for the little tyke," she added with a smile of pure affection for the baby.
Lissa returned the bright smile, wondering what the quiet maid thought of a husband who slept in a separate room and a wife who resorted to following him out onto the open range with their child. "Thank you, Clare. We should be back by suppertime." She looked up at the northern horizon, where more gray clouds were massing. "Unless it really storms. There's a line shack on Squaw Creek where we could spend the night."
"Be careful, ma'am," Clare said, a worried look flashing across her thin little face.
You don't know the half of it, Lissa thought as she climbed into the buggy and reached down for Johnny. She took off at a sedate pace with the dog frolicking ahead. Periodically he would pause and turn to see what was keeping her, cocking his head quizzically as if saying, "Why can't you drive faster?"
Within an hour she heard the bawl of cattle. As she crested the ridge, a thick billow of dust hung in the hot air. The beeves were restless, churning up the parched earth with their feet. Lissa scanned the scattered riders, looking for Jess. He was nowhere in sight. With a sigh, she headed toward Rob Ostler, who had his hands full treating a steer for mange with the standard remedy, kerosene.
Jess reined in at the crest of the ridge and looked down at Lissa, conferring with Ostler. Damn her, she had the baby with her. Just then, she looked up where the young hand pointed and caught sight of him. He kicked Blaze into a canter and rode to meet her.
"What the hell are you doing out here with a norther rolling in?" he asked furiously, angry for many reasons having little to do with a potential storm.
"The sun was shining bright when I left." She looked at the clouds, which had moved considerably closer since she started out.
"For someone who was born on the plains, you sure don't have the sense to know come here from sic 'em."
"I was raised back East," she replied defensively. "Is it really dangerous?"
He studied the sky, which was now darkening by the minute. "Hell yes, it's dangerous."
As if to underscore his remarks, the wind picked up in an eerie keening howl. He looked from Lissa's pale, worried face to the small bundle she held protectively in her arms. With a muttered oath he dismounted, tied Blaze to the buggy, and climbed aboard to drive it.
"Where are you taking us?" she asked, hoping that he was headed toward the line shack.
> He did not answer, but asked instead, "Why in the hell did you come out here with the baby?"
It seemed feeble-mindedly stupid to say, "For a picnic," now, with the storm starting to splatter them with fat, cold rain droplets. "We needed to settle some things," she answered vaguely as the wind whipped her words away.
Jess headed toward the line shack on the creek, making no further attempts to communicate with her. Cormac trotted close beside the buggy. By the time they reached the cabin, the storm had soaked them. Jess climbed down and quickly took the baby from Lissa so she could do likewise. "Get inside," he yelled over the crash of thunder. She did so, seizing the hamper and oiled-skin pack from the floor of the rig. He followed her inside and handed Johnny to her as soon as she set down her load. The dog rewarded them with a vigorous shake of his rain-soaked fur.
Jess went back out into the storm to secure the horses under the crude brush lean-to beside the cabin. He unhitched the buggy horse and unsaddled Blaze, then lugged the heavy tack into the interior.
Lissa had laid the fussing baby on the crude bed and was kneeling by the fireplace. Cormac was grooming himself over by the bed, as if guarding Johnny. "There's a fire laid. Papa always insisted the line shacks be kept clean and ready to use in case any of the hands got caught in a blizzard."
"I'll start the fire. You tend to him," Jess replied.
"His name is John," she said softly, brushing off her hands as she stood up.
He ignored her and set about starting the fire. They were both wet; even the baby was damp. She smiled. Perhaps this would work out after all.
Looking around the dusty bare room, Lissa took inventory. A two-tiered bunk bed stood against the far wall. The cornhusk mattresses looked serviceable. She could cover them with the clean blankets Clare had packed. A rickety table and two chairs sat in the center of the room and a crude set of shelves lined the wall opposite the bed. On them sat the usual staples of coffee, corn meal, beans, and rice.