The Woman Who Loved Jesse James

by Cindi Myers

  “They won’t find anything,” Robert said. “Even if people know anything, they won’t tell any lawmen. No matter what Frank and Jesse have done, they’re seen as heroes by a lot of folks.”

  “Heroes?” I turned to him, puzzled. “Because of their service in the war?”

  “That, and because they’ve taken a stand against the Reconstructionists and the Northern-run banks and railroads who’ve made it hard for ordinary people—especially former Secesh families—to get ahead,” Robert said. “One of the reasons the bushwhackers have gotten away with their crimes so far is that people have been willing to cover for them.” He gave me a hard look, as if accusing me of doing some covering of my own. I looked away.

  “Why pick on Jesse and Frank at all?” Sallie asked.

  “Because they’ve been a thorn in the side of the folks in power around here since during the war,” Robert said.

  My mother had remained silent all this time, but when I turned from the stove I found her eyes fixed on me. “I want you to write to Jesse and tell him you won’t see him anymore,” she said.

  “No!” Tears stung my eyes at the very thought. “I can’t believe you’d even ask that. You’ve known Jesse since he was born—are you going to condemn him now on the say-so of two detectives who want to make him and his brother scapegoats?”

  “Whether Jesse did this or not, he’s a man who was born looking for trouble,” she said. “I don’t like to see you involved in any of it.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “Jesse is a good man. You’ll see.”

  My attitude was defiant, but inside, I was terrified—both for Jesse and for myself. I thought I knew him almost as well as I knew myself, but now doubts crowded up against my faith. Could he have really murdered a man in cold blood, as the detectives had charged?

  I wanted to write to him, demanding to know the truth. But I feared the detectives might intercept the mail and anything I said might incriminate Jesse, whether he was guilty or not.

  So I bided my time, determined to question him at the first opportunity.

  Over the next few weeks, the newspapers were filled with news of the robbery in Gallatin. The suddenness and violence of the crime and the death of the cashier, one John Sheets, left the country in shock. The end of the war was supposed to mean an end to the violence in our state, but our reprieve had been short-lived. Perhaps there were those who would not accept that the war had ended and there were no more battles to be fought. Or maybe men who for so many years had lived with daily fighting and bloodshed could not give up the habit so easily.

  Several former bushwhackers were arrested for the crime; two were lynched by an angry mob in Warrensburg, who stormed the jail where they were held and hung them from a nearby tree. Like Archie Clement, these men were afforded no trial or chance to argue their innocence. The very fact that they had once been bushwhackers—that they had once fought for the safety of some of the very men who now condemned them, albeit on the losing side of the battle—was enough to earn them a death sentence. That Jesse could easily have been one of the two made me sick with fear.

  A week after the visit from the deputies, my mother sent me to the general store for thread and a bottle of the molasses and lemon cough syrup the store’s owner, Mr. Riker, mixed for his customers. The cough syrup contained a number of ‘special’ ingredients Mr. Riker refused to reveal to anyone, and was considered the most effective remedy for any kind of catarrh.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Riker was out when I called at the store. In his place behind the front counter stood his wife, a pinched-faced woman who looked at everyone as if she’d just heard something bad about them. She collected gossip the way some people collect stamps, delighting in taking out each choice bit of news and showing it off to whoever would listen.

  “I see the sheriff hasn’t been back to arrest you yet,” she said by way of greeting when I approached the counter.

  “I’ve done nothing to be arrested for,” I said, and immediately regretted the words. Mrs. Riker took any sort of denial as sure proof of guilt.

  “Associating with that thief and murderer, Jesse James, is reason enough in my book,” she said. “No telling what awful secrets about him you’re keeping from the authorities. If I was your mother, I’d lock you in your room until you’d gotten over this nonsensical infatuation with that demon in pants.”

  If you were my mother, I’d poke out my eardrums to keep from having to listen to you, I thought. “Mother would like a bottle of Mr. Riker’s cough remedy,” I said, as sweet as pie. Nothing infuriated Mrs. Riker more than people who wouldn’t rise to her bait.

  “I’ll have to get it in the back,” she complained.

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  She made a hrrmphing sound, then darted into the back room. I wandered over to the thread and selected a spool of brown cotton, then studied an attractive display of hat pins. They were the large, ornate kind, easily ten inches long, with colored crystals at the ends, and fancy gold-colored finials. The kind I’d always wanted, but could never afford.

  I glanced toward the front counter. Mrs. Riker was taking her time back there. She was probably brewing a cup of tea and laughing to herself about keeping me waiting.

  I looked at the hat pins again. After all the abuse I’d taken from that woman, she owed me something. A fancy hat pin wouldn’t even the score, but it would help. Heart pounding, I snatched a gold and blue one from the pin cushion in which they were displayed, then searched for somewhere to hide it. The dress I wore had no pockets, and the pin would never fit in my reticule.

  “I didn’t have one of the regular blue bottles, so I put it in a canning jar. Don’t suppose it makes any difference, anyway.” Mrs. Riker’s voice grew louder as she neared the front of the store once more.

  Hastily, I jammed the pin in my hat, narrowly missing my scalp. I hurried to the front counter and thrust the spool of thread at the old woman. “I’ll take this, too.”

  “I suppose you want me to put it on your bill,” she grumbled.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I waited as she pulled out an oversized, cardboard-backed ledged and flipped through the pages, searching for our family name. She never even looked at me. I held my head up, silently daring her to notice me—and my new hat pin.

  “What are you looking so smug about?” Mrs. Riker glared at me.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I be happy?” I scarcely breathed. Any moment now, she’d notice the pin. She’d scream that I was a thief. I’d make some excuse about having tried the pin and forgotten it was there, but she’d be sure to tell the story to everyone she knew, further harming my already damaged reputation.

  She grumbled something under her breath, but her eyes never lifted above the level of my chin. I gathered up my purchases. “You have a wonderful day,” I said.

  I resisted the urge to run out of the building, but I couldn’t keep the satisfied smile from my face. I knew I ought to feel guilty about stealing the hat pin; instead I felt as giddy as the time Esme and I had sampled too much of her uncle’s homemade elderberry wine.

  Was this what Jesse felt when he’d robbed those banks? This elation? This power? I hugged my arms to my chest and practically skipped along.

  My euphoria lasted until I entered my mother’s kitchen. She turned from the stove and with one look knew something was up. She scrutinized me, her gaze fixing on the hat pin. “Where did you get that hat pin?” she asked.

  I had the decency to blush, but having already sinned in stealing the pin, I saw no reason not to add to my transgressions with a lie. “Jesse gave it to me,” I said. “The last time he visited.”

  “I haven’t seen you wear it before,” she said.

  “No. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

  The lines along either side of her mouth deepened. “There’s nothing special about today.”

  “It’s a beautiful day, though. Isn’t that special enough?” I turned and
glided from the room. I promised myself I wouldn’t make a habit of taking things that weren’t mine, but I wasn’t sorry I’d indulged the whim this once. Whatever happened to me for the rest of my life, I would never forget this wonderful feeling of power and freedom.

  Chapter Six

  Then Jesse was with us again, riding in just after dark one evening, looking handsome in a gentleman’s frock coat and tall black boots. He brought presents for everyone—a watch for Robert, a brooch for my mother, coins and candy for the younger children. We didn’t question where he’d gotten the money for such gifts; the James-Samuel household had always been much better off than our branch of the family. And Jesse certainly didn’t behave like a man running from the law.

  He suggested a walk and I readily agreed. I suspected he wanted a chance to return to the barn or some other secluded spot, but I was more interested in talking than lovemaking.

  “Two sheriff’s deputies came to the house the morning after you were here last,” I said when we were out of earshot of the others.

  “I heard,” he said. “Who were they?”

  “If they told their names, I never heard it. One was young and dark, with sallow skin. The other was older, with a walrus moustache and long sideburns.”

  He nodded. “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them you hadn’t been here. That I hadn’t seen you in months.”

  He patted my arm. “Good girl.”

  I pulled from his grasp and turned to look into his eyes. “I lied for you, Jesse,” I said. “But now I want you to tell me the truth. Did you do the things they say you’ve done? Did you rob that bank and murder that cashier?”

  He dropped his chin, staring at the dirt between the toes of his boots. “Would it make a difference in your feelings if I did or didn’t?”

  My stomach clenched. “How can I know until you tell me?”

  “I have to know, Zee. Do you love me, or just some idea of me? Are you in love with the preacher’s son or the heroic war veteran or the rogue outlaw? Or are you in love with me—all of me, good and bad?”

  The disappointment in his eyes tore at me. “I love you, Jesse.” My voice caught and I swallowed hard. “Of course I do.”

  “Then it shouldn’t make any difference what I do apart from you. As long as I’m loving and faithful to you—as long as I always do right by you—nothing else should matter.”

  “What are you saying? That you’re guilty?”

  He compressed his lips into a hard line. “I have good reasons for everything I’ve done. I’m asking you to trust that. It’s better for everyone if you don’t know what I do. That way you’ll never be able to give away information to the wrong people. If you don’t know where I’m at or what I’m up to, you won’t have any reason to worry.”

  “I always worry about you when we’re apart. Not knowing won’t change that.”

  “You never know. You might worry more if you knew the details.”

  “I don’t understand. If you love me, you ought to be able to tell me anything.”

  “It’s because I love you that I don’t tell you.” He pulled me close. “When we’re married, it will be my job to protect you. That’s a job I intend to take seriously.”

  “We’re not married yet.”

  “As good as, in my eyes, and I won’t shirk my responsibility.”

  His words sent a shiver down my spine. I thought of Mrs. Peabody, who’d been left alone to her horrible fate. No matter how much time he spent apart from me, I believed Jesse would always protect me. He wasn’t a weak man, like Sheriff Henry had proved to be, and his love wasn’t false. I knew this in my heart as surely as I knew my own name.

  How could any woman walk away from a man like that?

  Still, I was wounded that he wouldn’t confide in me. “You’re saying you won’t tell me anything.”

  “Only what you need to know.”

  I wanted to protest that it wasn’t fair that he got to decide what I needed or not, but he was kissing my throat, his hands stroking my breasts, and I lost all will to argue.

  But it wasn’t Jesse’s touch that persuaded me so much as my own heart. I’d made my decision when I’d lied to the deputies and to my family. With those few words, I’d crossed a line; it was too late now to go back.

  I loved Jesse because of who he was and in spite of it. If he had a dark side to his character, it was no darker than the shadows within my own soul. I had been raised to be a good girl, a genteel lady who would never do wrong. But the mold had always chafed. Unlike Jesse, I couldn’t ride with a guerrilla band or pull a gun on those who tried to confine me to a role I didn’t want. I was limited to smaller rebellions; loving Jesse was one of those, one I refused to ever give up.

  I wanted to believe that the danger to Jesse would soon pass and it would finally be safe for us to marry. But Jesse himself dashed these hopes, as his every action seemed designed to increase his peril. June 3, 1871, Jesse and Frank, Cole Younger and Clel Miller robbed the bank in Corydon, Iowa. Or at least, this is what the papers claimed.

  I cut out the articles about the robberies and added them to the scrapbook I had begun keeping shortly after the end of the war. I no longer asked Jesse about the accusations against him. I doubted he would admit to anything, and living with uncertainty was better than having him admit to things I knew were wrong. If he denied them, I would have to wrestle with the question of whether or not he lied to me. I didn’t want to believe he’d do so, but I knew he had a glib tongue, and plenty of reason not to admit the truth about such serious crimes.

  In April of 1872, a bank in Columbia, Kentucky was robbed. The same group of bandits was suspected of holding up the ticket office of the Industrial Exposition in Kansas City in September of that same year. The newspapers viewed these crimes with varying degrees of admiration. Even the harshest spoke of the daring of the robberies, and the coolness with which they were executed. Others cited these exploits as blows for the common man against the big businessmen who controlled the banks.

  In May of 1873, Jesse, Frank, and others were accused of robbing the Ste. Genevieve, Missouri Savings Association. In July of that year, they turned their attention to railroads; more specifically, the express company cars which carried the payrolls for factories, mines, stockyards and other businesses. Six men, supposedly including Jesse and Frank, boarded the Rock Island train outside of Council Bluffs, Iowa, emptied the safe, and escaped.

  In January 1874, Jesse, Frank, Arthur McCoy and Cole and Bob Younger were implicated in the hold-up of a stagecoach near Hot Springs, Arkansas. In February, they were the prime suspects in the robbery of a train at Gad’s Hill, Missouri.

  Once more the press was captivated by the daring of such an action, while I could only clip the newspaper reports and marvel at the contrast between the sometimes brash, sometimes brooding young man who was my lover and the larger-than-life vigilante celebrated in print.

  Each time the robbers struck they left behind empty safes and cash drawers. On the Gad’s Hill train, there was a new touch—a press release describing the robbery in glowing detail. The robbers were clearly thumbing their noses at the authorities, and more than one small shopkeeper or struggling farmer cheered them on.

  I think it was at this point that I began to accept that Jesse was involved in these robberies. The press release was exactly the sort of eloquent, flamboyant gesture he loved. I tried not to think too much about the nature of his crimes—the people who had died, and those who had lost valuables. I turned my mind instead to what little good I could see in these exploits. The banks, express companies and railroads held a lot of power in the new economy that rose after the Civil War—power Jesse and his friends seemed determined to take back. I told myself this was a good thing, and shoved aside all dark thoughts to the contrary.

  As the charges against Jesse and Frank mounted and rumors about them persisted, my family and friends pressured me to break our engagement. My mother and Esme tried to interest me in eli
gible men in our neighborhood. When I’d protested that I was already promised, my mother shook her head. “Jesse isn’t the kind of man a respectable woman should associate with,” she said.

  But maybe I’m tired of being respectable, I thought. Is it so wrong that Jesse excites me as much for the danger and excitement he brings to my life as for the love he’s promised me?

  I had lived a life of virtuous self-denial. I didn’t dance because my parents didn’t approve—though I longed to twirl across the dance floor in time to beautiful music. I surrendered the last piece of cake when my older brother wanted it, even though the cake was my favorite—because I had been taught that men were to be given precedence in all things. I patched old dresses instead of making new ones because the money was needed to buy shoes for my younger siblings, or a coat for my father—though I dampened the pages of fashion magazines with my tears, mourning my lack of finery.

  But I would not deny myself Jesse. In my own household, I was just another child in a family of too many, not even addressed by my own name. But when Jesse looked at me, I felt like the most important woman in the world. No other person had ever made me feel that way, and it wasn’t something I could afford to give up.

  “There’s no sense you wasting your best years waiting for him,” Esme chided. She was pregnant again; the knowledge making me feel emptier still. She and I had been bosom friends since girlhood, and I wanted her, of all people, to understand how I felt.

  “Jesse needs me,” I said.

  “Every man needs a good wife,” she said. “There are plenty of men here who would welcome your attentions.”

  “Jesse doesn’t merely need a wife,” I said. “He needs me.” I was a refuge from the violence and danger with which he’d surrounded himself, the keeper of his secrets, the soother of his soul. I was sure no other person could comfort him as I could, and I knew no other man would ever see me as Jesse did.