The book you hold in your hands (or on your e-reader) is my fictionalized tale involving many of the facts I discovered while researching what historians knew of Jesse’s visits to this county and the house once owned by his stepfather’s cousin, Dr. Samuels. Then I went off on a flight of fancy to play with a recurring legend that Jesse James didn’t die in 1882 after all. I played the “what if” game and have him returning to this house half a century later.
Because this series is set in my home state of Kentucky, I included family names, favorite places, family recipes (at least in this book), and personal stories that are dear to my heart. Next in the series will be Kate’s Secret, which will feature a totally new couple (Kate and Travis) in the setting of Midway, Kentucky (Woodford County). However, I’ve found a way for Tillie and Greg from Jesse’s Hideout to cameo in Travis and Kate’s book so you can see how they’re doing after the epilogue.
Oh, please don’t miss the special Recipes in the back of this book! Many of these are family favorites or Kentucky treats—like jam cake (probably not what you’re picturing if you haven’t had a Kentucky jam cake) and banana croquettes. While I don’t intend to include recipes in every book in this series, Tillie practically lives in her kitchen, and whenever I needed to come up with a special dish for her to cook or bake, I realized I’d just have to include the recipes for you!
I hope you will enjoy this series as much as I’m enjoying writing it! Happy reading!
Prologue
“Are you sure this will work, Jesse?” For some idiotic reason, Amelia Foster tightened her grip on the red oak tree branch the two of them perched on. Even if either fell, they couldn’t die again.
Well, make that a third time for the infamous outlaw seated beside her.
They were disembodied spirits, after all, stuck in this ethereal plane for far too long, hovering outside the gates of Heaven where both hoped someday to rejoin the greatest loves of their lives. Amelia was convinced the only way she would ever “slip the surly bonds of earth” and move on would be after her grandson and the girl Amelia loved like a granddaughter found happiness, preferably in one another’s arms.
“This has to work.” She tried to convince herself if no one else.
“Trust me,” her accomplice in spirit assured her.
“Jesse Woodson James, I’m not so gullible as to fall for those words from the likes of you.”
“Miss Amelia, darlin’, I’m true as steel. Have I ever let you down?”
“Where shall I begin? How about the sixty-third running of the Kentucky Derby in 1937 when you stood up me and my no-good first husband?”
“Confound it, woman! How was I supposed to show up at an event like the Derby where dozens of people would have recognized me? As far as ever’body knew, by then I’d moldered in the grave nigh on half a century. Hell, if I’d stuck my face out in public, I’d have spent my remaining years in prison or been hanged outright as a bank robber. Maybe even a murderer.”
Amelia asked the question she hadn’t been comfortable enough to ask him in life. “Did you ever murder anyone, Jesse?”
“No court convicted me of nothing.”
“That’s not what I asked. Quit your evading the truth after all this time.”
Jesse shrugged, dismissing her challenge. Instead, he focused his attention on the side yard of the brick Federal-style house from their vantage point in one of the trees Amelia and her second husband had planted just before World War II.
What did she expect? He’d been caught up in his own legend for more than a century.
Whether Jesse had murdered anyone was a moot point. Both of them had a personal stake in seeing this mission come to fruition if they ever wanted to set foot inside the Pearly Gates.
While Jesse wasn’t likely to divulge any secrets to her at this stage in their relationship, her dearest friend, Caroline, had shared secrets about ol’ Jesse that would send historians into a tailspin. No doubt those revelations were what kept Jesse earthbound, too. Guilt, perhaps?
Regardless, he’d agreed to help after she’d shown him the consequences of his actions. She might not like his methods—and had read him the riot act after what he’d done to her poor Gregory on his bicycle a few months ago—but perhaps the ends would justify the means. That so-called accident seemed to have been the wake-up call the boy needed. Besides, Gregory hadn’t died.
Finally, after hovering between Heaven and Earth nigh on fifteen years, Amelia was the closest yet to achieving her dying wish. A little late, but she felt in her bones—well, she would if she still had any—that her grandson and Tillie Hamilton were destined to be together at last. If such success could only be accomplished by going into cahoots with the crafty, somewhat unscrupulous devil, er, spirit, beside her, then so be it.
Amelia wouldn’t be able to complete her life’s journey as long as Tillie remained lonely and enshrined in that big old house. Of course, Amelia had expected Gregory to return much sooner than this.
Oh dear. Their efforts had to do the trick. Those two young’uns were frittering away their most precious years and needed to be shown how to grab the brass ring while they still had breath in their bodies. Why, by Tillie’s age, she’d already ditched her cheat of a first husband, entered her second marriage, begun her travels to the four corners of the map, and enjoyed a life as full as any woman of her day could have hoped.
What in tarnation were these two waiting for?
She sighed. “Gregory Buchanan doesn’t see anything but what’s right before him. And Tillie hides herself away in that inn as if it’s Shangri La. Do you think they’ll ever figure it out?”
“Most humans don’t, do they?”
Sadly, no. A moment of uncertainty overtook her once more. “What if we try—”
Jesse patted her folded hands. “Miss Amelia, by the time you’ve finished figurin’, I’m already finished doin’.”
“Like the time you had Gregory knocked off his bicycle and nearly got him killed?” Admittedly, this might still be a sore spot for her.
“Stop your frettin’ now, woman. Haven’t we set into motion what’s going to bring them together again?”
“I reckon.”
“Rest is up to them.”
She nibbled the inside of her lip as she watched over her young charge. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She’d watched her hopes and dreams slip through her fingers with these two far too many times. When Gregory married Nancy, she’d given up. She wouldn’t change a thing, though. That union had given Amelia her darling great-grandson Derek, whom she simply adored.
But her grandson’s marriage hadn’t worked out for reasons she worried Gregory might repeat in a relationship with sweet, innocent Tillie.
Oh, I hope he wakes up and smells the roses before it’s too late.
Tillie continued to rake leaves fallen from the oak trees near the playground below them. Amelia blew a kiss to the young lady who had won over a lonely old woman’s heart at the tender age of eight and remained her utmost concern the rest of her earthly life and well into the hereafter.
Tillie cupped a gloved hand over her cheek and looked around with a quirk in her brow. She’d caught some hint of Amelia’s kiss. The old woman smiled. Tillie had become more in tune with the spirit world over the past year. Unlike that grandson Amelia had practically given up on—well, not quite yet. She’d give Gregory one more chance to join the living. Amelia’s daughter and her cold-hearted Yankee husband had sure done a number on him, but Gregory was beginning to show signs of life, especially around his son.
All he needed was a little nudge in the right direction.
“Here he comes, Amelia!” Jesse’s excitement was contagious.
Her gaze shot up the road where she saw Gregory’s vehicle approaching. Amelia glanced at Tillie again, her heart about to burst. Only time would tell whether their matchmaking efforts would bear fruit. Now it was up to the young’uns.
Chapter One
Despite the chill in the a
ir, Tillie Hamilton’s cheek grew warm as if she’d been kissed. A sense of calm and comfort came over her. Dear Mrs. Foster. Her eyes stung from the wind, and she blinked rapidly until she could see clearly again.
Raising her gloved hand to her face, she relished in the unexpected visit. She turned around almost hoping to find the woman standing there, but of course she never could see her. No, Tillie was alone, at least until her new guests arrived this afternoon or evening.
The man and his young son had booked Amelia’s Suite for the longest stay on record in the decade plus she’d run the inn—ten nights. He also asked to have meals here, adding to her income. That should tide her over until the holiday season started in a couple of weeks.
She resumed her raking. No doubt the little boy would want to play out here, and she hadn’t cleared the leaves on this side of the yard since the neighborhood children’s Halloween party over a week ago.
The Buchanans could arrive at any moment. She’d better get to work if she wanted to don one of the vintage dresses she liked to wear to greet new guests. She had chosen and laid out on the bed a soft-lace over satin, ecru long-sleeved 1920s drop waist dress—not antebellum hoop skirts like those worn at the famous Federal Hill in Bardstown. But she enjoyed making this house’s long history part of her own persona and the character of her inn.
As she walked closer to the picket fence around her herb garden to start another pile, yet another oak leaf fell from the tree. Rather than plop where it landed, this one skittered in a jagged path across the yard until reaching the side of the house where it promptly disappeared.
What on earth?
Coming closer, she saw that the windowpane had been broken.
Oh no! Not now!
First making sure no shards of glass had fallen on the ground, she laid down the rake and knelt beside the hole. The cold damp earth seeped into her jeans as she inspected the damage. No glass was visible on the ground, which meant it must have fallen inside, but she didn’t see any jagged edges, either.
Tillie hadn’t noticed anything awry yesterday. Had it happened today while she was in Bardstown grocery shopping?
She peeked at Mrs. Foster’s fob watch pinned to her flannel shirt. While she might be able to measure the window and place a call to the glass shop before her guests arrived, she couldn’t run to town again and replace the pane before they arrived. Giving the impression she was lax on maintenance irked her, but without question, she had to be on hand to greet new guests. Perhaps she could divert their attention away from the playground until tomorrow.
A slow-moving SUV coming through the S-curve up the road caught her eye.
Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
The driver’s head swiveled in her direction, and a small boy with wide eyes appeared to shout something to him while pointing at the playground equipment. The turn signal flashed on a second before they were obstructed by the trees.
Great. No such luck in trying to cover the window now. Or dressing appropriately. Oh, what the heck? She broke out in a dead run for the dining-room door off the herb gardens. She could transform herself into the proper innkeeper in a flash before they even removed their suitcases from the SUV.
As she raced up the stairs to her bedroom, she asked herself how such a beautifully planned day had gone so wrong. With any luck, she’d be able to put her best foot forward and impress her incoming guests.
* * *
The tree-lined, winding country lane swept Gregory Buchanan back to an obscure memory from his childhood. He’d been twelve and seated in the passenger seat of his mother’s Volvo on his way to see his maternal grandmother for what would end up being their final visit.
The two women had never been particularly close, but Gram had doted on him those five prior summers. He’d pushed the memory of the house and even Gram to a great extent to the deep recesses of his mind over the intervening years.
Until now. Time to right a wrong. No, two of them.
His chest grew tighter as his heart pounded so loud he thought his son would be able to hear it from the backseat. “Hey, Derek,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror at his five-year-old son. “Here’s the place where we’re going to be staying.” He hoped his son would take away some special memories to last a lifetime, too, even though he hadn’t told him the significance of this house for fear of tipping off the charlatan innkeeper.
“They have a playground, Daddy! Can I go down the slide?”
Shooting a glance out his side window, Greg saw a ponytailed woman in jeans and a red flannel shirt at the side of the Federal-style house watching him approach. He turned on his blinker. Was that an expression of horror on the woman’s face? The innkeeper must have hired her to rake leaves, judging by the piles in the front and side yards. Had the worker been instructed to finish before they showed up? Not that he cared about fallen leaves. It was autumn, after all.
Greg remembered building Indian forts in that very spot that first summer when he was eight and his parents had left him here before they headed off on a river tour of Europe.
Gram had given him all kinds of tips on how to construct a strong fort then joined in to play with him. Despite always seeming ancient to him, she’d engaged in kid-related activities more than his parents ever had.
Would his son want to do things like that, as long as the innkeeper approved? Derek had napped most of the way from Minnesota, so it didn’t surprise him the boy had energy to spare, and he’d want to play on the swing set in the yard as early as possible. Of course, Greg didn’t know what shape the playground would be in and didn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep. But from here, it appeared to be well-built and modern.
The house had been partially obscured by a row of golden- and red-leafed trees, but the familiar split-rail fence looked the same as it had been all those years ago.
Greg entered the now-paved circular drive at the side of Gram’s house and stared at the place that had sparked his interest in pursuing a career in architecture. The two-post, black on white Jesse’s Hideout B&B sign in the front lawn clashed with what had been in his mind’s eye all these years, though.
Greg’s heart pounded in anticipation of entering Gram’s house once again. How would it have changed since his last visit? Would her presence still be felt there?
“Go, Daddy! I wanna slide!”
Blinking back to the present, he drove forward and found a spot in the parking area next to a blue Toyota Camry. The house had three entrances on this side, the one closest to the road entering the office where his grandfather had practiced as a country doctor. The man had been but a memory shared by Gram when Greg had visited here.
The center door would put him in the dining room of Gram’s house, while the third accessed her kitchen. Gram had used the dining-room entrance most often. He noticed a welcome sign on that door, so assumed the innkeeper did as well.
Exiting the Range Rover, he stared at the side of the brick house, unable to tear his gaze away.
Warm. Inviting. Home.
He shook off the fanciful notion. Gram hadn’t willed the house to him, for whatever reason. It had been out of the family since her death. The woman who inherited it likely had coerced her into changing her will.
Two flowerbeds on either side of the dining-room door burst with fall colors of chrysanthemums and ornamental kale. He remembered helping Gram plant a riot of colorful blooms there—bachelor’s buttons, zinnias, and larkspur being her favorites. Gram devoted many pages in her journals each year talking about her flowers and prize heirloom roses.
Those journals had both tormented and given him solace. Her attorney had sent them to him soon after Greg’s twenty-fifth birthday, as specified in her will, along with a pocket watch dating to the 1860s or 1870s purported to have belonged to the legendary Jesse James. He kept it in his safe-deposit box to be passed on to Derek one day.
While recovering from the cycling accident, he’d soon grown tired of the introspection about how his life
had fallen apart since his divorce two years earlier. He’d enlisted his assistant to retrieve Gram’s journals from the attic so he could delve inside someone else’s mind for a change.
He’d read each one cover to cover—devoured them, truth be told—and probably wouldn’t see the world in the same way again as a result. She’d begun writing in her teen years and continued until the last entry seven years before her passing. The later ones were difficult to decipher because either her hand was shaking or her eyes not quite as sharp.
What he’d taken away from those was that Mother had lied to him about when Gram had died, much later than she’d told him. Mother had robbed him of so many more years with Gram.
Greg shook his head, not wanting to wallow in regrets or stir up anger over something he could do nothing to fix. Turning toward the shed across the driveway loop, he saw the now-spent rose bushes. Apparently, the new owner had kept Gram’s roses growing or at least continued that tradition.
Glancing at the second-story window where he and his mother stayed during that last visit, he pictured the blue pencil bed he’d seen on the inn’s website. Gram said she’d had to take out the window to get it in there and had no intention of ever moving it again. Good thing the subsequent owners hadn’t detested the bed and busted it up. Not that he’d booked his stay in that room; he may not be able to take a peek at it.
But Gram had bequeathed the house to a “dear friend,” as she stated in her will, who’d probably since died, paving the way for it to fall into the hands of the charlatan now running it as a haunted inn. How dare this interloper tarnish the memory of his grandmother with her public claims asserting that Gram continued to linger at the place and actively shared recipes with her from beyond the grave?
Apparently, the money-grubbing innkeeper would do anything to make a buck—her latest scam a cookbook claiming to contain these ill-gotten recipes. Exploiting Gram’s memory was beyond acceptable to him. He might not have been here for Gram in her final years, but he sure as hell would protect her memory now.
Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1) Page 2