We did not celebrate Christmas that year. Mama had no desire to visit anyone, nor did she feel up to having family come see us. Much as I would have enjoyed the diversion of my sisters and brothers, and the chance to smile at the antics of young nieces and nephews, I respected her wishes to keep our first Christmas without Papa reserved for quiet reflection.
After the holiday passed, we entered 1871, a new year that I hoped would bring happier times. At least we were blessed with mild weather. Snow dusted the ground less than half a dozen times over the worst months of winter, swiftly melting into a slushy muck. Even though we didn’t need to shovel deep snowdrifts, the loss of Papa, coupled with the short days and dreary lack of sunlight, dampened my spirit.
When February arrived, it held the promise of spring close enough to touch. I threw grain to the chickens and smiled as they clucked, scratched in the dirt, and flapped their wings at each other. A rooster preened and strutted near his harem. Soon, fluffy yellow chicks would follow the hens, adding their peeps to the brash cacophony. When the chickens abruptly grew silent and lifted their heads, I looked up. The sound of a horse’s hooves rang on the road. I saw a rider urging his mount straight toward me. I stared for a moment at the apparition, and then the empty bucket dropped and my hand went to my throat.
Jesse.
As soon as his horse reached me, he pulled back the reins sharply enough that the animal reared, her front legs slashing the air. He settled her, and then dismounted, his steed dancing in place without bolting, even though he had dropped the reins. I ran straight into his waiting arms, dampening his dusty shirtfront with my tears. He held me tight against him.
“I couldn’t get here sooner, Zee. I’m sorry. You know I loved your papa as if he were my own.” He pushed me away to look at my face. “You look pale. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. Mama barely speaks and keeps herself busy all day until late in the evening. Now only she and I are left at the boarding house.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “It makes me feel very alone.”
Jesse pulled me back against his chest.
“But you’re not alone, Zee. I hope to stay closer to Kearney for a while, and I’ll come to see you often as I can. I want to do a better job of planning for the day we marry.”
I pulled away to look at him.
“Do you mean we will be wed soon?”
“Very soon, I hope. I need to get a few more dollars together before we can set a definite date.”
He glanced toward the house. “I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to speak to your mother?”
“No. Now isn’t the time. She still buries her grief in work. Perhaps when she’s able to recover herself more fully.”
Jesse nodded and brushed a hand against my cheek. “I haven’t even been to the farm yet. I wanted to see you.”
His arms surrounded me again, and I leaned into his warmth, absorbing his strength, like water to a dry sponge.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave at all.”
Jesse kissed me before pulling away. “There are still a few things that must be done before that can happen. Until then, promise me you’ll take good care of yourself. I’ll be back very soon.”
He kissed me again and then leapt onto his horse’s back in a move worthy of any performer, urging the animal into a ground-eating canter. Turning away from the path, he sent his mount over our split-rail fence, and I laughed out loud. Jesse was home, and it sounded as though he might be ready at last to set down roots.
In June, news hit of another bold robbery at a bank in southern Iowa. Hadn’t I just seen Jesse a few days before? It seemed no matter where trouble happened, the blame landed squarely on my cousins. This time, they were paired with Cole Younger and his brothers. Swiftly following the robbery, another letter from Jesse appeared in the newspaper, proclaiming his innocence. Jesse blamed Radicals for the accusations against him, and his letter contained more political observations than any he’d ever expressed before. He even went so far as to endorse Horace Greeley for president.
I knew in light of this robbery and another one occurring a few weeks later, that the publicity would require Jesse to avoid travel and keep away from the people he loved. I tried my best to ignore the mounting rumors and let myself bask in the luxury of Jesse’s brief, surreptitious visits.
On one such occasion, we sat in the cool shade of the porch. His loose-limbed posture belied the fact that he kept his horse tethered no more than five feet away. He had two guns on his saddle and a pistol strapped to his hip, a habit that still infuriated Mama. But I reveled in his company. We talked and laughed, even though Jesse kept a vigilant watch on the trees beyond our house. I poured fresh cider into his cup and he lifted it to me.
“Here’s to some good news. I’ve made a friend in John Newman Edwards, the editor of the Kansas City Times.”
I looked at him with my brows lifted. “You’ve actually met with him?”
“Only a few times, but enough to know he understands me. John’s a Southerner, too. He rode with General Shelby and wrote about some of the ablest and most gallant fighters in the Confederacy. He knows the things I do against Union-held businesses strike another blow for the South and tells me any letter I send him, he’ll publish, so my side of the story can be told.”
Such an alliance reminded me of a dance with the devil, so I cleared my throat and searched for the right words to say. “Would it not be best if your name stayed out of the papers? It seems to me such attention could stir up more anger against you.”
“Not from any true Confederate. What do I care what Radicals have to say about me? If they hate me, then I know I’m doing my job well.”
I wasn’t so sure but didn’t wish to waste our limited time together engaging in an argument that would prove futile. A hawk soared overhead in the clear blue sky. We watched its flight, and I searched for a neutral topic.
“Jesse, do you remember when we talked about raising horses? It sounded like a fine idea. Is that something you would still like to do?”
He shrugged. “I think about it once in a while. But there’s still work to be done here. With John’s help, I think we can make the Federals understand Southerners won’t lie down and be bullied. I don’t care how many guards they post in their banks. I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done until everything that’s been lost is returned in full. I can’t run off to pursue a dream before I’ve finished.”
The determined jut of his chin froze my heart. “It sounds like you’ve turned this into a quest. Don’t you know dreams, not revenge, are the foundation of a happy future?”
“Sometimes I think you read too much, Zee. Don’t you know life doesn’t always go along smoothly until there’s a happy ending?”
I bit my lip and Jesse reached out to take my hand. We sat in silence a few moments more. Then, as though he sensed my mood, he kissed me lightly on the cheek and strode to his horse, mounted, and set the animal galloping away to continue his personal quest against the Federals. Although I knew he’d return when he could, I took a deep breath, wondering how many days or weeks before he appeared next. My back ached with weariness.
Mama came outside to pick up our empty glasses. She sighed and shook her head at me. “I hope you’re coming to realize the folly of a pledge to a man on the run. You spend your life waiting for someone who may never do the things he promises. I’ve seen you take to your bed with a vacant stare in desperate sorrow. It is as though you live for nothing but Jesse.”
My jaw set stubbornly. “He will someday be my husband. Why should I not feel sorrow when he’s away from me?”
“I tell you again, we do not know if that event will occur. It has been years since you two promised each other marriage. Despite his vow, you are still here with me. He may promise the moon, but nothing he has done has brought your union closer to fruition. Instead, he rides in, holds your hand and whispers his promises, and then rides right back out again.”
My eyes filled with tears at the sting of Mama’s words. Her face softened. She put her hand on my arm and sat beside me.
“I’ve asked the doctor to come visit with you. Between pining over Jesse, Papa’s death, and worrying about me, you have had too much on your shoulders. Perhaps there is something he can offer to make you feel better.”
I had no strength to argue. Blue spells did seem to come more often than before, sometimes leaving me so weak that all I could do was lie in bed. When my spirit sank so low, Papa had advised me to read from Scripture to fill my mind with messages to uplift my soul, rather than fall prey to the work of the devil. With a guilty pang, I realized that I hadn’t opened the Bible since the day we buried Papa.
Life had become so different from my girlish hopes. My brothers and sisters had all started families of their own. Even Lucy had urged me to consider whether I should remain as a spinster help-mate for Mama or leave the boarding house to find a different life. If talking to a doctor could help me regain my energy and optimism, then I wouldn’t refuse.
When Dr. Lykins arrived, he spoke for a long while with Mama before he came to see me. He listened to my chest and asked a list of questions, writing down my answers. When finished, he took off his spectacles and gravely diagnosed me with melancholia. Then he prescribed camphor and one blue pill of mercury to clear my body of black bile.
I followed his instructions, although Jesse’s presence was the tonic I needed most. Even a simple letter from him lifted my spirit.
Jesse wrote regularly to friends, his family, me—and the newspaper. I usually received at least six letters from him over the course of a year, always delivered through one of his most trusted friends. Mama told me to burn them lest they be found in our home by someone who might use them against us, but I couldn’t bear to destroy the few tokens of his affection and hid them under my mattress instead. Since I never knew whether he’d be near or far away, I treasured every word.
I’d read his most recent message so often, the paper wore thin and a tear appeared on its folded edge. Even if it should dissolve and crumble, the words had been permanently etched on my heart.
Dearest Zee,
We have been riding day upon day. Frank and I are mostly of the same mind. We will make a strike against the North as long as we are able and not roll over in defeat like so many other Confederates have done. Of course, I have my own ideas on how to handle things, so there are times when we ride our separate ways. Frank is growing weary of this life. He talks about coming home and settling down.
You will be much surprised to learn my brother found a sweetheart in Kansas City. Her name is Annie, and Frank met her at the horse races. She’s a pretty thing, though not as pretty as you. It makes me laugh to see old Buck slick back his hair and blow the dust off his hat to impress her. He even considered shaving off his beard until I told him he’d look like an old man pretending to be young. I argue there is still much work to be done and we are the ones to do it. He grunts back, which you can imagine is not a very satisfactory response. For myself, I will fight on in every way I can until the Federals permanently remove their boots from our necks.
I’m sorry to tell you that for what I’ve done, and what I must continue to do, I asked the church at Mount Olivet to strike my name from the rolls. It’s no longer worthy to appear there. I hope you will not think harshly of me, for I’m only doing what I must.
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss your soft voice. Without you, Zee, I wouldn’t be here. I owe you my life and give you my heart. If any ten-cent man comes around courting, let him know you belong to someone else who will soon, God willing, be back. Hold fast to the coin I gave you. Perhaps I will soon be in a position to exchange it for a ring.
Affectionately,
J.J.
My chest tightened at the notion Jesse intended to continue a life that made him feel he wasn’t worthy to be on the rolls of a church. Papa preached about a God who granted forgiveness. Had Jesse forgotten it was never too late to seek it? More than ever, he needed someone to stand by him. Someone who could steady him through the bloody horrors of his past.
Fear that he may have sought mooring in his new friend, John Newman Edwards, made me press my lips together in worry. Mr. Edwards published another series of articles featuring the rebel warriors, words that glorified the bold and daring men who led a crusade against a Union government intent on keeping the South in its iron fist. His words were flowery, but at least they promoted understanding rather than condemnation.
Jesse believed the course he had chosen was noble and right, but I feared what he might do next with John Edwards encouraging him. Would he ever end his reckless mission of vengeance? And what would it take to stop him?
Yet despite my unsettled feelings, I followed Papa’s advice and looked to Scripture for comfort, praying Jesse would abandon his wandering ways and reckless deeds. I wanted him to choose a new course for his life, one that would include me.
Soon, whether from Dr. Lykins’s tonics or the comfort found in Papa’s old Bible, I slowly began to emerge from darkness and resume my full duties helping Mama at the boarding house.