Chapter 4

A knocking sound ricocheted in his head. Jesse tried to ignore it, mashing his cheek stubbornly against the hard surface beneath his head. His outstretched hands curled around, not a pillow, but the edges of a... book?

He cracked open one eye and groaned to find himself half-sprawled across the kitchen table atop the farm's ledgers he'd spread out to study last night. By some miracle, he must have fallen asleep. If one could call the snatches of insensibility he'd managed sleep. Between his own restlessness and the baby's clockwork squalling, he deemed a good night's rest in Andi Carson Winslow's house impossible.

Groggy, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. Beside him, a kerosene lamp sputtered, nearly out of fuel. His head throbbed. Though he knew he hadn't drunk a blessed thing last night, he felt hung-over. Mahkwi lay beside his chair, head on paws, following Jesse's slow movements with her eyes.

The wooden chair scraped across the floor as Jesse got up and stumbled to the sink. Giving the squeaky handle a few priming pumps, he caught the cool water in his hands and splashed it on his face. It was all he could do to stand there, hands braced against the sink, and let the water drip off his face.

The pounding came again, more insistently this time. He frowned, recognizing the sound at last. Who the hell could be knocking on the door in the middle of the night? He glanced at the soft light pouring in through the window. Morning, he corrected mentally. Hell.

He ran a towel over his face, then, pulling two hands through his long, sleep-tousled hair, walked to the door and yanked it open.

A tall, coffee-skinned, bespectacled woman stood opposite him across the threshold. Her gray-green eyes widened at the sight of him and she took an involuntary step backward. He glared at her.

"Mr. Winslow? My name is Mrs. Gaines," she announced in a voice rich as bourbon whiskey. Her gaze flicked, for the briefest of stunned moments, down the length of his unbuttoned shirt to the dry mud caked on his bare feet. Jesse pulled the edges of his shirt together and began to button it.

The morning cicadas strummed up a welcoming chorus behind her, adding to the thrumming between his ears. The air that brushed his tired face was cool and rain-fresh. In the distance he heard the retreating rattle of the wagon that had evidently dropped the woman on his doorstep.

Jesse stared blankly at her "Yeah?"

She stared back, her eyes nearly level with his own. "I'm Mrs. Gaines," she repeated more slowly, her brows dropping a fraction. "I was told you were expecting me."

He blinked. "You were? I mean... I was?" His gaze went from her straw hat set at a jaunty angle atop a pile of dark hair, to her starched white collar, flawless against the slender column of her neck. The horn-rimmed spectacles perched half-way down her nose made her gray-green eyes seem even larger as she peered at him.

She pushed the glasses farther up her nose with one finger. "You are Mr. Winslow? Mr. Jesse Winslow?"

"Winslow. Yeah, that's me."

"Perhaps there's been some kind of misunderstanding. Mrs. Rafferty said you might have need of my services. But if—"

Jesse straightened at the first thing she said that made any sense. "Mrs. Rafferty? You mean... Are you Etta?"

A relieved smile softened her pursed mouth. "Yes, I'm Etta Gaines."

By any standards, Jesse thought, Miss Etta Gaines would be considered a handsome woman, but she was not at all what he'd expected. Isabelle's term "hired-girl" had conjured up anything but the sophisticated thirty-five-year old woman of color who stood before him. No hint of a southern dialect softened her words. She was a northern, city-bred woman, and if he wasn't mistaken, educated, too. She stood waiting patiently for Jesse to swallow his surprise and invite her in.

"Of course Isabelle told me about you, I just... uh, forgive me, Miss Gaines." Jesse stepped aside so she could pass. "Please, come in."

With a curt nod, she crossed the threshold. She stopped dead at the sight of the wolf and clasped a hand to her throat.

"She's tame," Jesse assured her, "She won't hurt you."

Etta looked unconvinced. "Miss Isabelle warned me about it, but"—her gaze slid back to the wolf—"I wasn't prepared for how... how big it would be."

"Mahkwi's half dog, but she's got a wolf's speed and long legs. She has the disposition of a lamb, though... unless she's riled."

"Oh. I see. Well, it's not me you'll have to convince."

"You mean Andi? She loves animals. Always has."

Etta just smiled and turned to survey the mess around her. Her eaglelike gaze took in every detail of the kitchen and what she could see of the parlor. Her even expression gave away nothing, but the kitchen alone was enough to send any sane woman running, Jesse thought dolefully—dishes and pans scattered from end to end after his mad search for a pot to boil water in yesterday.

The stew pot had boiled over while he was upstairs last night arguing with Andi, and despite his valiant attempts to clean it up the smelly stuff was stuck like scorched fly paper to the black Clarion stove. And that didn't even cover the muddy footprints he'd left all over the kitchen floor after prowling outside half the night.

Unwrapping the small embroidered bag that dangled from her wrist, Etta looked for a clear spot on the table.

"A real mess, huh?" he asked, picking up the rain slicker he'd left draped over the wooden chair. "Housekeeping isn't my strong suit."

She quirked one side of her generous mouth with amusement. "I've seen worse. What nine young Raffertys can do to a clean room would make you shudder. No sir, I've seen worse than this," she said with a wink, pulling off her kidskin gloves. "At least by half."

Jesse caught her smile and returned it. "I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to think I could wreak worse vengeance on a house than nine small children."

Etta scooped up Jesse's dirty dishes off the table and carted them to the sink, then darted back with a wet rag—a whirlwind of efficiency. "Oh, they're not all small," she told him. "Why, Gus?—you might remember him—he's near sixteen. Joshua and Joe, the twins, are thirteen." Etta effortlessly hoisted a pile of cooking pans back into their proper places below the counter.

"Then," she went on, "there's Adeline, eleven and Cassie, nine." She counted backward on her fingers. "The rest, Levi, Noah, Gertie and little Ruthie—they're all under eight. But ages aside, twelve folks—including me—under one roof calls for organization," she said with an easy laugh. "That's what I'm there for, Mr. Winslow. Organization."

Jesse rocked back on his bare heels, not doubting her for a minute. Her voice was smooth and rich as old brandy and despite her primness, he could swear he caught a note of bawdiness underneath all that starch.

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, opened it and handed it to him. "Miss Isabelle isn't a slouch at organization either. She said you'd need some things in town. Supplies and such... for the baby. She wrote it all down for you..."

Jesse stared at the paper then tossed it on the table. He'd think about that later when the fog cleared out of his brain.

"How is Miss Andrea?" she asked, putting her shoulder to the water pump over the sink. The handle squeaked as the water splashed into the pot she'd placed underneath it.

"I... I haven't seen her yet this morning," he replied. "I uh, heard her last night, up with the baby."

Etta glanced at the dark smudges under his eyes and shook her head. "My, my. If she had the same kind of night you did, I came in the nick of time." She settled the pot on the stove, then stoked the cook fire with fresh firewood. A few seconds later, the banked coals ignited the wood with a whoosh. "Don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Winslow. I'll take care of everything that needs doing." She stopped long enough to frown at him. "Looks like you could use some coffee."

"Actually—" he mumbled, but before he could finish, she reached for the coffee pot Jesse had left on the table, cleaned out the old grounds, and made a fresh pot. He was getting dizzy just watching her. He settled back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He decided to wait for a cup of the coffee she was brewing before he made another stab at conversation. But that plan failed when he heard Etta's gasp.

"My, my... aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

He looked up to see Andi standing at the foot of the stairs, looking pale and wan. Her pink calico wrapper clung to her long legs and outlined the fullness of her breasts in the morning light. The sight of her tripped his pulse. He shot to his feet. "What are you doing down here, Andi?"

Andrea's throat tightened at the sight of Jesse, disheveled and bleary-eyed from apparent lack of sleep. He looked how she felt. But there was no denying the electric jolt of desire she felt, seeing him here. Looking like... that.

She cinched the tie on her wrapper and glanced at his muddy bare feet. "I live here, in case you'd forgotten. I'm not an invalid, Jesse. I only had a baby." She turned to Etta and the two women met in a hug. "Etta, how can I thank you for coming?"

Etta waved a hand of dismissal. "Oh, now honey, there's nothing I like better than babies, you know that," she said patting Andrea on the back. "You feelin' all right?"

She nodded. "Just tired and... a little sore."

"Well, Lordy, I expect so!" Etta strong-armed her toward the table and forced her to sit down opposite Jesse. "Now you just stay there," Etta said. "I've got coffee brewing and oatmeal mash fixin' to cook on the stove. It'll be ready in no time. You look a little peaked."

Andrea's bare feet encountered soft, warm fur beneath the table and she jumped. "Good Lord, what's that?"

Mahkwi's head came up under the table with a thwack, and the animal struggled to get out from under it.

Andrea stared in disbelief at the animal whose shoulders nearly reached her hip. She backed up against the counter. The wolf's pink tongue lolled out the side of her mouth.

"A wolf! There's a wolf in my kitchen!"

"It's just Mahkwi, Andi," Jesse said. "She won't hurt anything—"

"Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not in my kitchen. Not in my house." Andrea pointed to the door. "There's a baby in this house, Jesse. I won't have a wild animal anywhere near him. Out!"

The wolf looked crestfallen and slunk toward the corner. Jesse sighed with resignation, walked to the door and held it open for Mahkwi. "Out, wolf."

Disconsolate, Mahkwi padded out the door and disappeared into the yard, her tail between her legs.

"And I want him tied up unless he's with you, Jesse. I can't risk having him—"

"Her," Jesse corrected.

"—her eating my hens or... or attacking my hogs or Lulabelle."

"Lulabelle?"

"My goat."

He gritted his teeth. The fact that Mahkwi was half dog would bear no weight with Andi. The size of the animal had her scared. Mahkwi had rarely been tethered in her life, except when they rode through towns, where Jesse didn't want people taking pot shots at her. She wouldn't take well to it now. He should have left her back in Montana, where she didn't have to worry about the constrictions of civilization. It was a piece of advice he might well have taken himself.

He sat down at the table beside her. "How's little Zachary?"

Andrea's fingers smoothed absently over the pages of the book that lay open on the table. "He's fine. He didn't—" She blinked.

It suddenly struck her what the ledgers were doing there. Yesterday's argument over the farm came back to her in a rush. "What's this doing out?"

He shrugged. "I was going over the farm accounts last night."

Andrea straightened in the chair. "Why?"

"I should think that would be obvious."

"All too obvious," she replied tightly.

Jesse got to his feet and paced to the baker's cabinet on the far side of the room. He braced a hand against the smooth oak finish. "I have a right to know where Willow Banks stands, Andi," he said, staring at the worn wood-grain dusted faintly with flour.

She slammed the book shut with a thud, bracing for another fight.

Etta stopped what she was doing and glanced at each of them warily. "I... uh, think now might be a good time for me to have a look at that little baby boy. I'll just... uh... go on ahead and..." She edged to the stairway with a finishing shrug and disappeared diplomatically up the stairs.

Jesse swiveled a hard look at Andi. "Why didn't you tell me the old man had gotten the farm into debt?"

"You're not staying. What difference would it make to tell you? Besides, it's not that bad."

A bark of laughter escaped him. "Not that bad? The price of a new tiller and a hundred additional acres of land?"

"He bought it before Zach was called up," she said, half in Tom Winslow's defense. "Before he got sick. The crop that's planted now will cover this year's payments easily. Another four or five years..."

He sent her a disbelieving look. "This crop may pay the loan, but what about the taxes and the seed for next year's crop?"

"The war has boosted the price of corn," she argued, feeling the dig of her fingernails against her palms. "The Union Army is clamoring for grain. Your mother said we could expect to get top dollar for this crop."

"Maybe so. But not enough to cover the debt. Certainly not if the deer make off with half the crop through the broken down fence around the south pasture. And that's saying nothing about the leaky barn that's soaking the rest of this year's supply of hay."

She couldn't argue. Everything he said was true. Thomas Winslow had let the farm run down since the war had taken Zach and it had been all she and Martha could do to keep the crop going.

Turning back toward the window, he said, "The corn's only shoulder high, low for this late in the season. Why?"

"Your father was ill. It was late getting in. It almost didn't get planted at all. Isabelle sent Gus and the twins over to help. But your mother, Gus, and I planted most of it."

He straightened as if he'd butted up against a hot stove. "What?"

"Stop shouting."

"I'm not shouting, dammit!" The expletive rattled the walls. He paced over to the kitchen window, staring out at the corn. "Pregnant? You were plowing pregnant, for God's sake?"

She got to her feet, steadying herself with a hand on the smooth wood table. "I was perfectly healthy, Jesse. Just because I was pregnant, doesn't mean I was incapable of—"

He whirled on her. "You could have lost Zach's only child."

"My only child as well," she added in a tight voice. "Do you think I didn't consider that?" And angry heat crawled to her face. "I was careful. In fact, I did little plowing myself. I drilled and covered seed mostly. And as you can see, I didn't lose little Zach. But if I hadn't helped, we would certainly have lost the farm."

Jesse turned away and shook his head disgustedly. "How many acres are planted in corn?"

"Seventy."

"Wheat?"

She tightened her jaw. "Forty-five."

"What else?"

"We rotated a thirty acres of corn with alfalfa this year. Another fifty lay fallow."

He exhaled loudly. "Did you know you're months late with the payment to the bank?"

"I—" She started to lie, but decided against it. "Yes."

"Ahh." The word was spit quietly and directed at the offending crop outside the window. Jesse grabbed his hat off the table, fitted it on his head, then stuffed a stray piece of paper lying there in his pocket.

"Where are you going?" she demanded getting up from the chair. The catch in her voice gave away her fear.

"To town."

She caught his arm as he brushed past her. "Wait. What for?"

Yanking the battered hat down over his brow, he frowned at her, but didn't answer. He grabbed up his mud-spattered boots sitting by the door, brushed his feet off and yanked the boots on over denim pants.

"It's not for sale," she warned, meeting his angry glare with one of her own, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest gave away her desperation.

He shouldered past her and yanked open the wooden door.

"I said it's not for sale! Damn you, Jesse—don't you do it!"

He swung around on the far side of the threshold, his face dark with some indefinable emotion. "I'm just going to town. Do I need your written permission for that, Mrs. Winslow?"

She scowled at him for a long moment, feeling lightheaded and frightened. Dizziness alone couldn't account for her overreaction, nor the fact that the next thing she did was slam the door in his face.

* * *

The buckboard's wheels jolted into the drying tracks of mud leading into Elkgrove. Jesse flicked the leather traces over the backs of the two chestnut-colored draft horses pulling the wagon.

"Gy'up, Polly... hy'up, Pete..." The pair responded like the well-trained team they were, edging to the right at the slight tug on the traces. They had, however, shied at the sight of Mahkwi, so Jesse had left the wolf tied up under the shade of the porch. Mahkwi's snout had been more than a little out of joint seeing Jesse ride off alone, but he figured the animal was safer at Willow Banks than tied to the wagon in a town full of wolf-hating farmers.

He took a deep calming breath and tugged at the buttoned cuffs of his sleeves. The five-mile ride to town had done little to calm the frustration in him. Every mile had put him closer to believing he was doing the right thing. The best thing for both of them. Andi was only one woman and an irrational one at that.

Not that she couldn't be downright capable when she had her mind on something like giving birth to that baby, he thought ruefully. But running a farm was another matter altogether. She had no idea the kind of backbreaking labor that went into a job like that. He did and that made him all the more anxious to do what he'd come here to do.

The ancient sycamores that shaded the streets of Elkgrove hadn't changed any more than the town, he mused, as he passed Nate Kelder's Livery and Feed. That place had been there since Jesse was a boy. The corrals surrounding it were fragrant with clean, sun-warmed hay. The place had earned its well-deserved reputation as the best stable in Elkgrove.

Sprawled on a faded wooden bench at the open entrance of the barn, was an older-looking Nate Kelder, enjoying a cheroot beside three half-grown barn cats, preening in the morning sun. Jesse nodded to him as he passed and Nate nodded politely back, but from his frown, it was clear he had no idea who Jesse was. He felt the older man's curious stare on him as he made his way down the street.

Threading his way through the array of carriages and wagons crowding the noisy thoroughfare, Jesse passed a dozen more shops he'd been familiar with as a youth, still thriving despite the war that had cut the nation in two. He passed two Federal soldiers lounging in the early morning sun. The rich scent of coffee drifted to Jesse from the tin mugs they sipped on and he wished he'd had time for that cup Etta had offered before he'd stomped off to town.

The facades of E. A. Biddle's Mercantile and Dry Goods, and Stavely and Sons, Blacksmithing and Farriers were freshly painted and already busy for so early in the day. Jesse pulled the team over beside a half-dozen other wagons parked under a huge sycamore. He set the hand brake and jumped down to the street.

"Jesse—Jesse Winslow," came a voice from behind him. Jesse turned to find Deke Lodray, publisher, editor, and owner of the Elkgrove Chronicle, walking toward him. Lodray's smile expanded as he approached. "By God, I thought it was you. It's been a hell of a long time."

"Deke." Jesse smiled and shook his hand warmly. "It's good to see you. You haven't changed a bit."

Lodray laughed and ran an ink-stained hand over his thinning gray hair self-consciously. "I wouldn't go that far and I doubt the missus would agree with you," he added, patting a hand against his spreading waistline. "Good Lord, though, you have. Look at you—" His gaze went from Jesse's thick beard, then up and down his considerable height. "Some folks around here thought you were dead."

Jesse laughed in surprise as a wagon loaded with lumber rattled by. "Is that right?" He had never imagined himself rating the idle gossip of Elk-grove.

"Course, those of us who knew you never believed the rumors." A grin cut across Lodray's handsome face. "Montana was good for you, son. You look like a damn voyager."

"I guess if I'd been born thirty years earlier that's just what I would have been," he admitted. "How's the paper? You still running it, or have you turned the reins over to Mitch?"

Lodray frowned, his gaze absently searching the crowded street. "Hell, no. I'm not ready to retire and even if I were, Mitch isn't ready for that kind of..." He stopped himself short of saying what he'd been about to say. "I'm not ready yet."

Jesse regarded Lodray for a moment. "Is Mitch still at Harvard?"

Something flickered across the old man's expression, but vanished before Jesse could identify it. "No. He left the university to fight in the war, but he was wounded. They sent him home a few weeks ago." Lodray shifted uncomfortably.

"Was it bad?" Jesse asked with concern. He'd known Mitch Lodray in school together. He'd never liked him. Particularly for his rather macabre habit of tearing the wings off butterflies as a boy.

Deke Lodray shook his head. "He took a minie ball in the foot, and by the Grace of God, the surgeons didn't cut his damn leg off. Hurt like hell, but it's nearly healed. The limp's hardly noticeable now. Mitch is still single, and starting back with me at the paper—advertisements, community news, that sort of thing." He slapped Jesse on the back. "And what of you, Jesse? How in tarnation have you been?"

"I've been well. Content." Jesse glanced at the familiar street and thought how different it was from this place. "Montana Territory is like a drug. It seeps into your blood. It's a beautiful place."

Deke nodded, picturing it in his mind's eye. "I was sorry to hear about your folks, Jesse. Both of 'em going in such a short time..." He shook his head. "And Zach..."

"Thanks." Jesse dug a toe into the rutted street. His emotions were too raw about all of it, so he changed the subject. "Say, did you find someone to replace Andi's pa after he died?"

"Sure, sure. But you know, even on one of his bad days, no one could set type as fast as Jake could. I miss the old guy. And how's Andrea doing? We don't see much of her since your ma passed on."

"She had her baby yesterday. A healthy son."

Deke smiled. "By God, tell her congratulations for me. Zach..." Deke's eyes flashed up to Jesse, full of irony and deep understanding, "well, Zach would have been proud as all hell and glad to know you were with her."

Of all the people in Elkgrove, Deke Lodray knew what had once been between him and Andi and what it must have cost him to leave her behind. And how it must have felt to learn that she'd married his brother.

"Give her my best, Jesse," Deke said, extending his hand once more. "You going to stick around Elkgrove for a while? Willow Banks is good land. Not as high up as Montana, but pretty all the same."

Jesse looked at the ground. "I haven't figured that out yet, sir." He lifted his gaze to the older man's clear blue eyes. Jesse knew what he was thinking. He was thinking it himself.

"I see," Lodray said, clapping him on his arm. "Well, don't be a stranger. Come in and see me sometime."

Jesse nodded and backed toward the elevated walkway. "I will. Give my best to Mitch and Mrs. Lodray."

The polished windows of Elkgrove Building and Loan glinted in the morning sun reflecting the green trees and blue, blue sky. Gold leaf lettering proclaimed the bank's success. As he stepped up on the boarded sidewalk, Jesse ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath reminding himself of his purpose. He tucked his shirttail into his denim pants, then walked through the double doors.