For a long time after rocking Corrie to sleep, Jess leaned against the headboard with her cradled in his arms and watched her with the lamp turned down low. She trembled and twitched, a frown or an expression of alarm flitting across her face at intervals. Every so often, she whimpered wordlessly, and he feared the nightmare held her in its thrall.
At those times, he whispered in her ear, “Shhh, sweeting. Jess is here. I have you safe.”
Then she quieted in his arms until the next time. Each time, the agitation was slower to return, and finally she fell into a deep slumber.
Carefully, he eased her onto her pillow and covered her. He made his way to the window and stared out at the waning stars, as if they held the answers to his questions. These were no ordinary bad dreams. Corrie’s nightmares were the product of something horrible.
Judging by the lost look in her eyes, he doubted she had ever talked about it. She barely admitted anything had happened, much less discussed it.
From his experiences in the army, he knew that sitting around the barracks shooting the bull with fellow soldiers could ease a lot of what gnawed at one’s soul. Bad as things had become during that time of his life, he still recalled how much talking with the others in his troop had helped keep him sane.
At least, until the last battle. . . .
He scraped a hand through his hair as he spared Corrie a glance. Too well, he knew the way nightmares preyed upon your mind, making you doubt yourself, even hate yourself.
Some time had passed since he had awakened with the screams of death stabbing his ears. Yet that did not mean he didn’t live with that sound, that guilt. Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped it away as he continued staring up at the stars. Oh, yes, he remembered it. Lived with it.
He had not forgotten the massacre, and neither had he forgiven those who had taken part.
Nor had he forgiven himself.
Corrie whimpered again and he left the window to kneel beside the bed. In the flickering lamplight, she had the smooth features of a child, yet no child should harbor the memories she did—whatever they might be. At least he had been a man grown when he had lived through his nightmare.
With a gentle hand, he snugged the blanket around her more tightly. As he rose to turn out the lamp, she moaned. The sound was that of a soul lost, without hope, and he sank onto the bed to gather her close.
“I’m here, sweeting. I’m here and you’re safe,” he whispered against her hair.
“Jess?” she croaked, obviously still mostly asleep.
“I’m here, love.”
“ ’Fraid I’d gone back,” she murmured.
“Back to Texas?”
She sighed and slipped toward sleep, but she answered, almost too softly to hear, “Back to my time.”
“Your time, sweeting?”
But Corrie was asleep.
What did she mean by back to her time?
Jess turned out the lamp and sat there, studying her in the dim light from the window. A child of sorrow. A woman of contradictions. Who was Corrine Webb?
Two days before the grand opening, Jess still had not asked Corrie about her odd remark. But then, everyone had been so busy, he barely remembered it.
Right now, something even more odd occupied his attention.
Big John joined him with a puzzled frown. “Y’gonna study that stove much longer there?”
Jess squatted at the back of the stove and looked up the stained wall again. “I don’t see it.”
“Don’ see what?”
“I don’t see how a flame could hit the wall this far down.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“See how far down this burn mark runs?” Jess pointed to the area that had confused him since the fire. “If only the front burner cover was off, there’s no way for the flame to have spread downward like this.”
Big John craned his neck to look where Jess pointed. “I sees what you means, but it weren’t the front burner caused that.”
“It had to be. Corrie said she lit the box through the front burner, then left off the cover.” Jess straightened and dusted his hands on his grimy pants.
“Weren’t the front burner open when I got here, and I was the first ’un in.”
“Corrie was sure—”
“She’s wrong. It was the back ’un.”
Cold settled in Jess’s gut. “You’re sure it was the back one? No chance you got mixed up?”
“No, sir. I’m sure.” The black man strode to the back door. “I came in this way and saw the fire goin’ up, outta that ’un.”
From that angle, Big John could not have made a mistake about which burner was open. Jess doubted Corrie was wrong, but . . . He scanned the dining room until he located her, up a ladder and dressed in her now usual trousers.
“Corrie,” he called, aware of how many heads turned and how many knowing grins formed before the owners returned to their tasks. “Could I speak with you a moment?”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
He had to admit, the trousers made her descending the ladder much easier. And much more scenic.
“What’s wrong, Chief?” Her eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t tell me something’s wrong with the stove. I have to have a stove to cook on.”
“It works fine, but this burn mark has me stumped.”
“Why you tell ’im you left the front burner open, Corrie, when I knows I saw the back ’un open?”
“But I didn’t use the back one.” Her gaze shuttled back and forth between Jess and Big John. “I wouldn’t reach over the front burner if I didn’t have to. I’m not an expert, but I’m at least practical.”
The cold in his gut froze as Jess extended his examination to the back doorframe. “Jimmied.”
Corrie had been upstairs in the bathtub. If a man had broken into the café, he could have broken into her quarters as well. Jess gathered her against his side.
“Jess?” Corrie gazed up at him, willing him to contradict what she feared was true. She shivered and snaked one arm around his waist, seeking his warmth against the chill of dawning realization.
“Someone deliberately uncovered the back burner and let the flames burn that part of the wall”—Jess tightened his hold—“and skim upward in this pattern.”
“No one would come in here and try to—” She broke off, unwilling to put her fear into words. “That’s impossible.”
Even as she denied it, the thought arose, Impossible like time travel’s impossible?
“On the contrary, arson’s the only explanation.” His arm was as hard as steel around her.
“But who would do something like that?” She ran over a list of people and came up blank. Major Payne was the only person she had really ticked off, but he wouldn’t sully his hands with arson.
The door swung open and Corrie squeaked. When Zelda and Peggy Garrett entered the kitchen with baskets fragrant with the scent of hot bread, embarrassment flushed her cheeks.
“Why, whatever is wrong, child?” Zelda asked. “You’re skittish as a colt.”
Corrie shook her head, unable to get words past the constriction in her throat. Someone had tried to burn down her Café of Dreams. As Jess and Big John retold their stories, some wellspring of strength deep within erupted, and fear gave way to anger.
Someone had tried to burn down her Café of Dreams, damn him. Someone had tried to rob her of her dream. She whirled out of Jess’s hold and smacked her hand against the wall, wishing it were the arsonist’s face. “Damn it, someone tried to burn me down.”
“That’s what I was just saying,” Jess said in the placating tone one used to talk a crazy person down from a ledge.
I’m not crazy. I’m not afraid. She smacked the wall again. I’m mad.
She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at the entire lot of them, all staring at her. “Well, it isn’t going to work. We’re going to open this place and open it on time.”
“Amen,” Maisie Johnson said and slapped her own hand against the wall she was scrubbing.
More hands buffeted the walls, and soon the café resounded like a drum corps gone bonkers. If enthusiasm would open the café, the grand opening was a sure thing. Corrie banged a rhythm on the wall, relieving the bite of her anger and building the resolution it had spawned.
Into the cacophony trouped a band of women dressed in the height of fashion—or so they seemed to Corrie’s eyes. Any female guest of the Chesterfield would have killed to be dressed so well.
With an embarrassed chuckle, Corrie stopped pounding the wall and approached them. “I’m sorry, ladies, but the café won’t open for two more days.”
The room fell silent as the women exchanged looks among themselves. The tallest, topping Corrie by a head, folded her hands and pronounced, “We’re not here to eat.”
“I beg your par—”
“Messy!” A second lady in peacock blue made a dash past Corrie, her bustle creaking in her wake.
Two others chimed in and hurried past Corrie swung around to follow their route only to find Jess surrounded by fashionable ladies, looking surprised and very pleased. A twisted knot of jealousy sprouted in Corrie—one she would use to club the self-satisfied policeman to pieces.
The tallest woman paused beside Corrie and chuckled in a tone that carried the ring of familiarity.
Corrie shot her a searching look, then exclaimed, “I’ve seen a picture of you. You’re Jess’s sisters.”
“Guilty as charged,” the woman said, flinging up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m Abigail Andersen. Call me Abby.”
Corrie shook her hand and introduced herself.
“Oh, I knew who you were the instant we opened the door. Ma described you quite well.”
“Zelda wrote to you about me?” A pleasing warmth spread through Corrie’s chest—Zelda had thought enough of her to mention her in her letters.
“Of course. Teddy, too.” Abby slung an arm around Corrie’s waist and walked toward the chattering horde. “It isn’t every day that Messy becomes involved with a female chef and foots the bill for a restaurant.”
“Messy?”
“Sorry,” Abby said on another chuckle, so much like Jess’s. “Our nickname for Jesse. He was quite a dirty little beast of a brother until he went to West Point. The army gave him a taste for spit and polish.” They reached the noisy band, which proved to be only the three plus Peggy and Zelda. Each woman hugged her as they were introduced—Beatrice, Clarabell, and Deidre. Or Bea, Clare, and Deedee, as they insisted she call them. They clustered around Corrie, who didn’t need to say a word. They said everything for her—and lots more.
Never having been around families much, the next step escaped Corrie. Given her druthers, she would have made a rapid exit. No one gave her that chance. At least one sister had her by the hand, the arm, the waist—in some way holding her within the group—the whole time.
And dang if it didn’t feel . . . good.
Jess caught her eye over the plump one’s head—Clare, it was—and winked.
Peggy was almost jumping up and down with excitement. “I have missed you all so much. It’s just like home now.”
“Except I seem to be missing my brothers-in-law.” Although Jess smiled, deep grooves bracketed his mouth and creased his forehead. “Where did you leave them? No, don’t tell me—they’re managing the mountain of luggage you brought.”
An uneasy silence swept over the women, and they dropped their gazes.
He turned to Abby. “Where’s that overgrown Swede, Erik?”
She blushed and became engrossed in rubbing at a spot on her skirt.
“Bea, don’t tell me Bertie was too busy to get away.” Strain tightened his joking tone as he caught Deedee’s hand.“Sven actually let you travel by yourself?”
“Oh, Jess,” she answered on a sob.
Abruptly, he dropped her hand and stepped from the family circle. Zelda grabbed at his sleeve, but he jerked from her grasp. In a voice of ice, he muttered, “I see.”
What’s going on? Corrie searched the faces around her for an explanation.
Jess repeated, “I see.” Then without another word, he stalked out, the glass rattling in the door as he slammed it.
Corrie rushed to follow, but Zelda stopped her with a firm, “Leave him be, dear.”
“But he’s hurting,” she said.
“I know.”
“But—”
“I’ll explain, but not here,” Zelda said with a jerk of her head toward the Johnsons. She gathered up her daughters with a single glance and shepherded them upstairs, along with Corrie.
There they perched, mostly on window seats, as the café had been her priority to furnish. Zelda lowered herself into the only armchair, and for the first time, Corrie noticed how old Jess’s mother was. A gray pallor shadowed her face, and her hand trembled as she tucked in a stray hair.
An hour ago, Corrie would have expressed her concern. Now she glared at the older woman who had been a part of hurting Jess.
Stonily, she asked, “What was that about downstairs? Why did Jess leave? What did you do to hurt him?”
Zelda lifted unsteady fingers to her eyes. “I had hoped . . .” Her voice trailed off and she motioned for Abby to speak.
The eldest sister seemed to seek silent counsel from each of the others before she cleared her throat. “It’s a private family matter.”
“You hurt Jess,” Corrie said, the accusation stark and harsh. The pain in Jess’s eyes wrung tears from her heart. Families meant safety and a haven of comfort. She didn’t remember those things, but that was what families were for. Not this hurtful disaster of a reunion.
“Yes, and you should know why,” Zelda said in an old-lady’s voice. “Go on, Abigail.”
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Abby said.
“Out west, I know that much,” Deedee said. “Everything was fine before the Indian Wars.”
An inkling of understanding dawned. PTSD wasn’t diagnosed in the here and now, but it was all too common in the twenty-first century. She nodded for them to continue.
“That’s when it started, yes,” Abby said. “But I’m not certain any of us know exactly what happened out there.”
Clare gave a little cough. “My Bill says Jess changed after that.”
Abby looked at her sister. “Has he ever told you precisely what happened to Jess? Erik certainly hasn’t told me, no matter how much I plead with him.”
“Bertie hasn’t told me either, even when I threaten to never make lo—” Bea broke off, cheeks flaming.
“Be that as it may,” Abby said with a silencing frown. “We have scarcely seen Jess since he returned.”
Bea scooted forward and began ticking off events on her fingers. “Let’s see, he came to your wedding, Deedee, and your last baby’s christening, and—”
“Don’t forget Christmas three years ago,” Deedee added.
Bea nodded and opened her mouth to continue, but Corrie beat her to it.
“I don’t care what wedding he went to. I care about why he left here like he’d been beaten.” She had been leaning against the door and now straightened and pointed her finger at Abby. “You give me the straight scoop. Only you,” she said with a warning glare at the others.
Abby shut her eyes tight and a tear streaked down her cheek. When she opened her eyes, Corrie saw a bleak uncertainty in them.
Ignoring the tears filling her eyes, Abby said, “When Jess returned from the war, he was . . . different. He left us, an eager young lieutenant fresh out of West Point and chomping at the bit to serve his country. He came back angry and bitter and holding something in. He wouldn’t tell us, his sisters, what had happened.”
“Tell her about the meeting.” Clare gasped as she realized she had interrupted.
“The meeting?” Corrie, trying to imagine what could have transformed Jess, prompted Abby to go on with a wave of her hand.
“Soon after he came home, Jess argued with our father. Papa sent for the men in the family—practically everyone came except Uncle Pat, who’s all the way out in New Mexico territory.”
“What did they argue about?” Corrie asked. This drawn-out explanation wound her tighter and tighter and provided no answers.
Again, Abby glanced around, as if for consensus. “We don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Unable to contain herself, Corrie stomped around the room.
“Our husbands never told us.” Abby fidgeted. “Whatever happened out west must have been horrendous, otherwise our husbands would have shared it with us.”
“That doesn’t explain why Jess asked where your husbands were and then shot out of here when they hadn’t made the trip to Hope Springs. It’s not as if he’s got a fragile ego.”
Blank looks followed her statement. She inhaled sharply and rephrased, “It’s not like he’s easily insulted.”
“No, but apparently, he insulted every one of our husbands. Even Papa.” Abby scrubbed her hands down her face and stared at the moisture as if she didn’t know where it came from. “Insulted them so badly that they cannot forgive him.”
“But he’s your brother.” Family accepted you no matter what. Didn’t they?
“He’s also a man who said something that hurt the others so horribly they won’t discuss it with us, their own wives. They refuse to speak to him at all.” Abby withdrew a pristine white handkerchief from inside her sleeve edge and wiped her eyes. “The only man in the family who will speak to Jess is Teddy, and all I can get out of him is that Jess’s remarks didn’t bother him as he isn’t a lawman.”
What in hell did being—or not being—a lawman have to do with anything? Corrie shook her head, trying to sort out the scant information she’d been given. And trying to reconcile this reality of a divided family with her images of how families worked.
“This makes no sense,” she said. Nods showed their agreement. “But I can’t just let Jess wander around out there alone.”
She knew too much about being alone. No one deserved that, least of all a wonderful man like Jess Garrett.
“Where will you look?” Zelda asked, her face still gray but a spark of hope deep in her blue eyes, so like her son’s.
“Everywhere.” Corrie walked to the window and stared down at the street, then off into the hazy distance of the mountains. Turning back to the assembled Garretts, she said, “I do know I’m not leaving him by himself. No matter what he said to your husbands, a family is supposed to forgive and forget.”
And love you forever.
Jess crested another hill and pulled King to a halt under an ancient apple tree in full spring flower. The sweet scent drifted down to him and he inhaled, thinning the stench of rejection.
Seven years, he thought. Seven years and I can’t unsay my words. Seven years and they can’t forgive me.
Anger roiled in his gut. He swung out of the saddle and paced up and down through the old orchard. Insult and rage churned, screaming for release.
Without conscious thought, his Colt appeared in his hand. The grip itched in his palm, begging to vent his wrath. He leveled the gun at the town in the distance and sighted down the barrel. Just so, could he kill.
Just so, had he killed.
“No!” It was the howl of a wounded animal—his soul. He flung the gun to the ground, then hurled himself onto King, riding away from the past, from the killing. From himself.