Taming of Jessi Rose (5 page)

He looked up from his plate. “Met Roscoe and Minerva Darcy in town.”

“A very pleasant encounter, no doubt,” Jessi cracked.

“Quite. Especially the part where she ordered the
store clerk not to accept my gold for the supplies I was after.”

“That must've made Abe Thomas sick. He's as greedy as he is nosy.”

“Is everyone in town lined up on Darcy's side?”

“Mostly. Those who aren't keep quiet and pretend they are, especially if they've had their lives threatened. Still want to stay, Mr. Blake?”

He flashed her that smile and then went back to his meal.

After dinner, while Jessi cleaned up the kitchen, Joth spread his schoolwork on the table and grudgingly began the tasks assigned by his teacher, Mr. Trent. Griff stepped out onto the porch to have a smoke and to give them some privacy.

After being in a prison where noise reverberated night and day, he'd almost forgotten how silent and peaceful a sunset could be. Instead of the screams and cackles of the damned and demented, he could hear crickets and the wind in the trees. Here, night brought introspection and a sense of time passing, instead of worries over which prisoners would be found dead in the morning and whether one of the dead would be you.

Her light steps on the porch behind him broke his reverie. Without turning, he asked, “Do you think we'll have visitors tonight?”

“I don't know. Sometimes they'll leave me alone for weeks at a time, and other times they're here every night.”

“Well, plan on sleeping tonight. I'll take the watch.”

“That isn't necessary. I can carry my share.”

He turned and looked into her tired but vibrant eyes. “I'm sure you can, but when was the last time you had a full night's sleep?”

“A while,” was all she would say.

He turned back to feast on the dying sun. “A spread
this size must've had hands at one time. How many were there?”

“Ten full-time. During spring round-up we could call on as many as forty men. After my father was killed, Darcy ran most of them off. The rest I couldn't afford to pay anyway, after a while, so…” She shrugged as if that were explanation enough.

“Anybody around we can hire?”

“Not for miles. Darcy has everyone scared, but even if they weren't, I can't pay them.”

He said nothing.

She asked, “What do you wish to be called?”

“Griff is fine. Tomorrow I'll see about some hands.”

There was silence again for a moment, then she confessed, “I still don't want you here.”

He turned and took a moment to observe her, once again drawn to her dark beauty. He knew if he told her about seeing Joth in his dreams many years ago, she'd think him loco, so he kept that to himself. “I know, but I was a boy once and, when I needed help, there was no one around. No disrespect, but I'm here because of Joth, not you.”

“Touché, Mr. Blake. I'll take the second watch.”

She went back in the house, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the sunset.

T
he next morning, Griff awakened to the ringing sound of an ax. Dawn had just arrived and he couldn't imagine why anybody in his right mind would be up at such an unholy hour. In prison the guards always woke the inmates as early as possible with as much noise as possible. The prisoners hated them for it, mostly because early rising was for farmers, not outlaws; outlaws rose late and went to bed late, preferably with a pretty girl. Griff swore, when he'd settled in Mexico, that he'd never to get up before noon. Snuggling back beneath the soft blanket, he drifted off once more.

Outside, Jessi put down her ax, tipped back her old beat-up hat, and wiped the sweat from her brow. The sun had been up over an hour, and so far no Blake. She wondered if her new hand knew there was work to be done, specifically, fence posts to cut. Marshal or no marshal, she had no intention of letting him laze around all day.

When she went inside and found the house as quiet as it had been when she began her day, she waltzed into his room, saying, “Mr. Blake, it is time to get up. There's work to do.”

Cool as can be, Jessi marched over to the bed and snatched the covers back. She instantly regretted it. He
was naked as the day he was born. Mortified, she blinked. She was so busy staring that it took her a moment to remember that no well-raised female ogled a naked man. She quickly spun around.

“Something wrong?” he chuckled from behind her back.

Embarrassed to the soles of her feet, she couldn't speak.

He lay back with his hands tucked behind his head. “That's what happens when you march around so hell bent on being in charge. Bet you'll never do that again, will you?” He found his eyes lingering over the sweet lines of her hips in the snug denims.

“No.”

“Thought not.”

Griff sat up. He didn't bother replacing the covers—he dared her to turn around. “I believe you owe me an apology.”

Apologizing was not something Jessi did easily, but she tried. “I'm sorry. I should have knocked.” Jessi dearly wanted to burn away the memory of his muscular fed-gold nudity but found it impossible.

“Yes, you should've,” he agreed, wishing he could see her face, because she appeared as shocked as a church lady in a brothel. “Now, I'm going to get up and get dressed, and unless you want to see what many ladies describe as the cutest butt this side of the Rio Grande, I'd advise you to march out of here the same way you marched in.
Comprendez
?”

With the sting of embarrassment still resonating in her cheeks, Jessi exited.

Struggling into his clothes, Griffin used the basin to rinse his mouth and throw some water on his face.
Damn woman
, he thought to himself. If she had someone in her bed at night besides that Winchester, she'd be too tired to be charging around at dawn, snatching the blan
kets off innocent folks. But that scenario was about as likely as him being named Mexico's next
El Presidente
. He sat on the bed to pull on his worn boots. Jessi Clayton was truly a unique and beautiful woman, but any rattler had a better disposition. He stood then and grabbed his gun belt. He'd truly enjoyed her reaction, however. Remembering her shocked dark eyes, he grinned. No, she'd never do that again.

Outside, she was still chopping wood when he strolled up.

She brought the ax down on the wood at her feet and it split in two. “If you've come out to tease me further, don't.”

Griff wasn't loco. He knew better than to rile a rattler, especially one with an ax in her hand, but he couldn't resist. “You know, some painters consider the naked body a beautiful thing. What's your thinking on nudes, Miss Clayton?”

Embarrassed all over again, she said, “A gentleman would never ask a lady such a question.”

“Maybe. But remember,
you
pulled the covers off
me
.”

“I'm aware of that, Mr. Blake.”

From beneath her hat, Jessi looked up into his eyes. In this early morning light they were the color of a mountain cat's and held the same challenging amusement she'd seen in them before. It was almost as if he knew something about her that she had yet to discover. Admittedly confused by whatever it was she was feeling, she changed the subject. “Around here, we start the day early, before it gets too hot. Coffee's on the stove in the kitchen.”

“Changing the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe I'll get the chance to pull the covers off
you
one day.”

Jessi felt her heartbeat increasing in response to his teasing tone. “I thought you said you weren't a danger to me, Mr. Blake.”

“I'm not. I never pull back a woman's covers unless I'm asked.”

“And I assume you're asked often?”

“Often enough.”

She stooped to pick up the wood. After tossing it on the pile with the rest of the posts she'd cut, she dusted her gloved hands on the legs of her denims. “Well, I won't be asking, rest assured.”

“You never know. Life doesn't always go as planned.”

“You're right, but some things are very certain.”

Griff smiled. He sensed the passion and power emanating from beneath Jessi's armor. “So, you never saw your husband in his birthday suit?”

“Mr. Blake, I am not answering any more of your forward questions!”

“Answer is no, then. Seems mighty strange to me, but there's a first time for everything.”

Jessi shot him a look that would've sent any other man running for cover, but it only made him offer up that woman-melting grin again. Whistling, he left her and went back into the house.

A still amused Griff headed to the kitchen, where he poured coffee and watched a sleepy Joth enter moments later. The boy's smile of greeting bathed Griff in a way that seemed to warm his insides.

“Morning, Mr. Blake.”

“Morning, Joth. Call me Griff, if you would.”

The boy paused. “Aunt Jessi says I'm not supposed to call adults by their first names.”

“She told you right, but I'm giving you permission. So no more Mr. Blake, okay?”

Joth smiled as he nodded and got himself some eggs from the skillet.

Griff liked the boy. The light brown skin proclaimed his mixed-race parentage. He was a bit tall for his age, but terribly thin. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Joth?” Griff asked, as Joth started in on his breakfast.

“I wanted to be an outlaw like my pa, but Aunt Jessi says that's not such a good idea. She says I'll either die young, wind up in prison, or swing from the end of a rope.”

“She's pretty much right. Outlawing's not much of a life once you get old like me. You spend all of your time looking over your shoulder for bounty hunters or vigilantes or some youngun' who thinks he'll get his name in the paper for outdrawing you. Pick something out that has a future, like doctoring or ranching.”

“Is that why you're going to Mexico, because you're tired of being an outlaw?”

“Yep. Prison made me see the errors of my ways, too.”

Joth's eyes were wide. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“My pa was thirty-two, same age as Aunt Jessi.”

Griff wondered how the boy felt about his pa's death. “Are you going to miss him?”

Joth shrugged his thin old shoulders. “I suppose. I didn't know him all that well—he only came around once a year or so. He and Aunt Jessi didn't get along.”

Griff found that surprising. How could she be woman to a man she didn't like? The questions surrounding Miss Jessi Clayton were starting to stack up like corded wood. “So what are you going to do today, since you can't go to school?”

“Aunt Jessi's making me clean my room.”

The desolate face made Griff smile. “You don't look real happy.”

“I'd rather muck out the stables.”

“That's because the stables are cleaner,” Jessi cracked, entering the kitchen.

Her presence seemed to put the sun back in the boy's face. “Morning, Aunt Jessi.”

She smiled. “Morning, Joth. Just about done?”

He looked down at his nearly empty plate. “Yes.”

Jessi avoided looking at Blake's knowing expression. “Well, finish up and get going on your room. If you start early enough, you might be done by Thursday.”

The boy's smile mirrored his aunt's. The two favored each other more than a bit.

After his breakfast was done, Joth went off to his room, leaving Jessi and Griff alone in the kitchen. She was sipping coffee. He was watching her, once again noting how chapped and raw her hands looked curled around the cup. They were not the hands of a woman who sat around all day.

Jessi forced herself to bring up a subject she thought needed discussing. “The Wanted bulletins say you have a way with the ladies.”

Since Griff had no idea where this conversation was headed, especially in light of this morning's little incident, he shrugged. “It's not something I'll deny. I've always been partial to beautiful women.”

Jessi sensed that he wasn't bragging; he truly enjoyed women, and they enjoyed him. Her traitorous memory once again revisited the sight of him all nude and bronzed. She hastily set it aside. “Well, I'd prefer you meet your women in town, not here. Joth shouldn't be exposed to such things.”

“I agree.”

Jessi had expected him to argue the point. It surprised her that he hadn't.

As if offering an explanation, he said, “I like your nephew, Miss Clayton. He's been raised well, I don't plan on messing that up.”

Surprised again, Jessi confessed, “I say this in all honesty, Mr. Blake. I've met my share of outlaws, but I've never met one who cared at all about proper upbringing.”

“Is that a compliment or a complaint?” His gaze was open, teasing.

“I believe you can take it as a compliment.”

“Good. Then let me speak plainly as well. I've met my share of beautiful women, but I've never met one like you.”

Jessi didn't know what to say at first.
Declaring
herself past the age of fluttering was one thing, but actually
being
past the age of fluttering was another breed of cow, she was finding. Tearing her attention away from the spell of his powerful eyes, she finally replied, “I'm a bit old for you. Save your sweet talk for the young ladies in town. They'll appreciate it more.”

“A woman's just entering her prime at your age.”

“Did Minerva tell you I was a whore?” Jessi asked plainly. “Is that what this flirting is about?”

Griff found her straightforwardness refreshing, but for now he ignored the first question. He was far more interested in the second. “Do you think I'm flirting with you?”

Jessi took one look into his tempter's eyes and replied without hesitation. “Yes, but I think it's just part of your nature. I doubt you really mean anything by it.”

He responded with that grin. “Minerva told me some things, but they have nothing to do with this conversation, or anything else. I told you I'm no threat to you, and I mean that, but you are a beautiful woman.”

“Well, regardless, I'm still too old for you.”

“No, you're not, and whenever you want me to prove it, just say the word.”

Jessi blinked.

He stood then. “I'm going into town and see if I can't rustle us up a few hands to help out around here.”

Jessi could see both mischief and manly knowing in his eyes. Somewhere deep down in her soul, doors she'd locked over a decade ago were opening on rusted hinges to this train robber's seductive power and she wasn't sure what to do about it.

When he rode off, she was still seated at the table wondering where this would all lead.

 

Griff rode into town. Word of his presence must've gotten around, because he received more than a few stares from more than a few people. He threw some of the gawkers off stride by nodding politely and smiling, especially at the ladies, as if he were the town's padre instead of a notorious outlaw.

He dismounted at the telegraph office, secured the reins of the gelding to the post, and went on inside. A small crowd of men were gathered around a big-bellied stove, talking and drinking coffee. Griff's entrance brought on an immediate silence.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

In reply, he was offered some cautious nods of greeting and a few mumbled “Mornings.”

“Name's Griffin Blake. Who's the agent here?”

A short, balding man stood. “Me. Name's Crenshaw Atkins. What can I do for you?”

“Like to send this telegram—or are the Clayton hands not allowed to use the wire, either?”

His challenging words made eyes widen all over the small room. A couple of the men gave him challenging looks in reply, but no one said anything.

Atkins hustled over to his post. “What's the message?”

Griff scribbled out what he wanted sent and to whom, then handed the slip of paper to the clerk. Atkins' eyes widened as he read the what Griff had written.

“But these men are—”

“Friends,” Griff responded sagely. “Something a man can never have too many of. Is there a problem, Mr. Atkins?”

“No, no,” the short bald clerk stammered. “I'll send these off right away.”

One of the men by the stove said, “Reed Darcy's not going to like this, Atkins.”

Griff turned slowly around and in response answered, “I'm not here to be liked, just to work for Miss Clayton.”

“I'll tell him you said that,” the man retorted.

“Please do,” Griff responded.

Griff swore he saw Atkins smile, but the man's face was blank when he asked Griff, “Would you like to wait for verification from the agents on the other end?”

“Yep.”

Atkins tapped out the message. Griffin wasn't sure where his friends, Neil July and Neil's twin brother, Two Shafts, were living at this particular moment, but was certain the telegraph agent down in their hometown of Brackettsville would get the word to them. The other man, a friend from Dallas named Vance Bigelow, would hopefully be easy to find as well.