A Fire in the Blood (32 page)

      
He scanned the books and asked a few questions about where and when the cattle had been stolen.

      
She explained, then added, "I rode out with Moss this afternoon to see how bad it's gotten. I think he wants to quit, too."

      
An unamused smile crossed his face. "Now that I'm here, he just might do it."

      
She shook her head. "No, I don't think he will. He may not like you but he'll respect your orders—so will the rest of the men. They always resent a woman trying to run a ranch."

      
He looked up sharply and closed the ledger with a snap. "I'm not staying, Lissa, once this is over."

      
"I know," she replied angrily. "You have your own place in Texas."

      
"Who told you that?" Already he had a pretty good idea, and he did not like it.

      
"My friend Camella," she dared him.

      
His eyes narrowed. "You better be a little more discreet in picking your friends."

      
"Really? As you well know, discretion was never one of my virtues. In any case, I'm every bit the outcast she is. And after all, Jess, we do have a great deal in common," she couldn't resist adding.

      
He ignored the innuendo. "You seem to be going out of your way to antagonize the good folks in Cheyenne."

      
"After marrying you, I didn't have to do anything else."

      
"I can't change that now, Lissa," he said bitterly. "I can only try to save your ranch."

      
"It isn't
my
ranch," she replied, willing him to mention Johnny.

      
"Well, it sure as hell isn't mine!"

      
"No, it's your son's—or do you even give a damn?"

      
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have quit a high-paying job and ridden eight hundred miles."

      
Realizing that a quarrel would solve nothing, Lissa seized control of her blazing temper. She would play a subtler game this time.

      
"I've had Clare fix a room for you. By the time you take Blaze to the stable, supper will be ready. We eat in the kitchen now, unless you'd prefer the dining room." She held her breath.

      
He tightened his jaw. "I'll sleep in the bunk- house. Vinegar can get Tate and me something—"

      
"No!" She took a calming breath and repeated earnestly, "No, Jess. I'm not attempting to seduce you. If you're going to run this ranch, you can't sleep with the hired hands. Even Moss has his own cabin, and he's just the foreman. You are my husband—in name. Everyone would expect you to stay at the house." Her voice was low and hoarse, breaking as she added, "Don't shame me this way, Jess."

      
He felt as if he had just been poleaxed. How could he refuse? She was probably right. It would be hard enough to whip the J Bar hands in line and deal with that surly old ramrod. He would have to sleep under the same roof with his wife. But not in the same bed. "All right, Lissa," he said, expelling his breath on a sigh. "I better go talk to Symington first thing."

      
"I'll hold supper until you come back," she said and began to fiddle with the papers on the desk as he left the room.

* * * *

      
Jess knocked on the door to Moss's cabin and waited as a chair scraped across the planks and footfalls sounded. The old man squinted into the darkness, then swore softly and stepped aside, letting Jess enter the cabin.

      
"Did Lissa tell you she sent for me?"

      
"Nope. But it don't surprise me none," Symington said sourly, his eyes moving from Jess up the rise to the big house.

      
"Yeah. I'm staying there, Symington. Does that put a burr under your blanket?" He was damned if he would explain his sleeping accommodations to anyone.

      
Moss shrugged disgustedly. "Hell, she married you all legal. It ain't none of my business."

      
"No. It damn sure isn't," Jess echoed softly. "I hear the rustlers have hit harder than ever this year."

      
Symington had a bottle of whiskey on the table along with a half-filled glass. He did not offer any to Robbins but gulped down the rest of the tumbler and ran his shirtsleeve across his mouth. "We're down over a thousand head this past month. Reckon some of them fellers you shot up musta come back."

      
"Only if they're wearing sheets and clanking chains," Jess replied without levity. "How many new hands hired on since I left last year?"

      
Symington barked a humorless laugh. "Only thing hands was doin' round here was quittin'—til Miz Lissa brung back six er seven new men from town. Over a month 'er so ago."

      
"I'll need a list of their names. Tomorrow first thing, you show me the places where you've been hit." He turned to go, then paused. "Lissa says you wanted to quit but didn't. You got any problem working for me, say so now. I don't like being crossed."

      
Cool gray eyes clashed head-on with angry brown ones. "I stayed on 'cause of Marcus Jacobson. I rode fer his brand since I was a slick-ears myself. If he wanted her 'n her boy to have J Bar—well, I reckon that's good enough for me. You bust up them rustlers. I won't cause no trouble."

      
"Good," Jess flatly, then walked out into the cool night air.

      
On the way up to the kitchen, he stopped at the pump in the backyard and washed up. As he dried off, he replayed the encounter with Symington in his mind. The old ramrod hated his guts as much as Jacobson had, but he was loyal to the brand. Moss would probably stay on after he left. That was good. Lissa would need the help. Maybe then she could hold on to the place for her boy.

      
Her boy
. That's what Symington called his son. Not Marcus's grandson. Not even
your boy
.
Don't think about him.
      
Jess finished rolling down his sleeves, combed his fingers through his wet hair, and headed toward the amber light of the kitchen and the rich smells of fresh rolls and fried chicken.

The table in the center of the room had two settings on its bright green cloth. Lissa placed a platter of golden chicken in the center of the table and fussed with two big linen napkins.

      
He observed the nervous little maid, who bobbed a curtsy to Lissa and then left the room, looking for all the world as if he might take a bite out of her instead of the chicken.

      
"Where'd you get her?"

      
"Clare used to work for the dressmaker in town, an old tyrant. I offered her a job when I fired Germaine."

      
He grinned. "No surprise there." As he pulled out her chair, the fragrance of orange blossoms smote him again. When she turned back to look up into his face with luminous gold eyes, his breath caught in his throat.

"Ger
      
maine always hated me, and I never understood why. She's in town now, living off the stipend my father left her in his will. It was a lot of money. I don't know why she doesn't go back to Canada."

      
"Why didn't you go back to St. Louis? Sell the ranch and let someone else deal with the rustlers?"

      
Her jaw stuck out at that stubborn angle he had learned to recognize. "No one's driving me away. This ranch belongs to our son." She waited for him to ask about his son, but he merely bit into his chicken. The meal continued with little conversation.

      
Finally he wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed his plate away. "My compliments to Clare. That was excellent."

      
"Clare didn't cook it. I did." There was a note of unmistakable pride in her voice. She was pleased with the incredulous expression on his face.

      
"You couldn't boil water when I left here."

      
"I've learned a lot of things this past year. While I was living with Aunt Edith, I had her cook teach me. I rather enjoy it."

      
"You always plan on coming back here to fire Madame Channault?"

      
"Maybe," she replied enigmatically. "What did Moss say?"

      
"He'll stay. Said you hired some new men in town."

      
"That was long after the rustling had started again. I know what you're thinking, but this isn't an inside job unless one of the old-timers is involved."

      
He studied her. "You think that's possible?"

      
"Anything's possible."

      
"Any offers to buy the place?" He had some suspicions but did not voice them aloud for the present.

      
"Not directly." She paused, pleased with the glint of interest she saw in his eyes. "Lemuel Mathis hoped to marry me ... if I got a divorce from you."

      
"I take it you turned him down," he said levelly, cursing himself for the flood of relief that she had done so.

      
"He only wanted the ranch, not us."

      
Mathis is a fool.
"He might be behind the rustling then."

      
"I doubt it. Pompous old Lemuel, a cow thief?" She dismissed the idea as absurd.

      
Jess stood up and helped her with her chair. The small courtesy made them seem as intimate as a real husband and wife, used to sharing meals and conversation. Lissa found that she enjoyed the illusion far too much. He could not leave them again. She simply would not let him ride away without a fight.

      
"I'll show you to your room," she said breathlessly.

      
He gestured for her to lead the way, then picked up his saddlebags from the kitchen chair and followed her upstairs.
      
When they reached the guest bedroom, the soft sound of a baby whimpering echoed from the other end of the hall.

      
"Johnny rarely wakes at night. Did I tell you I named him John? It was my maternal grandfather's name as well as your father's. He is John Jesse Robbins."
I'm babbling
.

      
Jess felt as if he had been kicked by a mule.
John Jesse Robbins. My son.

      
Lissa noted his sudden look of vulnerability. "Would you like to see him?" The minute she asked, she cursed herself.
Too soon!
The expressionless mask dropped in place again.

      
"No, Lissa. I don't think so." He closed the door to his bedroom, leaving her standing alone in the empty hall.

Chapter Nineteen

      
Jess awakened to the smell of frying bacon and freshly made coffee. In spite of being exhausted from the long ride, he had lain awake for hours the preceding night, listening for sounds of Lissa quieting Johnny and visualizing her with the baby. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed sleep from his eyes. A man could get used to sleeping in beds this soft if he were not careful. But Jesse Robbins was always careful.

      
"How the hell can I sleep and eat under the same roof with them?" he muttered to himself. There was a bar of soap and fresh water in the basin by the window. Pulling his razor from his saddlebag, along with a change of clothes, he shaved and dressed. Sooner or later he would see his son. Lissa would make certain of that.

      
Lissa.
Just being in the same room with her during dinner last night had nearly driven him crazy. Vowing to get the trouble at J Bar under control quickly and escape, Jess headed downstairs like a man facing execution.

      
Lissa was at the stove, deftly forking the last of a hearty rasher of bacon from the iron skillet. She set it on the table beside a platter of fluffy biscuits and a dish of freshly churned butter. Hearing his footsteps, she looked up and smiled. "Good morning."

      
He could not help but notice the delightful domestic picture she made in the kitchen setting. It was quite different from how he had first envisioned her when they met last year. The spoiled darling in silks now had a smudge of flour on her freckled nose and wore a simple yellow cotton dress covered by a white apron. Her hair was pulled atop her head in a loose bun with wispy tendrils escaping all around, as if she had fastened it hastily.

      
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked almost shyly.

      
"Cooked," he replied, "if I'm lucky."

      
She regarded his saturnine expression, trying to ignore the smell of shaving soap and leather. "You're lucky. Fried over easy all right?"

      
"Fine." He poured himself a cup of scalding coffee from the big granite pot on the stove and looked out the window.

      
"Are you always this sociable early in the morning?" she asked as she broke three eggs into the skillet.
How little I really know about him.

      
He grunted a nonanswer and watched her with hooded eyes over the rim of his cup. After sipping the steaming brew he said, "Thank God your coffee's better than Vinegar's."

      
"Thank you, I think, knowing that ink he boils until it'll float a horseshoe."

      
"No such thing as coffee too strong—"

      
"Only men too weak," she chimed in, delighted when a genuine smile flashed across his face. She slid the eggs onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. "Help yourself to bacon and biscuits." She gestured to the place setting at the table as she used the back of her hand to push a wayward curl off her forehead.