Taming of Jessi Rose (11 page)

“Well?”

“I'm going.” He stood.

He gave Griff a small smile. “Thanks, Griff.”

“You're welcome. Now, get going before you get both of us in trouble with the governor.”

Grinning, Joth went inside, leaving a thoughtful Griff sitting in the silence of the Texas afternoon.

Jessi was in her room going over the ledgers, when
Joth knocked and came in. She looked up with a smile. “What can I do for you, Joth?”

“Do you think Griff will stay if we ask him?”

“He'll be here until September.”

“No, I mean after.”

Jessi studied her nephew's face and saw her sister Mildred in his eyes. It was easy to see that he was becoming attached to their resident train robber. She tried to pick her words carefully. “Honey, Blake's not the type of man you can saddle. Once he's done here, he's heading to Mexico, remember?”

His voice dropped. “Yes, I know, but can I still ask him?”

The hope in his face tightened her heart. “Why don't you wait until after this Darcy mess is finished, then see, okay?”

Joth didn't appear convinced, but he nodded. “Okay, I'll wait.”

“How's the room coming?”

“Almost done.”

“Good,” she said, smiling.

As soon as Joth closed the door behind him, she told herself she should have anticipated Joth's growing attachment. Joth had no other men in his life, and because of Blake's engaging personality, people were undoubtedly drawn to him like a dowser to water. Her nephew had been through so much in his short life: he'd lost his mother and his grandfather, lived under siege, and put up with the slurs and innuendoes directed at his family by folks in town and his classmates at school. Never once had he been anything but loving and helpful toward Jessi. Granted, in the last few years he'd been suspended from school for fighting more times than Jessi wanted to think about, but so had Jessi as a youngster. She'd meted out her own fair share of black eyes to classmates
who'd dared slur her mother out loud, so she understood Joth a whole lot more than he knew. However, she saw little future in becoming attached to a man such as Blake—for either of them. He would not be staying.

A
fter supper, Griff saddled up the gelding so he could ride into Vale. He needed to start the investigation.

It was mid-evening by the time Griff made the forty-minute ride to town. When he arrived, there weren't many people moving about Vale's main street, and only a few businesses still had their doors open to customers. As he rode he spied a couple of men lounging outside the barbershop. They eyed him. He eyed them back. He nodded. They didn't. He headed the gelding toward the saloon. Experience taught him that local watering holes were often a wellspring of information. Liquor had a way of loosening lips as well as brains. Griff rarely indulged. During his days at the whorehouse he'd been kicked and cuffed by more drunks than he cared to remember. They all served as sterling examples of what he didn't want to grow up and become.

He tied the gelding up at one of the posts a few feet from the saloon. On his way down the plank walk he passed the open door of a milliner's shop. Seeing the hats on display in the front window, he paused to view them for a moment. He wondered if Jessi Clayton was partial to ladies' hats. The battered, brown man's version she favored had seen its best days, but for some reason
he couldn't see her wearing the frippery on display here; when Jessi shopped it was probably for cartridges for that Winchester of hers.

“Young man, are you the outlaw everybody's gossiping about?”

Griff's turned his attention to the little old lady leaning on a cane. She might have been of an advanced age, but her dark eyes were clear and direct. Her curly gray hair looked like a bird's nest framing her brown face and she wore a long flowing robe, as if she were someone from a foreign country. “Well, are you?” she asked.

Caught off guard, Griff fumbled for an answer. “I suppose so. Yes, ma'am.”

“You suppose so? Are you an outlaw, yes or no?”

He wondered who this elderly ball of fire might be. “I am.”

“And you're here to help Jessi Rose Clayton?”

He nodded. He'd never heard Jessi's middle name before now.
Such a delicate name for such a fierce woman
, he thought.

“It's about time somebody took her side,” she said. “Come on in. You and I have some things to discuss.” She took his arm.

Griff tried to put her off. “I was just on my way over to the saloon.”

“Auntie can wait. This can't.” Her directness reminded him an awful lot of his boss lady, and the determination in her eyes made him believe she was not going to take no for an answer, so he surrendered and followed her into the millinery shop.

“What's your name?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Blake. Griffin Blake.”

Inside the small shop fabric seemed to be everywhere, along with netting, silk flowers, pin cushions, and hat boxes. He had to wait for her to clear off a small chair before he could sit down.

“There now,” the woman said, pulling a foot stool over so she could sit near. “Let me see your hands.”

Griff stared confused. “My hands?” He was beginning to wonder if coming in here had been a mistake. Would he find out later from Jessi that he'd been visiting with the town's resident fool?

“I read palms and I want to see your lines. They'll tell me what kind of man you are. Hold out your hands.”

Griff did as she requested. He thought it best to humor her then make a hasty exit.

She ran her hands very lightly over the surface of his palms. He was surprised to feel how callused her fingers were, but her touch was as soft as velvet.

For a few moments she traced the lines of his palms, then she stopped to say, “You had someone very dear to you die when you were young? Your mother maybe?”

Griff pulled his hands away as if he'd been burned. He stared.

The lady smiled kindly. “It's okay, I've seen all I need to see. I don't need to read further.” She then held out her hand. “Welcome to Vale, Mr. Blake.”

Griff shook her hand hesitantly.

“Name's Gillian Priest. Pleased to meet you.”

Griff nodded.

The woman stood. “Would you like some lemonade?”

Griff didn't want anything other than to leave this decidedly strange woman and get back outside, but something stayed him. “Yes, ma'am.”

Moments later, he and Gillian Priest were sitting in the quiet shop sipping lemonade. “What do you think of our Jessi Rose?” she finally asked.

“Miss Clayton is a fine woman.”

“That she is. If we had more men in this town with her gumption, Vale wouldn't be in the mess it's in today. She's been standing up to that bounder Darcy for a year
now with nobody guarding her back but the boy. It's a damn shame.”

Griff thought so too.

“So how old are you, Mr. Blake?”

“Call me, Griff. I'm twenty-five.”

“Then call me Gillie, everybody does. And although twenty-five is a mite young, you'll do.”

Griff frowned. “For what?”

“In time you'll know. In time.”

Griff was definitely certain now—Gillian Priest was a strange woman. But maybe he could get some information from her. “How long have you known the Claytons?”

“Since before Jessi and her sister Mildred were born. Taught school here in those days. Never had a student smarter than Jessi Rose, never. Just knew she was going to make something of her life and she probably would have if Dexter Clayton hadn't called her home.”

“She said she came home to raise Joth after her sister died.”

Gillian cocked her head at him. “She told you the story?”

“Some of it, yes. You look surprised.”

“I am. Usually Jessi is as tight-mouthed as a spinster in a saloon when it comes to talking about the past. Do you know what a griot is, Griffin?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, back in Africa there was always one person in the tribe who knew the tribe's history. Some tribes called these historians ‘griots.' I'm Vale's griot. Most folks don't like it that I know more about their families than they do, but—” She shrugged.

Griff didn't know whether to be fascinated or afraid. Admittedly he was experiencing a little bit of both.

“So,” she stated. “What do you want to know about Darcy?”

“How'd you know I'm after information on Darcy?”

“If you're here to help my Jessi Rose, you'll need to know your enemy. What kind of outlaw are you, Griffin?”

“Train robber.”

“Successful?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Good, this town has enough failures. Take that Roscoe Darcy, for example. Been weak since the day he was born. Came home from back east a year ago with that trollop Minerva—” Gillie stopped. “I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be talking about the father, not the son.”

Gillie took a moment to observe him, then said in a very earnest voice, “You're a dreamer, aren't you, Griffin Blake?”

Griff felt amazement come over him again. How had she known? Did she also know that every now and then he even saw bits of the future in his dreams, like when looking into Joth's eyes at the table that morning after his arrival? He now studied her wise old eyes. She seemed too astute, or was it magical, for him to try and deny the truth. “Yes, I am. My mother was a dreamer. Her grandmother, too.”

Gillie smiled softly. “You're going to be good for her, I can feel it.”

“For who?”

“Jessi.”

That made Griff
real
curious. He could think of ways he'd like to be good to Jessi Rose Clayton.

“In what way?” he asked.

“You're going to give her back to herself. She's been waiting for you a long time.”

Griff didn't know what to say to that. Yes, he found Jessi Clayton both attractive and fascinating, but Gillie made it sound as if he were here to fulfill some kind of ancient prophesy.

“You look skeptical, Griffin.”

“Let's just say I'm here to do a job. I'm nobody's knight. Miss Clayton can fend for herself.”

“You're right. She's been taking care of herself for a long time. No, my Jessi Rose needs a knight of another kind, and the lines on your hand mark you as a champion. You may be an outlaw, but I know you've done a lot of good in your life, too.”

He had, but quietly. There were bankers here and there who'd allowed Griff to stash his ill-gotten gains in their vaults, and in exchange the bankers would lend the money, ensuring them both a profit. At last count Griff's money—well, the railroad's money—had built six schools, three hospitals, a family barn or two, and a church. Griff's brother Jack called the philanthropy nothing more than Griff's way of washing his hands clean of his thievery. Griff called it good business sense. The big banks in the big cities weren't going to loan a small Black congregation the funds to build a church, nor a Black school board money to improve their school. For members of the race, the political climate in the country was dark as a Kansas sky holding a twister, and if Griff could help folks while he helped himself, he saw nothing wrong with it. Philosophically, he knew stealing was wrong, but no more so than denying a whole race of people a chance at success simply because of the color of their skin. The last time he'd seen his brother, they'd argued over this very point. Jackson called Griff's reasoning a convenient excuse; Griff told him to mind his own business. That had been over six years ago.

“What can you tell me about Darcy?” He thought it best to sidestep Gillie's talk of champions and get on with the matter at hand.

“That he loved Jessi's mother, Violet—so the gossips say—and that she loved him so deeply in return she left her family to be with him. So they say.”

Griff was surprised to say the least. “You make it sound as if there's another side to the story.”

“There might be.”

“How'd she die?” he asked.

“She was on her way to meet Reed one evening when her carriage overturned and she was thrown and killed. Dexter found her body.”

“How old was Jessi then?”

“She'd just turned thirteen summers the day before. Mildred was fifteen.”

Griff felt a kindred sadness echo deep inside. He knew how painful it had been to lose his mother at a young age. He'd been healed somewhat by declaring war on the railroads, but what had Jessi turned to in order to bury the heartache? Griff could see Gillie watching him closely and he really wanted to ask her about Jessi and Bob, but he remembered the look in Jessi's eyes when she asked that Bob not be discussed, so he chose to respect her wishes. Maybe one day she would tell him the story and maybe she wouldn't. “This has been a real interesting visit, Miss Gillie.”

“Not as interesting as the next few months are going to be, but I'm glad you could stop by. I'll be here when you need me.”

Griff stood. She made it sound as if this would not be his only run-in with Vale's griot, and he found it not that alarming. “Take care of yourself, Miss Gillie.”

“You too.”

Aided by her cane, she walked him to the door and he stepped back out into the Texas evening.

The sign above the saloon's small doorway had the words
Auntie's House
emblazoned on it in red hand-painted letters that had to be a foot high. As he approached the entrance, habit made Griff pull down his hat brim just enough to cover his distinctively colored eyes. In his train-robbing days, a shadowy saloon could
hold any number of complications, the least being railroad police, Pinkertons, or bounty hunters, none of whom were known for being sociable. At worst, it held some kid looking to get his name in the paper for outdrawing you.

Even though Griff told himself he didn't have to look over his shoulder anymore, habit was a hard thing to shake. As he entered the quiet Auntie's, instinct made him mentally record how many exits there were, two, and where they were placed just in case he had to make a hasty escape: one was the door he'd just come through and the other was near a billiard table on the far side of the room. There was a staircase that led upstairs to where he assumed the girls took their customers.

Business was slow. There was one man seated at the polished wood bar, and a few others playing cards at the back of the room. The piano sat silently waiting for its player, it seemed, while at a table near the bar sat three gaudily dressed hostesses. They all watched him eagerly.

Griff gave them a smile but headed for the bar. It was quite obvious that it had been transplanted here from some other establishment. Amid the dim lighting and the sawdust-covered floor, the ornately carved length of wood looked as out of place as an African princess in a border town bordello.

The man behind the bar, a burly caramel-colored man with arms the size of trees, viewed Griff warily as Griff walked up.

“Tequila,” Griff ordered.

The price the man quoted for the shot gave Griff pause, but Griff placed the coins on the bar with no fuss. Sometimes information didn't come cheap. He waited for the man to splash the liquor into a glass.

Once the coins were deposited in the strong box, the barkeep's manners seemed to improve. “Haven't seen you around here before.”

Griff took a swig of the tequila. It had been a long time since he'd had a drink, but the bite and kick of the liquor was a familiar one. “Working for Miss Clayton.”

The man went still. “Why?”

“She asked me to.”

“Are you a friend of Bob's?”

Griff eyed the man coolly. “No.”

The barkeep picked up a towel and began wiping out glasses. “You know, nobody works for the Claytons?”

“I keep hearing that.”

“What's your name?”

“Blake. What's yours?”

“Keel. I'm the blacksmith here, too.”

Griff thought Keel certainly looked the part. Griff had always considered himself a big man, but the smith was much broader and taller. In a fight, he could probably crush Griff like a walnut. “How long have you lived here?”