The Woman Who Loved Jesse James (4 page)

“Mrs. Peabody must be at least that old,” I said. Though I still couldn’t imagine wanting to sleep with a man like Mr. Henry.

“Have you seen your cousins yet?” Esme asked.

“Frank and Jesse?” I shook my head. “No.” Then again, would I even recognize the boys if I saw them again?

We were almost finished eating when Fanny and Rachel Grace, friends from school, joined us. “There’s a group of young men here, recently returned from the war,” Fanny said, her eyes shining.

“How many of them are there?” Esme’s face brightened. Young men meant possible suitors.

“I heard half a dozen,” Rachel said. “Though if any of them are worth knowing, I can’t say.”

“I say any eligible young man is worth knowing in these times.” Fanny glared at her sister. Already twenty-two, she was in danger of being labeled an old maid, while Rachel was just eighteen.

“Or even an eligible older man,” Esme said, giving me a knowing look. “If he’s nice and can support a wife I wouldn’t say no to him.”

“Frank and Jesse James might be worth knowing,” Rachel said. “I hear Jesse in particular is a handsome one.”

“Are they here?” Esme asked.

“So I hear,” Rachel said. “Though never having met them, I couldn’t say.”

“Frank and Jesse are Zee’s cousins,” Esme volunteered.

Fanny regarded me with renewed interest. “Then perhaps you’ll introduce us.”

“Perhaps.” I stood and excused myself, pretending I had to visit the outhouse, when all I really wanted was to escape from the cloying desperation of these women who were so determined to snare a man at any cost.

Yes, I wanted a husband, and a home and children of my own. But our visit this afternoon with Mrs. Peabody had made me more certain than ever that I wanted to do more than settle for the first man who would ask me. I wanted the grand passion she’d spoken of—a man I could love with both my body and my heart, who would add color and adventure to my life, and not merely more drudgery.

“I wanted a good look at the crowd before I ventured forth.” He nodded toward the gathering. “Who’s the stocky man with the frock coat and the pistols—standing by the punch keg?”

“That’s Sheriff T. Wayne Henry. Why?”

“Is he Union or Secesh?”

“Southern. He fought at Antietam.”

Jesse nodded. “Anyone here who might have Northern sympathies?”

“No. My family and the groom’s are both firmly with the Confederacy.”

“Then I suppose it’s safe for me to join the party.” But he made no move to leave.

“Is it true you’re riding with Quantrill’s men?” I asked.

“I have the honor of serving with Quantrill’s lieutenants, Bill Anderson and Archie Clement, as we strive to further the Southern cause.”

“Bloody Bill” and Archie Clement were well known to Missourians. Among Southern sympathizers they were revered for their success in wiping out whole groups of Union soldiers in daring raids on encampments and troop trains. Unlike the regular Army, the guerrillas were free to choose their own targets, and to attack and withdraw with lightning speed. That a not-yet seventeen-year old could distinguish himself in such a company of seasoned fighters spoke volumes about Jessie’s abilities and made me see him in a new light.

I began to walk along the edge of the trees and Jesse fell into step beside me. “Are you really worried about Union soldiers disrupting the wedding party?” I asked.

“I’ll leave and draw them away before I let that happen.”

I stumbled on a fallen branch and he took my elbow to steady me, his hand remaining there for a heartbeat too long. I glanced up and found his eyes fixed on me with uncommon intensity. “What is it?” I asked, annoyed at being the object of such scrutiny.

“Last time I saw you, you were a skinny girl,” he said. “You’ve grown into a fine woman.”

My cheeks burned and I looked away, reminding myself that this was the boy who had ruined my skirt with mudballs, the one who had cried and run to his mother when I dared to retaliate by firing a rock at him.

But this was no boy standing beside me. Jesse’s voice was the deep, rich tones of a man, and he had a man’s build. A man’s capable hands reached out and guided me over a second fallen branch, and this time they did not release me. He leaned close and I caught the smells of leather and gun oil that clung to him. “Did you truly not recognize me just now?” he asked.

“It’s been a few years since we last met,” I said. “I was thinking of you as a boy still.”

“I’ve done and seen things no boy should do or see,” he said solemnly.

A shout rose from among the wedding guests, distracting him. He looked across the clearing to where his brother Frank, who Jesse always called Buck, stood with a group of young men. The men were surrounded by a bevy of young women, including Rachel, Fanny and Esme. “I’d better join my friends,” he said, releasing my arm. “Good afternoon, Cousin.”

He nodded, then strode away. I stood as still and calm as the atmosphere on a sultry afternoon, nothing within me moving, though the air around me had the heavy, charged atmosphere of a storm about to break.

The handsome, young bushwhackers
swept into the celebration like a cool mountain breeze, enlivening the party with a jolt of energy and daring. Women circled them like butterflies around blossoms and the men obliged by flattering and flirting, paying court to each young miss with equal fervor. Darkness fell and lamps were lit and hung in the trees and from the eaves of buildings, and large canvas sheets were spread on the ground for dancing.

The band began a lively reel and the young men and women paired off. I was more than pleased when one of the bushwhackers, a handsome young man named Cole Younger, bowed before me. “May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked.

On trembling legs, I stood and put my hand in his. “Certainly,” I said.

Though forbidden to dance, Esme and I had practiced the steps of the waltz and the quadrille in my attic bedroom, humming to ourselves as we turned, twirled, and promenaded. We were determined to be as accomplished as the young women in the novels, also forbidden, that we read in secret—hours spent in the seclusion of the woods behind my house, huddled over the pages of
Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights
and other romantic tales.

But dancing with a man would be a different thing altogether, and I prayed I would not disgrace myself in this, my maiden public effort.

“Zerelda! What do you think you’re doing?”

I froze as my father’s voice cut through the hum of conversation and whirl of music. Cole released my hand as if singed, and turned to face my father. “Sir,” he said, with a stiff bow.

Father ignored him and turned to me. “Zerelda, what are you doing?” he demanded again.

I held my head high, and willed my voice not to shake. “Mr. Younger has done me the honor of asking me to dance,” I said.

Father turned to Cole. “I am sorry if my daughter has misled you,” he said. “But she does not dance.”

“The fault is entirely mine, sir.” He flashed me a look full of sympathy, bowed, and melted into the crowd.

Father turned to me once more. “Zerelda,” he began.

“I don’t see what harm there is in dancing at my sister’s wedding,” I protested. “What sin can happen here in the open, with so many people watching?”
And what is so wrong with a little sin if it makes me feel more alive?
I thought, but did not dare say the words out loud.

“You know that not all sin is evident for all to see.” He took my arm in his and began to lead me away from the edge of the dance floor. “We must also be concerned about the sin within our hearts.”

If my father only knew the things I had thought and felt and longed for, he would no doubt judge my heart black with sin. Yet better black than empty of any true emotion or feeling.

He patted my hand. “I know it is hard for you, dear,” he said. “The war has deprived you of so many little pleasures. But there are still many things for you to enjoy. Go and sit with your friends and enjoy their company. And no more talk of dancing or other unseemly behavior.”

“Yes, Papa.” I allowed him to lead me to a chair with the other unattached young women. While their conversations flowed around me like the twitters of a flock of birds, I searched the crowd until I found the one young man who did not participate in the revelry. Jesse sat on the sidelines, in a group of older men, their faces somber as they talked of the war, of depredations visited upon friends and relatives, and of the success of the guerrillas.

I finally broke from the group of young people and edged to the outermost rim of this circle of Jesse’s admirers, darkness concealing me from my mother and father, who wouldn’t hold with their unmarried daughter associating with so many men who were strangers to me.

One of the other men, a Mr. Cleveland, had taken up the tale of Jesse’s exploits: “The reins in his teeth, a pistol in each hand, Jesse charged into that camp, guns blazing,” he related to an avid group of listeners. “Those Yankees must have thought the devil himself was riding them down. They fired, but none of them even grazed him.”

The image of Jesse as avenging warrior stirred me. I watched his face as the flickering lantern light highlighted the fine bones of his cheeks and hard line of his jaw. Too many men who had returned from the fighting had a hollowed-out look, as if the rigors of battle had drained their very souls. Yet Jesse radiated health and vitality. Where others bore the weary air of defeat and failure, Jesse held the promise of a bright future.

“The Yankees are scared of us, boys,” he said. “I’ve seen it in their eyes when we charge them. They turn tail and run at the first sight of us. It’s only because there are more of them than us that they’ve lasted this long. The South has better men in a single county than the whole of the Northern Army, I’m convinced.” His voice rang with conviction, and I saw many an older man nod his head in agreement.

Then I noticed I wasn’t the only female in the group. I spotted Esme and Rachel across from me at the edge of the circle of lantern light. Fanny was a little farther away, watching Jesse with all the avarice of a cat who has cornered a mouse.

I looked away from her, and at that moment, Jesse raised his head and his eyes met mine. He rose. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. Gentlemen.” He nodded and crossed the circle of admirers at an angle that would take him away from me, and disappeared into the darkness.

I didn’t hesitate to go after him. I moved carefully, on the very edge of the lantern light, making sure I was unnoticed. I met Jesse near the elm where we’d first encountered one another that afternoon. The band struck up a mournful rendition of
Lorena
, the sweet, soulful notes soaring over the shuffling of feet on the canvas and the muted conversation of the crowd. “Why aren’t you dancing?” Jesse asked, before I could speak to him.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Dancing is an invention of the devil,” he said, in perfect imitation of my father delivering a sermon.

I laughed at his apt impression, and he caught my hand in his. “I’ve noticed that the devil has cornered the market on interesting amusements,” he said. He removed his hat and hung it on the lowest branch of the tree, then offered me his arm. “Will you walk with me?”