The Woman Who Loved Jesse James (40 page)

I whirled and took a second snowball in the chest. Forgetting my resolve to remain warm and dry, I charged down the steps, arming myself as I went. Soon snowballs flew between Jesse, Tim and I. Mary was content to sit in a pile of snow and watch us, laughing. Then Tim and I sided together against Jesse, pelting him mercilessly, until he held up both hands. “Uncle!” he shouted. “I surrender.”

Laughing, I stepped forward to brush the snow from his hair and he pulled me into his arms. “You have pretty good aim for a girl,” he said.

“You have pretty terrible aim for a man who makes his living with a gun,” I teased, but softly, so that the children and the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

“One more reason I’ve never robbed a train with a snowball.” He nuzzled my cheek.

“Your nose is cold,” I protested.

“What’s a little cold on a day like today?”

The pure joy reflected in his smile and his eyes made my breath catch. Here was the Jesse I had fallen in love with—the bold, fun-loving young man who had seized each day with such energy. This was the Jesse before bullet wounds and grief and the burdens of wrongdoing had aged and changed him. I leaned close and pressed my mouth right up against his ear. “I love you, Jesse James,” I whispered.

“I love you, Zee James,” he answered. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “And I love Josie Howard and Mrs. Jackson, too.”

“Scandalous!” I swatted at his shoulder, my hand scarcely making an impact in the thick bearskin of which it was fashioned. Mr. Howard and Mr. Jackson were still Jesse to me. The names were nothing more than a convenience.

“Papa, help me build a snowman!” Tim called. He was attempting to roll an irregular ball of snow across the yard, with little results.

“What about a snow woman?” I called, and started toward him.

The three of us ended up building an entire snow family—Mama, Papa, little boy and baby sister. We lined them up on the front lawn and decorated them with lumps of coal and dried tree branches. The snow woman wore a bird’s nest as a hat, and the snow man had a thick twig in his mouth that passed for a cigar.

“What happens when it gets warm again?” Tim asked as we stood admiring our work.

“They’ll melt,” I said. “That’s what snow does when it gets warm. It turns back into water.”

“I don’t want them to go away,” he said. “I want them to always be together.”

“That isn’t possible,” I said. “We’ll just have to enjoy them now, while we can.”

Jesse gathered Mary into his arms, then put a hand on Tim’s shoulder and steered him toward the house. “The snow family can stand guard while we go inside and have some hot chocolate,” he said.

“What are they guarding us from?” Tim asked.

“It’s just an expression,” I said as we climbed the steps to the porch. But the comment had destroyed the happy mood of moments earlier. It reminded me that we were not an ordinary family. We didn’t live on this hill because we enjoyed the view, but because we felt safer here. Like the snow family standing vigil in our front yard, we must always be on guard, watchful for dangers hidden like obstacles in drifts of snow.

The end of February
was always a hard time for us, recalling that terrible time four years previous when we’d lost our twin boys, Gould and Montgomery. I dealt with my grief by lavishing attention on Tim and Mary, spending many happy hours cuddling them, reading to them, or sitting beside their beds, watching them sleep.

At six and a half, Tim was the image of his father, with the same sandy hair and brilliant blue eyes. He never walked when he could run, and he liked nothing better than to follow in Jesse’s footsteps as he worked around the yard, or to accompany him on trips into town.

Mary, a petite dark-haired princess, loved to sing and take care of her doll. But when Jesse was home, she had eyes only for him. She would launch herself at him upon his return to the house and he would swing her high. Often she sat in his lap while he read the morning papers, or played at his feet while he smoked a cigar and stared out at the town from our house on the hill.

But even our children could not comfort Jesse in his grief for the two we’d lost. The last week in February, he did what he always did when dealing with difficult emotions—he roamed, this time all the way to Nebraska, where he claimed to be searching for a farm. “We could make a fresh start out there,” he told me. “Raise wheat and race horses. And children.
”

It was an old dream, one he’d talked about before. But I knew it was only a fantasy, never likely to come true.

I’d told Jesse about my pregnancy and as expected, he was thrilled. “We’ve got a good future in front of us,” he said. “It’s only going to get better.”

In March, a telegram arrived from Zerelda, informing us that Jesse’s half brother, John, had been shot during an altercation at a party and was not expected to live. “I’d better go to her,” Jesse said, as soon as he’d burned the telegram in the kitchen stove.

“Don’t.” I put my hand on his arm. “There’s nothing you can do for John, and you know the law will be watching your mother’s house.”

“They’ve been watching the house for years and they haven’t caught me yet.”

“What if one of the neighbors sees you and decides to turn you in for the reward?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You worry for nothing, sweetheart.” He stepped onto the back steps and called out to the children, who were playing in the shade of a tall oak. “I’m going to visit your grandmother for a few days,” he told them. “I hear one of her dogs has a new litter of puppies. Should I bring you one?”

“Yes! Yes!” Tim jumped up and down, his hands in the air.

Mary also squealed with delight, though whether because of her brother’s excitement, or her own anticipation of a puppy, I couldn’t tell.

After Jesse left, I was restless. When Mrs. Turrell invited me for tea the next afternoon, I readily accepted.

Lydia Turrell was a plump, fair-haired woman a few years younger than myself. Her husband worked in the press room of one of the St. Joseph newspapers and they had a daughter who was very near Mary’s age. While the children played with colored blocks on the floor of the parlor, my neighbor served cucumber sandwiches, little iced cakes, and dark China tea with sugar and cream. “What does your husband do, Mrs. Howard?” she asked.

“Please call my Josie,” I said.

“And you must call me Lydia. I know Mr. Howard’s work takes him away often. What is it he does?”

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with the question, even though I believed it was asked out of idle curiosity, and not because she suspected anything untoward about Jesse’s occupation. “He buys and sells commodities,” I said. “Wheat and corn, and also cattle and horses.”

“I never realized that sort of work required so much travel.”

“Yes, it does.” I sipped my tea with a pretense of calm. “He also has family scattered around the country and often visits them. He’s gone to see his mother, now.”

“My husband thought yours might be a sporting man,” Lydia said. “He always dresses so nicely, and he has a confidence about him I imagine a gambler would possess.” She leaned toward me, her expression anxious. “I hope you’re not offended by my saying so.”

“Of course not.” I relaxed a little. Her concern for my feelings was too genuine not to trust. “Tom has always enjoyed fine clothes.”

“You’re lucky to have a husband who takes such care with his appearance.” She looked away, and I thought of Mr. Turrell, who returned each evening in ink-stained coveralls and a much-battered hat. Lydia herself favored gowns with many ruffles and elaborate bustles. I wondered if she’d been raised in a more affluent household than her current situation.

“I often see Mr. Howard playing with the children,” she continued. “I saw you all together enjoying the snow earlier in the year. You looked so happy.”

“I
am
fortunate,” I said. “Tom is a wonderful family man.”

“How did the two of you meet?” she asked. “I hope you don’t think I’m prying. I’ve always been fascinated by stories of how couples get together.”

“Tom and I have known each other since we were children,” I said. “How did you and Mr. Turrell meet?”

“We met at a church social.” She blushed, looking much younger than her years. “A mutual friend introduced us and I was immediately smitten.” She lowered her voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “The next day, my aunt read my tea leaves and told me that I had recently met the man who would be my husband, and I knew at once it was Jim.”

In that instant, I was transported back to that sweltering afternoon on Mrs. Peabody’s porch, when she’d read my palm and told me I would marry a handsome man who would make me the envy of many. I could almost smell the cloying scent of jasmine, almost feel the cool roughness of her hand grasping mine. And I felt anew the shiver up my spine when she’d predicted I would know hard times, and refused to look me in the eye.

All that had come true, I thought, as I sipped tea and watched the children play on the floor. Jesse was a handsome man, and I knew some women looked at me with envy. And we had known hard times—certainly the deaths of Montgomery and Gould had been wrenching, and before that those harrowing days after Northfield, when I hadn’t known if Jesse lived or died. I prayed those trials were past us now, and that we’d be allowed to settle into easier days.

“Do you have any special plans for Easter?” Lydia asked. “Will your family be visiting?”

“We have no plans.” I thought of Jesse’s penchant for bringing home stray ‘friends’ such as the Fords, and passing them off as cousins. “But that could change. Tom is very hospitable.”

“I was so glad when you moved in,” she said. “The woman who lived in that house before was not very sociable. It’s nice to have a family there. We sometimes seem very isolated up here on this hill.”

“Yes. It is lonely up here sometimes.” Jesse liked being above everything, with a view of the town and valley spread out below, but I missed being surrounded by people and places I knew well.

“You know if you ever have need of anything while your husband is away, you only have to ask,” Lydia said. “James and I would be glad to help you.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “That’s very good to know.” It would be good to have one friend I could count on.

Since Annie had moved away, I’d had no close female to confide in. I hadn’t realized before how much I’d missed that. Only a woman could truly understand another woman’s struggles to both nurture her children and encourage their independence. And only another wife could relate to the conflicted feelings a woman has for her husband—the ardent love tempered by irritation at his spending habits or his stubborn disposition or temper or some other character trait which had seemed small and insignificant during courtship, but which now rubbed her nerves like a rock lodged in her shoe. Such feelings could cripple a marriage, the way a tiny rock can cripple a walker. But my love was made of stronger stuff; I had resolved to develop callouses against the things in Jesse that disturbed me; to take these weaknesses and from them build a stronger, truer love. One that would last a lifetime.

Jesse returned home the following week,
bringing with him the promised puppy, who was greeted with much enthusiasm by the children.

He also brought with him Charley and Robert Ford. “Don’t scowl at me that way,” Jesse said before I could utter a word. “Charley and Bob are going to help me with a little job and I need them here to help with the planning.”

So once more our ‘cousins’ took up residence in our spare room. I grudgingly prepared their meals, though I resented their presence at the table. The second night they were with us, Charley fell into a fit of coughing just as I set a pigeon pie on the table. “What is wrong with you?” Jesse asked. “You sound near dead.”