Just Jessie Page 4

  At lunch, Ben ignored Jessie’s concern. When she saw the torn skin on his knuckles, she said softly, “That looks raw.”

  He buried his hand in his pocket. “It’s nothing.”

  She set a pitcher of iced tea on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “I’ll just get some antiseptic, and—”

  “I said, it’s fine.” Ben scraped his chair back and shoved away from the table. “Excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Ben didn’t want or expect her kindness. A woman’s kindness always had strings. That sort of indebtedness was exactly what he’d sworn to avoid. That night, however, he wasn’t surprised to find a tube of antiseptic, a box of gauze and a roll of tape on the bathroom counter. With a grim smile, he reached for them.

  He cleaned the wound, wincing at the sharp antiseptic sting. Hell! When was her brother due home? Not soon enough to suit him. He wasn’t going to stay here long. He knew it, and the sooner the Carlisles realized it, the better he would feel. The old man and the girl were getting to him; they were too needy. He’d learned to avoid emotional traps.

  Later, before falling into a restless sleep, he thought the situation over and made up his mind to resign in the morning.

  That had been his intention.

  But Jessie came downstairs in a dress. It was simple, plain cotton, a bluish-greenish shade. Turquoise. While not overly flattering, it revealed what thick layers of sweatshirts and jeans had hidden. She had a waist and breasts. And she had legs—long, silky legs and delicate ankles.

  Ben swallowed hard.

  She hesitated on the third step. Her feet looked impossibly dainty in low white heels. Ben’s gaze swept up again. Her hair was paler than he’d realized—silky, straight, and falling free around her shoulders. Her eyes were soft, rainwater gray. She looked young and fresh and totally unaware of her appeal to a hungry man. His mouth tightened. He watched her face close at his hard expression. “Going somewhere?”

  “To church.” She slipped around him. “It’s Sunday.”

  Sunday. He’d forgotten there were still people who went to church on Sunday. When had his days started to flow together meaninglessly? And why did it matter now?

  Ira called from the depths of the house, “Jess, come on. We’ll be late.” Without a backward glance, she walked away.

  Ben gritted his teeth. When they got back, he would resign—immediately after lunch. But they got back late, and lunch was rushed. There were still chores to do, Sunday or not.

  Later in the afternoon, she made cookies. Chocolatechip cookies. When he walked into the house, the seductive aroma hit him like a brick wall. And he knew she was going to drive him crazy.

  It took Ben ten days to realize there was no television in the house. Each evening after dinner, Ira invited him to play cribbage, at which the old man cheated. Tonight, it was Ben’s move. He studied the small, strategically placed pegs on the board and wondered how he was going to get himself out of this fix.

  In the background, music filled the growing silence. Proud of his Scots-Welsh ancestry, Ira favored Scottish bands—bagpipes and all. The music reminded Ben of ancient Celtic warriors—swirling, sighing, squeezing sounds of war that stirred the blood. Sounds that celebrated war and mourned the losses. Though hopelessly archaic and primitive, they struck too close to everything Ben had tried to forget.

  “Your move,” Ira grunted.

  Ben’s mouth tightened. “Right.” It was his move, and he was sitting tight, seduced by a crafty, sly, cheating old man and a guileless young woman who knew how to cook.

  The following day, Jessie attacked his laundry.

  Ben had left a pile of dirty shirts and jeans on the bathroom floor with the intention of doing it himself. When he returned midmorning and found it missing, he went looking for Jessie. He found her in the laundry room, turning his pockets inside out before adding his jeans to the wash.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, as if he couldn’t see with his own eyes. Before he could object more strenuously, she added a second pair of jeans to the wash. After spinning the dial to Start, she turned to him with an irritated frown. Behind her, the washer hummed and spun into action.

  She reached for his shirt. “You’ve got a button missing.”

  “I don’t need a maid,” he snapped as he took the shirt from her. He certainly didn’t need her.

  Jessie got the message. She stared at him in disbelief. Of all the stubborn, pigheaded, headstrong, obstinate men she’d known. Men! She lost her temper. “Do you intend to wear these filthy things again? Air them on the line, then recycle?”

  Ben’s face turned red. “I planned on locating the nearest Laundromat.”

  Tight-lipped, she yanked the washer open and delved into it. “Fine!” Her voice rose with pent-up anger. “You want your laundry, here it is.” Let him discover there wasn’t a Laundromat within a hundred miles! He could eat dirt for all she cared. She hoped he choked on it! She tossed his jeans at him.

  Stunned, Ben caught an armful of wet denims. Gray, nonphosphorous suds ran down his front and puddled on the dull tiled floor. Dripping and furious, he opened his mouth, but all he caught was a flash of blue. And Jess was gone. As the moisture seeped into his clothes, a series of doors slammed somewhere in the house. Fred had arrived at the tail end of the argument.

  Now he grinned, clearly enjoying Ben’s predicament. Fred shook his head at the two of them. “Damn fools.”

  Ben lifted the soggy mess away from his chest. “Stay out of this.” What was he supposed to do now?

  “Seems to me an extra pair of jeans in the wash don’t add up to all this fuss. Now you got Jessie all riled up. She just likes to help out when she sees a need.”

  That was what Ben wanted to avoid—needing Jessie.

  Avoiding Fred’s censuring gaze, Ben quit the room. His boots squelched as he climbed the stairs. Muttering a string of mild curses, he dumped the jeans in the upstairs bathtub before going to his room to change. Finding a dry, clean, respectable pair of jeans took some effort. Finally he dragged an old pair from the bottom of his backpack. He pulled them on, cursing fluently when he had to draw in a breath to snap the waist shut. Now he was gaining weight! She was going to be his ruin.

  For the rest of the day, Jessie avoided Ben. After dinner, she made an attempt to work off her anger. With the danger of frost gone by, she got a start on her vegetable garden.

  Tilling the patch of ground as if her life depended on it, she was determined to finish by nightfall. It was hard work. With a clang, she struck a stone and dug it out, placing it with the growing pile destined to add another layer to the miles of stone fences marking the property. Each spring, after the heavy rains, stones worked their way to the surface—as much a part of spring as the greenery and wildflowers. Stones and flowers. Her father used to say they grew stones in New England instead of crops. That was before he lost his sense of humor.

  Jessie sighed.

  Certainly her sense of humor could use a lift. Why had she let Ben get beneath her defenses? Why did she find him so aggravating? He was like a stone—hard and impenetrable.

  At length she hit a smooth patch of ground, where gradually the rhythm of her movements soothed her and she slowed. The sun dropped in the sky. A flock of longnecked geese flew overhead, gliding smoothly from cloud to cloud. Jessie stopped to rest. Leaning her chin on the long smooth wooden handle, she stared up at the sky.

  Another sound broke the silence—a metal hoe striking hard earth with a crunch. Jessie looked down the row, her eyes widening at the sight of Ben working the opposite end. As if aware of her curious stare, he raised his head and stared back.

  The tension drained from her shoulders. She didn’t say a word; neither did he. Hiding a small smile, she bent to her work, her back to Ben.

  The next morning, his laundry was piled atop the washer. With a small laugh, she added it to the wash.

  Once it was under way, Jessie enjoyed spring planting. The farm took on a cultivated
look—brown earth carved into long, even rows that stretched out to the sun. The prolonged dry spell ended. For three days straight, rain lashed the newly plowed fields without mercy, without any sign of letting up.

  Ira stared out the window. “Looks like a lake out there.”

  Jessie couldn’t hide her own concern. “The pond’s close to overflowing.” Each spring, a rambling offspring of the pond, a swift-flowing, rock-strewn stream, widened and threatened to flood. “Ben’s keeping a close eye on it.”

  Ben came to collect his rain gear. “Call Cal and Fred. We need to sandbag the stream.”

  Jessie made the calls, threw some food together, and grabbed a waterproof poncho. “Wait for me.” She was in time to hitch a ride in the truck. Fred was already seated in the pickup; he squeezed over to make room. Firmly ensconced in the driver’s seat, Ben glared at her. Naturally, she thought. Where else would a man of action be?

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

  Fred made himself small. Cal vaulted into the truck bed behind them. With a small start, Jessie realized they’d grown accustomed to Ben’s military tone of voice.

  Ignoring his irritation, she lifted her chin. “I’m coming. You’re going to need all the hands you can get.” For once, Ben couldn’t argue with her logic. The pickup rumbled off down the road. Visibly disgruntled, Ben hit every pothole. Jessie shot him a provoked look when they arrived downstream where a family of beavers had dammed the natural flow of water.

  Ben glowered back, unsure why the mere sight of her in her bright yellow rain slicker irritated the hell out of him. “Let’s get to work,” he ordered, deliberately turning his back on that one ray of light.

  As the dismal day progressed, the bright yellow slicker shone like a beacon. Jessie. She was small, lithe, graceful. And she worked as hard as the men, he noticed. He couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to her time and time again. She pitched in to help, laughing at Fred’s corny jokes, responding to Cal’s teasing with a grimace and a roll of her eyes. Her voice was light and mixed with the wind, the gurgle of the stream and the patter of the rain. In her natural element, Jessie became part of it.

  The other men accepted her presence with ease—somehow, Ben couldn’t. Instead, he kept the wide stream between them.

  Raised in upscale Southern military-school tradition, Ben had been conditioned to think of women as fragile flowers to be pampered, protected and spoiled. An indestructible belle, his mother had found the perfect niche when his father retired from the military and was assigned to a small obscure country whose name Ben couldn’t even pronounce. There, she played the role of ambassador’s wife to the hilt. Oh, he knew women weren’t soft. He’d met women—career officers who competed for rank, not to mention available women who hung around military bases all over the world. He’d learned about those, as well. He’d never been able to take what they offered. Now there was Jessie. And in Maine, where women stood shoulder to shoulder with a man, she was as fragile as a flower, strong as a weed. He wasn’t sure what to think about Jessie.

  They stopped for lunch. The food hamper was on Ben’s side of the stream. He watched as Jessie gingerly crossed a fallen log spanning the water. When she reached the grassy shore, she looked up as he offered her a hand. Her foot slipped.

  Ben grabbed her and grunted as she fell hard against his chest. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Her hands held him off. Her eyes widened, staring into his unsmiling face.

  For the life of him he couldn’t summon a smile. A drop of rain trickled down her face. Exertion had made her cheeks pink—or was that her reaction to him? Did she feel some of the things he felt? That faint but insistent stir of curiosity, desire? No. She was too young. Too innocent.

  She blinked when he carefully set her aside.

  “You’re doing a good job,” he muttered, his voice deliberately curt. “Keep it up.”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, sir!”

  “Don’t be cute.” He hid a smile, amazed she’d gotten up the nerve to get fresh with him. To avoid further temptation, he sat on a rock under an overhanging pine tree and ate his lunch.

  Jessie found a distant rock.

  In the afternoon, they continued to shore up the banks. Finally, when the stream ran straight and free, they piled into the pickup and headed for home. Jessie yawned and fell asleep before the first mile was up. When she slumped toward Ben, he felt her warmth seep into his bones. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, her small breast pressed into his side. His body hardened. He couldn’t remember when he’d last held a woman.

  His mouth grew grim as he acknowledged the fact that this stubborn, boyish, half-baked female could wring an unwelcome response out of him, despite his iron control. What control?

  Fred looked across and gave him a knowing glance.

  Ben clenched his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. When they arrived at the house, Fred chuckled and deserted him to his fate. Jessie. Ben took a deep breath. Her nearness generated more than heat. He groaned when she snuggled closer.

  Looking at her sleeping face, he took in long silky lashes against petal-soft skin. Her complexion was rosy, healthy, unblemished. Her hair looked soft. He smoothed a strand from her cheek. At his touch, she stirred.

  Slowly she opened her eyes, then blinked. She looked adorable, her eyes dusky gray with sweet confusion. As if drawn by an invisible thread, her gaze drifted to his mouth. Ben fought the urge to drag her against him. The dewy promise of her skin begged for his touch. He cupped her chin and ran his thumb along her jaw. Her lips trembled. He felt her delicate shudder.

  The close confines of the truck grew steamy as moisture condensed and fogged the windshield, enclosing them in a private world. His head started to bend—

  The dog started to bark. The porch light came on and Ira stepped out. Ben froze. Jessie’s eyes clouded as she shrank away from him. She scrambled out of the pickup.

  By the time he recovered, Ira was still there, standing in the open doorway, waiting. Ben felt like an adolescent as he filed past the older man.

  Ira frowned, his gaze clearly warning Ben away from his daughter. Ben didn’t have to be told. Actually, he owed Ira a debt of gratitude for preventing him from making a terrible mistake. What had he been thinking?

  The way Jessie affected him, he would never be satisfied with just one kiss. He couldn’t understand her irresistible appeal. She wasn’t beautiful, sophisticated, witty or exciting. She was just Jessie. Jessie, like a summer sigh born on a spring breeze.

  It rained the rest of the week.

  Tempers were set at hair trigger, including Ben’s. He waited for the rain to end, the sun to shine—something. And while he waited, Cal griped, Fred scowled, Ira bit heads off and Jessie made herself scarce, at least whenever Ben was around.

  On Friday, Jessie disappeared after supper, as usual.

  Ira retired early, complaining, “My arthritis is acting up. Must be this damp.”

  Left alone, Ben poured over books on pesticides and assorted plant diseases, attempting to brush up on his knowledge. After a couple of hours, he yawned and slammed the book shut. Enough was enough. He rose and went to the window where he stared out at the dismal night. Rain streamed down the glass. Though physically tired, he knew he wouldn’t sleep—not until exhaustion claimed him. At night, Scottish bagpipes merged with bloodcurdling screams in his dreams. Choppers spun, crashing down. A green jungle. He closed his eyes, wiping the vivid memory from his thoughts, knowing it would return the moment he laid his head on a pillow and slept. He’d been running from the memory for two years. When would he forget?

  Ben stared into the black depths of night. The house was silent. Jessie had left hours ago on her nightly solitary wandering; it was nearly nine now. Some part of him always registered the time she left, and the time she returned.

  Tonight, he hadn’t heard her come back. He didn’t let himself think of her whereabouts. Perhaps she had a boyfriend
, after all. Drew Pierce? He frowned at the thought.

  Half an hour later, the back door opened. The dog barked.

  Jessie entered the kitchen, her voice soft as she bent over and scratched the dog’s ears. “Down, Bandit.” Bandit panted in ecstasy, rolled over and made a pathetic display for her affection. She fussed over him for another moment or two.

  Ben saw her stiffen when she became aware of his presence at the far end of the room. He leaned into the doorframe. “You’re late,” he said, immediately wishing he could bite back the words. He sounded like her father. And why not? She could use some looking after. It was obvious Ira had abdicated the position.

  “Am I?” She shrugged off his concern. “I dropped in on Fred and his wife. Have you met Hazel?”

  He felt ridiculous for overreacting. Her explanation was so simple. “I didn’t know Fred had a wife.”

  She draped her raincoat over a chair. “Well, he does.” The cuffed legs of her jeans were dark and wet.

  “What’s she like?” Ben felt an urge to prolong the conversation. Jessie intrigued him—her long silences, her secrets. There was no denying she got under his skin.

  “She’s just like Fred.”

  Ben winced—a female Fred. “How do you mean?”

  “She’s got this instinct about people.” Jessie smiled ruefully. “At least, she seems to know what I’m going to do before I do. She’s bossy and gossipy and kind and caring.”

  “That sounds like Fred.”

  Glancing down, she picked up his book. She read the title and lifted a delicate eyebrow. “Potatoes?”

  He half smiled. “I never guessed it was such a delicate plant. If the grubs and beetles don’t get it…”

  “The ring rot will,” she said with a soft laugh.

  His smile filled out. He met her eyes briefly.

  She glanced away. “Is that how you learned about farming? From books?”

  “Partly,” he admitted. At his abbreviated answer, the hint of disappointment in her eyes made him add, “When I was a kid, I spent summers on my grandparents’ farm in Virginia.”