Christmas on My Mind (5 page)

He parked the SUV, crossed the porch and opened the front door. Jess was snuggled on the sofa with a book. The reading lamp made a halo around her, its soft light dancing on her fiery curls. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Hi,” she said. “Your mother's already gone to bed. I told her I'd stay up to welcome you home.” She closed the book and held it up to show him the cover. “I haven't read Jane Austen in years. Your mother has quite a collection.”

“She gave a home to a lot of the worn-out books from the library,” Ben said. “Did she leave me some supper? I'm starved.”

Jess rose, uncurling her body with the grace of a cat. She looked like a cute teenager, Ben thought, with her black tights and long, baggy sweater. “There's lasagna in the fridge,” she said. “I'll put some in the microwave for you.”

“You mean I won't have to warm up my own supper? Hey, I could get used to this,” he teased.

“Don't. As soon as my car's ready tomorrow, I'm done with mooching off your mom. I plan to start hunting for a place to live—and a job.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where a place was already set for him. Jess scooped a generous square of lasagna onto his plate, put it in the microwave, took a covered salad out of the fridge and filled two glasses with cold apple juice.

“Join me?” he asked, hoping she planned to stay.

“I ate with your mother. But I'll keep you company.” She set the heated lasagna on the place mat in front of him, then took a seat at the opposite side of the table.

Ben heaped some salad on his plate and took a taste of lasagna. “This is delicious, but I can tell it's not my mother's recipe,” he said. “Did you make it?”

“Yes. I wanted to give Clara a break. Sorry you weren't here to share it with us—and to celebrate my becoming a member of Branding Iron's Cowboy Christmas Ball committee.”

“That didn't take long,” Ben said between bites. “You must've charmed those ladies. I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. They needed somebody to telephone people, and I was there. I suspect charm had nothing to do with it.” She sipped her juice, her silence working up to a question. “Did you talk to my mother again? How is she?”

“She's doing some heavy-duty soul-searching—a good thing, if you ask me. Having you show up out of the blue has been a lot for her to take in.”

“Are you saying she's sorry that I'm here?” Jess's expression reminded Ben of a little slapped kitten.

“No, nothing like that. But she's ashamed of where you found her and what she's become. Francine wants to change, Jess, but I'm not sure she knows how. You've got a long, tough road ahead of you.”

“I know that but, for better or for worse, she's all the family I have. Can you tell me more?”

“She's desperately afraid of disappointing you—and she seems to be worried that you've never forgiven her for putting you up for adoption.”

“I forgave her early on. But I didn't know her story till your mother told me—how she ran away with my father, and he was killed by a rodeo bull. She was in no condition to care for a baby. I can't blame her for wanting to give me a chance at a better life.”

“And did you have a better life?”

She lowered her gaze, but not before he caught the flash of buried hurt in her eyes. In his job, Ben had learned to read people. This fragile-looking woman was holding something back.

“Did you have a better life, Jess?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “Not every adoption has a happy ending. My adoptive parents passed all the screenings. My dad had a good job. My mom was a full-time homemaker in a pretty suburban house. White picket fence, the whole package. The first few years were fine, what little I remember of them. Then my dad lost his job, had an affair, and left us. Mom had no supportive family and no job skills. We lost the house, of course, and ended up living in a cheap motel where she cleaned rooms to pay for the rent. When I got old enough to carry a mop, I helped her. There were a few men in her life—no, none of them touched me. She'd have killed them if they had. But they never stayed long. By the time the last one left, she was sick—leukemia.”

Ben studied her across the table, aching to cross the distance between them, wrap her in his arms and cradle her like a child. Even after the loss of his father, his own childhood had been a picnic compared to hers. That she'd survived—courageous, emotionally strong and capable of loving—was a miracle.

“I was sixteen when she died,” Jess said. “Somehow, working nights, I managed to finish high school. I was even taking a couple of college classes when I got married. I was just nineteen. It was a mistake. Don't ask me to go there.”

It surprised Ben to hear that she'd been married. But, as he reminded himself, there was plenty he didn't know about Jess Ramsey.

“Believe me, you're not the only one who's made that kind of mistake,” he said.

“As the old saying goes, it's water under the bridge. I was divorced and hanging on by the skin of my teeth when I got a call from a lawyer in Los Angeles. My long-lost adoptive father had died. I was his only legal heir. The money wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to put in the bank for a new start. You know the rest of the story.”

Ben finished the last forkful of his lasagna. “You're one tough lady, Jess. I had no idea you'd been through such hard times.”

Jess stood and began clearing away the dishes. “I'm not asking for sympathy,” she said. “But now that I've told you, I'd like to ask a favor.”

“Name it.” Ben rose to help put the leftovers in the fridge.

“I don't want Francine to know about my past,” she said. “She put me up for adoption so I could have a happy life. I'd like her to go on believing that's what she gave me.”

Her compassion stunned him for an instant. “I understand. My lips are sealed.”

“That means I don't want the word to get back to her by way of anybody else. You mustn't tell a soul, not even your mother.” Her eyes narrowed. “I probably shouldn't even have told you.”

“Then why did you?” He stood facing her, his gaze probing hers.

“Because you opened the door,” she said. “I needed somebody on my side who understood the truth. Somebody I could trust. Was I wrong?” Her skin was luminous, her lips as full and ripe as June strawberries. Ben had to check himself to keep from leaning down and kissing her, not because of her story but because she was an extraordinary person—and because he could imagine how she would taste.

“You're not wrong, Jess,” he said. “As sheriff, I've learned to keep a confidence. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I appreciate that.” She finished loading the dishwasher, added detergent and started the cycle. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be going up to bed. It's been a long day.”

“You're sure you don't want to keep me company and watch the ten o'clock news? It helps me unwind.” He imagined sitting on the couch with her in the darkened living room, not quite touching, but maybe slipping an arm behind her shoulders, feeling the warmth that emanated from her sweet woman's body.

On second thought, it might not be a good idea.

“Thanks for the invitation, but I'd fall asleep for sure. You'd have to drag me up those stairs. I'd better go while I'm still on my feet.”

“Sleep tight, then. I'll check on your car tomorrow and let you know when it'll be done. Silas can deliver it, if you don't mind driving him back to the garage. Oh, and thanks for supper.”

“Like I said, don't get used to it.” The stairs creaked lightly as she vanished from sight. Ben wandered into the living room, found the remote and switched on the antiquated TV between his mother's corner bookshelves. As he sank into the sofa, Ben heard soft footsteps overhead and the sound of water running in the bathroom. By the time he went upstairs to bed, Jess would probably be asleep.

As the commercials played onscreen, he went back over the details of her story. Everything she'd said had made sense and fit her reason for coming here. But he'd spent too many years as a lawman not to have questions.

Was Jess telling the truth? He had no reason to disbelieve her. But he'd bet good money she wasn't telling him everything. She'd married at nineteen. By now he'd guess her age at—what? Twenty-six or so? She'd glossed over those missing years. But then, why should it matter? She had shown herself to be a good person, kind, forgiving, and honest. Wasn't that enough?

He yawned, willing himself to stay awake until he could go upstairs without running into Jess again. She was an attractive little thing. He liked her—liked her a lot. But the suspicious side of his nature refused to lie down and be still. The woman was hiding something—and his gut instinct told him it wasn't good. Until he knew more about her, he'd be smart to keep his guard up—and his male impulses in check.

Chapter Five

J
ess had always been an early riser, but last night she'd gone to bed exhausted. By the time she'd opened her eyes to morning, brushed her teeth, splashed her face, and pulled on her fleece jogging suit, it was nearly eight o'clock. She pattered barefoot down the stairs to find Clara seated at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and doing the newspaper's crossword puzzle.

Clara glanced up with a smile as Jess walked in. “Good morning,” she said. “How about some coffee?”

“That sounds great. No, please don't bother getting up. I can get it.” Jess filled a cup from the coffeepot, then took a seat. “I didn't mean to sleep this late, but that bed was heavenly. Thank you again for putting me up.”

“No trouble at all, dear. Know that you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'd have fixed you some bacon and eggs but I wasn't sure you'd want a big breakfast.”

“Coffee's fine for now, thanks. I'm guessing Ben's left for work.”

“He has. And he wanted me to tell you that Silas will be bringing your car around this afternoon.”

“Great. Maybe after I take Silas back to the garage, I'll drop by the jail and see my mother. Meanwhile, after lunch, I'll see what I can do about whittling down your phone call list.” She glanced at Clara's newspaper. “Does that paper have a classified section?”

“Here you are.” Clara picked up the paper, peeled off the back page and passed it to Jess. “Not much to it, as you'll see. Branding Iron's a pretty small place.”

“One apartment and one job. That's all I need.” Jess spread the single page on the table, scanning the columns. Many of the ads featured items for sale—cars, appliances, food supplements, a business or two and a house with grazing land. The Help Wanted section was no more encouraging. Besides the usual “make money at home” schemes, which Jess had never trusted, there were a couple of ads for farm workers, one for a truck driver and one for a dishwasher at Buckaroo's—that might at least be someplace to start. She certainly knew how to wash dishes.

In the For Rent section there were a couple of possibilities—a small, affordable studio in the basement of a home, and a free room in exchange for taking care of someone's elderly parents. But neither of these would do if she had her mother with her, Jess realized. For herself and Francine, she'd need a two-bedroom place, and there was nothing like that in the paper.

Nothing for a struggling single woman and her misbehaving mother.

The enormity of what she was about to do hit Jess like a rolling two-ton boulder. Taking an emotionally fragile alcoholic under her wing was going to be a huge responsibility. Whatever Francine was surviving on now, probably welfare, couldn't be much. And even with an adequate place to live, if she had nothing meaningful to do, she could easily go right back to her old habits.

Ben's blunt advice had been spot-on. If things didn't work out with Francine, there'd be nothing left of this well-meant undertaking but two broken hearts. She had just one chance to help her mother. She had to do this right.

“Are you okay, Jess?” Clara was watching her with a worried expression.

“I'm fine.” Jess rose, carried her cup to the sink and began unloading last night's clean dishes from the dishwasher. “But what I'm about to take on is sinking in. I'll be dealing with a lot of responsibilities in the time ahead. What I need right now, I think, is a good long walk to clear my head.”

“That might be just the ticket,” Clara said. “It's a nice, sunny morning. Go on, I can finish up in here. But wear something warm. Have you got a coat?”

“I left it in the trunk of my car. But I can layer. I'll be fine.” Jess hurried upstairs to put on her sneakers, warm socks and a merino sweater under her track suit. With a quilted vest to top it off, she felt almost cozy.

“Take your phone,” Clara called up the stairs. “I'll give you my number, so you can call if you get lost.”

“Got it!” Clara was a dear, Jess thought. But it was as if the woman had missed having someone to fuss over. Ben probably wouldn't stand for it. Maybe her daughter, Ellie, had resisted being mothered as well. That could be the reason for the seeming distance between them.

Five minutes later she was out the door, striding along the sidewalk, filling her lungs with the crisp, wintery air. Even as a girl, Jess had relied on walking to calm her nerves and help her think. She could feel how much she needed it today.

The Marsden home was in a neighborhood of vintage houses, set along a winding street. The oaks and sycamores that overhung the walks were bare of their leaves, but the area would be an oasis of pleasant shade in summertime. It was clearly the nicest part of town. How lucky Ben was to have grown up in a setting like this.

Clara had worried about her getting lost, but Jess knew enough to keep track of where she'd been. Taking note of the street signs and the direction she was walking, she was confident she'd have no trouble finding her way back.

Coming to a stop sign, she took a right turn in the direction of Main Street. The houses in this neighborhood were more modest. Scattered here and there were signs advertising small home businesses—lawnmower repair, custom sewing, dog grooming, and more. There didn't appear to be a problem with zoning laws here, if Branding Iron even had such regulations.

She reached another corner and paused, debating which way to turn. Flipping a mental coin, she went left. This time she found herself on a short one-way backstreet, not much wider than an alley. A single block in length, its far end merged with Main Street, coming out between the post office and Merle's Craft and Yarn Shoppe. The half-dozen houses here had an old-fashioned look, with broad front porches and gingerbread trim. But they were smaller than the homes in Clara's neighborhood, with faded siding, sagging steps and weedy yards. It was as if the people who lived in these places had been here for decades and grown too old to care for their properties. Still, this little street, so close to downtown, must've been charming in its day.

The shabbiest home of all had an overgrown yard, boarded up windows and a No Trespassing sign on the rickety metal gate. Intrigued, Jess stopped to look at it.

Judging from the untrampled weeds growing up through the wooden steps, the place had been vacant for months, at least.

It looked as if it might have a second floor, if the windowed gables were any indication, but it was hard to tell from outside. The exterior, gray asbestos siding with faded blue shutters, looked as if it hadn't been painted in fifty years. Leafless vines of Virginia creeper had grown over the porch to hang like tangled brown curtains from the eave.

Nailed to one of the porch supports was a hand-lettered sign: FOR SALE BY OWNER. POSSIBLE CONTRACT WITH DOWNPAYMENT.

A phone number was written at the bottom. Almost before she had time to think, Jess had her cell phone in her hand and was keying in the number. One of the ladies in yesterday's committee meeting had mentioned the need for a place to stay in Branding Iron. Could this old house, so close to the center of town, be fixed up as a bed-and-breakfast?

Questions flew through her mind as the phone rang on the other end. Was the place even livable? Could she afford to buy it? Would the bank give her a loan if she needed it, to make the necessary repairs?

A woman answered. Yes, the house was still for sale. It had belonged to her grandfather, who'd passed away last winter. The family had hoped to find a buyer to fix it up, but no one had expressed any interest until now. Yes, she lived just a few minutes away and would be happy to come over and show it.

As she waited, Jess's head spun with ideas. From the street, she could see an overgrown driveway leading back to a closed garage behind the house. That would mean, Jess hoped, extra storage space and room for guest parking. If the house has only one bathroom, she would need to add another, a major expense. That could be a problem. But she was getting ahead of herself. It wouldn't do to get excited about the place until she'd had a look inside.

A twenty-year-old Cadillac—Jess guessed it must have belonged to the grandfather—pulled to the curb and stopped. The woman who climbed out appeared to be in her forties. She was nicely dressed in slacks and a down jacket, but her manner seemed harried, as if she'd rushed away from something important.

“Come on, I've got the key,” she said, leading Jess up the walk and onto the porch. “We'd really like to get this place off our hands. Last summer some high school kids broke in through a window and had a wild party. They were even smoking weed. The sheriff said it was lucky they didn't set the place on fire. We figure it's only a matter of time before something like that happens again.”

There was a hasp with a padlock on the front door. The woman, who hadn't bothered to give her name, fumbled for the key in her purse. “Grandpa was ninety-three when he died. For the last few years he wouldn't let anybody in here. After he passed away, we had to hire a man to haul out the junk so we could put the place up for sale.” She found the key and thrust it into the lock. “It needs a lot of fixing up, but the house is solid. My husband replaced the furnace and water heater ten years ago, and paid for a new roof when the old one started leaking. The plumbing and wiring are okay as far as I know, but the rest . . . well, you'll see.”

The door creaked open into a dim space. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the openings between the window boards, making it possible to see, though not well. Jess stifled a groan as she looked around.

The teens who'd partied in the house had spray-painted graffiti on the walls and left burned spots, empty beer cans and joint stubs on the moldering carpet. The air still reeked of marijuana smoke, an odor Jess remembered all too well from her days of cleaning motel rooms. As Jess walked into the kitchen, something ran across her foot—a mouse, most likely. And one mouse would be sure to have brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins. Francine's cat, Sergeant Pepper, would have a field day here.

The kitchen space was functional, complete with cupboards and counters, a dirty stove, and an even dirtier fridge. The bathroom, with a shower over the tub and a moldy plastic curtain, would need a thorough disinfecting before it could be used. The two bedrooms off the hall were empty.

“What's upstairs?” she asked, noticing the stairway off the dining area.

“When Grandpa had his family here, the kids' rooms were up there—and there's a second bathroom with a tub. This was a nice house once. I wish I'd brought a flashlight so you could see it better.”

Bedrooms upstairs and a second bathroom. That would almost make the project possible. But the work and expense it would take to make the place appealing—good grief, was she really crazy enough to take this on?

Francine had another nine days left on her sentence. If Jess could get the kitchen, bathroom and downstairs bedrooms livable by then, her mother could help her fix up the rest. But would Francine be willing, or even interested?

“I'll need a day or so to think about it,” she said. “Do you feel all right about lending me the key? I'd like to come back for a second look with a flashlight.”

The woman twisted the key off her key ring. “Here. I've got a spare at home. If you decide you don't want the place, you can drop it off at my house. Here's my address and phone number.” She handed Jess a card.

“Thanks. I guess I'd better ask your ballpark price and the kind of contract terms you're expecting.”

The figure the woman quoted was surprisingly low, but then Branding Iron wasn't Kansas City. “We were thinking ten percent down and the rest on contract with a balloon payment in five years. If that doesn't suit you, feel free to make an offer and I'll discuss it with my husband. He's the businessman of the family.”

“I'll think about it and get back to you by the end of tomorrow.” Jess's pulse was racing. With the fifty-thousand dollar inheritance she had stashed away, the down payment was doable, and there would be enough money left over for some basic refurbishing. It wouldn't be a slam-dunk, she reminded herself. She'd need to get the bed-and-breakfast up and running and make enough money for the monthly payments. If she didn't get enough business, she'd have to get a job. Otherwise, she could go belly-up and lose her whole investment.

The prospect was scary—more than scary, it was terrifying. But what would she have if she didn't take a chance and do this?

With the key in her pocket, she stood at the gate and watched the Cadillac drive away. Questions flocked into her mind—all the questions she'd forgotten to ask. Where were the washer and dryer hookups? Where was the furnace? What was stored in the garage?

She would have to go back to find the answers. Maybe Ben would have a flashlight she could borrow. Or maybe she should buy her own. She was already becoming too dependent on the handsome sheriff.

But never mind that. Right now she had other things on her mind. Excitement gave her feet wings as she retraced her steps back up the gently sloping streets to the Marsden home. She could hardly wait to tell Clara about the house.

She found the front door unlocked, but nobody was home. Clara had left a note on the kitchen table.