Taming of Jessi Rose (10 page)

Jessi bet he'd been a handful to raise.

“Now it's my turn to ask the questions,” he said, looking up at her and marveling again at her dark beauty.

“I suppose that's only fair,” she responded. “But no questions about Bob.”

Griffin could see the firmness in her eyes. He nodded.

She looked away for a moment, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere, then she turned back. He could see pain in her eyes unveil itself briefly, then disappear. Someone had hurt her very badly, he sensed. “Joth said you were a teacher back east. I wanted to know where.”

“At the Miss Paris LaMarr School for Young Women of Color, in upstate New York. I taught literature and the sciences,” she replied, her voice brightening for a few moments. Then, as she began to relate more, the darkness returned. “When my sister died in childbirth, I came back to Texas to help my father raise Joth.”

In reality, Jessi had raised Joth alone. Her father'd loved Joth, probably more than anyone else in the world, but he'd loved the land more. It left him little time for anything else.

“Did you enjoy teaching?”

“Very much. The young women were bright and eager to learn, and Paris was wealthy enough to equip the school with all the materials and supplies we needed. She and I became fast friends in the three years I was there. I miss her dearly.”

“She's the one responsible for all that gear in Joth's room?”

“Yep. She's as rich as Cleopatra and because she has no children of her own, Joth is her beneficiary. He's still waiting to use those ice skates, even though he grew out of them a few years ago.”

“Is the school still open?”

“As far as I know, yes, it is.”

Jessi wondered how Paris was faring. They'd written back and forth regularly over the past ten years, but in the last nine months Jessi hadn't had time to answer any of her friend's letters—she'd been too busy surviving. “Enough about me. How're you going to put Darcy in prison?”

“No idea. Now, if he were a train I wanted to rob, I'd do things like check out the arrival schedule and find out how many people are in the depot at night, what type of express car the train was running, how much gold it was carrying, and how secure it was.”

“Darcy isn't a train,” Jessi pointed out.

“No, he's not, but I'll still have study him if we're going to derail him.”

“Train similes, Mr. Blake?”

He shrugged. “Hey, my boss is a very smart lady, I'm just trying to keep up.”

She shook her head at his wit; she did enjoy his company. “So how would your friend Marshal Wildhorse start an investigation?”

“Probably by asking folks a bunch of questions.”

“Sounds like a good place to start. I wonder if
Hatcher's going to tell Darcy the truth about why you're here?”

Griff shrugged. “We'll have to wait and see.”

As the silence lengthened, Griff searched his mind for something, anything, to talk about. He didn't want her to leave and go back into the house. “How'd your family come to be in Texas?”

“We Claytons are descendants of an African craftsman named Santo. He escaped from Louisiana and into Texas back in '03.”

“'03? That was a long time ago.”

“Yes it was. After the French gave the United States Louisiana, Santo and many other Africans escaped across the Sabine River into Texas because the Spanish promised they'd be free here. Back then, the Spanish didn't care if we owned land or who we married or if we held office. In fact, my great-grandmother Lydia was African-Mexican. The story goes that Santo purchased her out of a Galveston brothel and that she was very fiery and beautiful.”

Jessi looked at his lazy silent smile and asked, “What?”

“Nothing, just thinking that you could have been describing yourself when you said she was fiery and beautiful, but go on, I didn't mean to interrupt your
train
of thought.”

Jessi groaned in reaction to the bad pun. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. You are definitely fiery and beautiful.”

Jessi shook her head. “I meant, are you sure I can go on with the story?”

“I'd much rather talk about your fire and beauty, but if you want to go ahead, the floor's yours.”

“You're flirting again.”

“Yes, ma'am, I definitely am.”

“You planning on wearing me down?”

“Nope, just plan to play until you say yes.”

“And if I don't?”

“It'll be my loss,” he replied without shame.

Jessi searched his eyes and saw that they were serious and unshuttered. What was he really about here? Jessi knew he was flirting, but was uncertain still about the intent behind the words. “What do you want me to say yes to?”

“Whatever you're at ease with. If all you want to do is flirt, I'll go with that. I just like being in your company, Jessi Clayton. One day I hope I get to show you just how fiery and beautiful I think you are.”

Griffin wanted nothing more than to kiss those lush, full lips, then magically draw her back into the dream he'd had last night and make slow, sweet love to her. He wondered if her late husband had loved her fully. He knew a gentleman wasn't supposed to ponder such things, but Griff never claimed to be a gentleman.

Jessi forgot all about the story she'd been telling, she was too busy fighting off the effects of Griffin Blake's last words. No man had ever spoken so frankly or so boldly to her before, and because she lacked the experience, she'd no idea how she was supposed to react. “I believe I should go and check on my bread.”

“What about the rest of the story?”

“I don't think you're really interested.”

“Sure I am.”

“Then will you behave, so I can finish?”

“Can't promise you that, but I'll do my best.”

Jessi could feel his light slipping into the dark corners of her soul.

Continuing the story, she told him of her grandfather's role in the Texas Revolution. “The Battle of San Jacinto was the battle that finally won Texans their freedom. It was fought on April 21, 1836, and my grandfather was
amongst the men there that day. Hendrick Arnold was another freedman at that battle, and he too was rewarded with land for his bravery.”

Griff had never heard of Arnold, nor of a Black man Jessi called Dick the Drummer.

“No one knew Dick's last name,” Jessi explained, “but he was a freeman and already old and gray by the time the war came. The old-timers say he was as valuable as the fighting men because his drumming kept Santa Anna's forces confused and off their stride. After the revolution he and his drum helped the U.S. Army at Monterrey and Buena Vista during the Mexican War. Are you sure you're interested in all this?”

“Sure am.” Griff loved the sound of her smoky voice.

Jessi went on to talk about other Black heroes of the Texas Revolution, particularly those who'd fought at the Alamo, the most revered war site in the state's history. “Even though all of the White male combatants were killed, some of the Blacks, like Joe Travis, who was a slave of Col. William B. Travis, were spared by General Santa Anna after the Alamo fell. Joe Travis was one of the first people to report the capture of the Alamo to the Texas provisional government.”

Griff found her accounts fascinating. Listening to her he learned that a slave named John, who was owned by Francis De Sauque, fought to his death alongside Crockett, Bowie, and Travis at the Alamo, and to this day lay buried with them in an unmarked common grave. He heard about Jim Bowie's slave Sam, and how he, like the De Sauque slave John, was also captured and released after the battle. Griff had no idea there were women at the Alamo, but according to Jessi, Bowie also had with him a Black female cook named Betty.

Griff said, “But with all the turmoil between the races
in Texas, I can't believe they let your grandfather keep his land.”

“He almost didn't. After the revolution, one of the first items undertaken by the new Texas government was to banish all free Blacks from the Republic of Texas who did not have Congressional permission to stay. Those allowed to stay could not vote or own land, but because of the pressure applied by some of the more powerful White veterans, Black men like my grandfather and others were made exceptions.”

“What about that Hendrick Arnold fellow? Did they give him permission to stay?”

“Supposedly, Mr. Arnold neither asked for nor received permission to stay. He simply resided on the 1,920 acres given to him in reward for his bravery and lived out his years there. He died in a cholera epidemic in '49.”

Jessi looked down at Griff and asked, “So, is that enough history for today, Mr. Blake?”

Griff smiled. “I think so, but one last question.”

“Okay.”

“When are you going to stop calling me Mr. Blake? Being so formal doesn't make a whole lot of sense, especially after last night.”

His soft words stroked her like a caress from his hands.

“It's a very easy name to say,” he told her pleasantly. “Repeat after me: ‘Griffin.'”

Her eyes lit with humor. “Griffin.”

“Again.”

“Griffin.”

“See, that wasn't very painful at all, was it?”

She shook her head no.

“Do you think you can call me that all the time?”

Jessi hesitated. “Yes. I suppose I can.”

“Good.”

“I'm going in and check on the bread. Any more questions?”

Griff had plenty, like
When will you let me make love to you?
Instead he replied, “Nope.”

She stood, only to have hear him say, “I'll never force you to do anything you don't want to do.”

Jessi knew what he meant, and even though she'd known him less than a week, she believed him without question. “I know.”

He touched his battered hat politely, then watched the tempting sway of hips as she went back inside.

Sitting alone on the porch, Griffin smiled in response to this latest encounter, but thinking back on their conversation, he wondered about the pain he'd seen flit ghostlike across her eyes when Bob's name was mentioned. She made it quite clear that Calico Bob was not a subject she wished to discuss, so Griff could only assume the hurt stemmed from there. If her sister Mildred and Calico Bob were Joth's parents, how in the world had Jessi gotten involved? More important, why? Why would a smart, educated woman with an independent streak wide as the state of Texas hitch herself to a murderer? He couldn't come up with a reason that fit and it was beginning to bother him more and more.

Sitting there, Griff could feel the heat of the late afternoon rising even higher, so he removed the red bandanna from around his neck and wiped at the sweat on his brow. He'd forgotten how hot Texas could be. Re-tying the scarf loosely, Griff sensed that when the answers to his questions about Jessi Clayton's past were finally laid on the table, he was not going to like them—he could already feel it.

The sight of Joth coming around the house lightened Griff's mood. “Hey, cowboy,” he called. “Is that room clean yet?”

Joth gave him a sheepish smile. “Almost.”

Griff moved over so the boy could join him on the porch step.

For a moment, Joth simply sat silently. Then he asked, “You ever kill anybody, Griff?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Never had to,” he responded, wondering where this conversation might be heading. The boy looked very solemn.

“Under what circumstances would you?”

Griff peered at him closely and said, “‘Circumstances'? That's an awfully big word for an eleven-year-old.”

“Blame it on Aunt Jessi,” the boy grinned softly.

Griff's grin matched the boy's. Griff became serious once more as he debated how to answer Joth's question. “Let's see. If somebody was seriously threatening to harm my family or a loved one, it might be necessary, but ending a man's life is not something I'd be seeking.”

“My pa killed lots of men.”

“Yes, he did.”

Joth looked up with earnest eyes and asked, “Do you think I'll grow up and be like him?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let's see? One, your Aunt Jessi wouldn't allow it. Two,
I
wouldn't allow it, and three, you're nothing like your pa, Joth. The two of you are about as alike as Buttercup and Reed Darcy.”

That put the smile back on Joth's face.

Griffin then inquired, “The other day, when I asked you what you wanted to be, you said you did want to be an outlaw. You were probably very young then, weren't you?”

Joth nodded.

“So what do you want to be now? And don't say a train robber.”

Joth's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “A writer, maybe, or maybe one of those folks who go to Egypt and dig up pyramids.”

“An archaeologist.”

“
Now
who's using big words?” Joth asked.

“I am.”

Joth's eyes were shining.

Griff turned serious once more. “I wouldn't worry about you growing up to be like your pa, Joth. Any boy who throws around big words like ‘circumstances' has way too many brains to pick something as stupid as outlawing for a living.”

“But you're not stupid, Griff.”

Griff chuckled and said to himself,
Out of the mouths of babes
. “Depends on who you talk to, cowboy. My big brother doesn't think I'm real smart.”

“Why not?”

“He was a sheriff and he didn't like me robbing trains.”

“Oh.”

Griff looked over into Joth's eyes. “You're going to grow up and be you, Joth, nobody else. Okay?”

Joth nodded.

“Now,” Griff said, “don't you have a room to clean?”

Joth sighed like an eleven-year-old boy. “Yeah, I do.”