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“Here you go, Butterbean.” Taking the hotdog from the flames, he went to the table for buns and mustard. Lindsey and Jade followed.
One of the biggest men he’d ever seen handed him a paper plate. “You must be Jesse.”
Lindsey made the introductions. “This is my pastor, Cliff Wilson.”
Jesse’s surprise must have shown because the clergyman bellowed a cheerful laugh. “If you were out killing preachers, you’d pass me right up, wouldn’t you?”
Cliff looked more like a pro wrestler than a preacher. A blond lumberjack of a man in casual work clothes and tennis shoes with blue eyes as gentle and guileless as a child’s and a face filled with laughter.
“Good to meet you, sir,” Jesse said stiffly, not sure how to react to the unorthodox minister.
“Everyone calls me Pastor Cliff or just plain Cliff.” The preacher offered a beefy hand which Jesse shook. “You from around this area?”
“Enid.” Giving his stock answer, Jesse concentrated on squirting mustard onto Jade’s hotdog. No way he’d tell any of them the truth—that he’d roamed this very land as a youth.
“Lindsey says you’re heaven-sent, a real help to her.”
“I’m glad for the work.” He handed the hotdog to Jade, along with a napkin. “Lindsey’s a fair boss.”
By now at least a half dozen other men had sidled up to the table for introductions and food refills. Jesse felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, but if he allowed his prickly feelings to show, people might get suspicious. He needed their trust, though he didn’t want to consider how he’d eventually use that trust against one of their own.
“A fair boss? Now that’s a good ’un.” A short, round older man in a camouflage jacket offered the joking comment. “That girl works herself into the ground just like her grandpa did. I figure she expects the same from her hired help.”
Jesse stilled, attention riveted. This fellow knew Lindsey’s grandparents and was old enough to have been around Winding Stair for some time. He just might know the details Jesse needed to begin searching the courthouse records.
“Now Clarence.” Eyes twinkling a becoming gold in the flickering light, Lindsey pointed a potato chip at the speaker. “You stop that before you scare off the only steady worker I’ve ever had.”
“Ah, he knows I’m only kidding.” Clarence aimed a grin toward Jesse. “Don’t you, son?” Before Jesse could respond, the man stuck out his hand. “Name’s Clarence Stone. I live back up the mountain a ways. If you ever need anything, give me a holler.”
A chuckle came from the man in a cowboy hat standing next to Clarence. His black mustache quivered on the corners. “That’s right, Jesse. Give Clarence a holler. He’ll come down and talk your ears off while you do all the work.”
Clarence didn’t seem the least bit offended. He grinned widely.
“This here wise guy is Mick Thompson,” he said with affection. “Mick has a ranch east of town, though if it wasn’t for that sweet little wife of his, he’d have gone under a long time ago.”
Mick laughed, teeth white in his dark face. “I have to agree with you there, Clarence, even if Clare is your daughter. I wouldn’t be much without her.”
Jesse’s mind registered the relationship along with the fact that Mick owned a ranch. Now that was something Jesse understood.
“You raise horses on that ranch of yours?” he asked, making casual conversation while hoping to turn the conversation back to Lindsey’s grandparents.
“Sure do. You know horses?” Mick sipped at his plastic cup.
“I’ve done a little rodeo. Bronc-riding mostly.”
“No kidding?” Mick’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “Ever break any colts?”
“Used to do a lot of that sort of work.” Before Erin died. But he wouldn’t share that with Mick.
“Would you like to do it again?”
“I wouldn’t mind it.” He missed working with rough stock, and breaking horses on the side would put some much-needed extra money in his pocket.
“Don’t be trying to hire him away from Lindsey, Mick,” the jovial Clarence put in. “She’ll shoot you. And I’ll be left to support your wife and kids.”
“You’d shoot me yourself if you thought Clare and the kids would move back up in those woods with you and Loraine.”
Both men chuckled, and despite himself, Jesse enjoyed their good-natured ribbing.
Lindsey, having drifted off in conversation with a red-haired woman, missed the teasing remark. Without her present, Jesse wanted to turn the conversation back to her grandfather, but wasn’t sure how to go about it without causing suspicion.
“Tell you what, Jesse,” Mick said, stroking his mustache with thumb and forefinger. “When you have some time, give me a call. I have a couple of young geldings that need breaking, and I can’t do it anymore. Bad back.”
Were all the people of Winding Stair this trusting that they’d offer a man a job without ever seeing him work?
“How do you know I can handle the job?”
Mick’s mustache quirked. “Figure you’d say so if you didn’t think you could.”
“I can.”
“See?” Mick clapped him on the back and clasped his hand in a brief squeeze. “My number’s in the book. And I pay the going rate.”
“Appreciate the offer, but I doubt I can get loose from here until after the holidays.”
The familiar sense of dread crawled through his belly. He’d much rather be tossed in the dirt by a bucking horse than spend one minute in Lindsey’s tree lot. He’d counted on the old adage that familiarity breeds indifference. So far, that hadn’t proven true. If anything, he dreaded the coming weeks more than ever.
Mick sipped at his soda before saying, “After Christmas is fine with me. Those colts aren’t going anywhere. Meantime, if you need help hauling these trees, let me know. I got a flatbed settin’ over there in my barn rustin’.”
“He sure does,” Clarence teased. “And it would do him good to put in a full day’s work for a change.”
An unbidden warmth crept through Jesse. Offers of help from friends didn’t come too often, but this offhand generosity of strangers was downright unsettling.
“Jade, Jade.” Two little girls about Jade’s age came running up and interrupted the conversation. One on each side, they grabbed her hands and pulled. “Come play tag.”
She looked to Jesse for approval. “Can I, Daddy?”
“Don’t you want to finish your hotdog?”
“I’m full.” She handed him the last bite of the squeezed and flattened sandwich.
He downed the remains and wiped the mustard off her face. “Go on and play.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged. “Come with me.”
Jesse shook his head, standing his ground for once. “I haven’t finished my own hotdog. I’ll be here when you get back. Promise.”
After a moment of uncertainty, the desire to play with her friends won out.
Jesse’s heart gladdened to see his little girl race away with the other children for once instead of clinging to his leg like a barnacle.
Biting into his smoky hotdog, Jesse watched and listened, hoping for an opportunity to casually probe for information. His attention strayed to the gregarious preacher.
Pastor Cliff seemed to be everywhere, laughing, joking and making sure everyone had a great time. The teenagers flocked around him as though he was some football star, begging him to join their games, occasionally pelting him with a marshmallow to gain his attention. Punctuating the air with a few too many “praise the Lords” for Jesse’s comfort, the preacher nonetheless came across like a regular guy. He’d even overheard Cliff promise to help repair someone’s leaky roof next week. The big man sure wasn’t like any minister Jesse had ever encountered.
“When are we taking that wagon ride, Lindsey?” Cliff bellowed, indicating a small boy perched on his shoulders. “Nathaniel says he’s ready when you are.”
“Do you kids want the tractor or the horse to pull us?” Lindsey called back.
“The horse. The horse,” came a chorus of replies from all but the preacher.
Jesse knew the big, powerful horse stood nearby inside a fenced lot, his oversized head hanging over the rails, waiting his opportunity. The animal liked people and was gentle as a baby.
“How about you, Cliff? What’s your preference?” A man called, his face wreathed in mischief.
The oversized preacher waved his upraised hands in mock terror. “Now, Tom, you know I don’t mess with any creature that’s bigger than me.”
“Which wouldn’t be too many, Cliff,” came the teasing answer.
Everyone laughed, including Cliff, though the joke was on him. Grudgingly, Jesse admired that. The minister he’d known would have seen the joke as an offense to his lofty position.
“You’re out-voted, preacher,” Lindsey called, starting toward the gate. “I’ll get Puddin’.”
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket, Jesse fell into step beside her. Though mingling with the church crowd provided opportunities to gather information, he needed some distance. He hadn’t expected their friendliness, the ease with which they accepted him, and most of all, he’d not expected them to be such everyday, normal people. Lindsey’s church family, as she called them, was fast destroying his long-held view of Christians as either stiff and distant or pushy and judgmental.
“Need any help?” he asked.
She withdrew a small flashlight from inside her jacket, aimed the beam toward the gate, and whistled softly. “I put his harness on earlier. All I need to do is hook the traces to the wagon.”
Jesse stepped into the light and raised the latch. In seconds the big horse lumbered up to nuzzle at his owner while she snapped a lead rope onto his halter. Together they led him toward the waiting wagon.
“He’s a nice animal.” Jesse ran a hand over the smooth, warm horseflesh, enjoying the feel again after too much time away from the rodeo. “What breed is he?”
“Percheron mostly.” She smiled at the horse with affection. “Although I’m not sure he’s a full-blood since I have no papers on him, but he has the sweet temperament and muscular body the breed is known for. And he loves to work.”
“Percheron.” Jesse rolled the word over in his head. He knew enough about horses to know the name, but that was about it. “Different from the quarter horses I’m used to.”
“Certainly different from the wild broncs. Puddin’ doesn’t have a buck anywhere in him.” One on each side of the massive horse, they headed back toward the heat and light of the bonfire. “Every kid within a ten-mile radius has ridden him, walked under him, crawled over him, and he doesn’t mind at all.” She turned toward him, her face shadowed and pale in the bright moonlight. “What about you? Do you still have horses?”
He shook his head. “No. After Erin died, I—” He stopped, not wanting to revisit the horrible devastation when he’d sold everything and hit the road, trying to run from the pain and guilt. He’d told Lindsey more about his past than he’d ever intended to, but talking about Erin was taboo. “I’d better find Jade.”
He stalked off toward the circle of squealing children, aware that he’d been abrupt with Lindsey and trying not to let that bother him. He’d intentionally sought her company, and now he was walking away.
Ruefully, he shook his head. What a guy.
In the distance he spotted Jade, her long hair flying out behind her as she ran, laughing. With a hitch beneath his rib cage, he watched his daughter, grateful for the rare display of playful abandon. Letting the shadows absorb him, he stood along the perimeter of children, hoping this place would ultimately heal them both.
“Hey, Jesse.” A hand bigger than Puddin’s hoof landed on his shoulder. The preacher. “Great party, huh?”
“Yeah.” Though he didn’t belong here, he had to admit the party was a success. Just seeing Jade carefree was worth a few hours discomfort on his part.
“Lindsey’s a great gal.”
Jesse followed the minister’s gaze to where Lindsey, surrounded by too many youthful helpers, attached the patient horse to the wagon. Silently, he agreed with Cliff’s assertion. Lindsey was a good woman. Her decency was giving his conscience fits. “You known her long?”
“A few years. Ever since coming here to minister.” Cliff nodded at the rowdy crowd around the fire. “Most of these folks have known her and each other much longer, but God really blessed me when he sent me to Winding Stair. I feel as if Lindsey and all the others out there are my family now.”
Clarence approached, this time accompanied by a small, gray-haired woman with rosy cheeks who carried a plate of homemade cookies. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, ain’t it, preacher?”
Cliff reached for the cookies. “Yep.”
“How about you, Jesse?” Clarence motioned toward the plate.
Out of courtesy Jesse accepted the dessert, taking a bite. He liked the mildly sweet flavor of the old-fashioned cookie. “These are good.”
“Course they are,” Clarence said. “Loraine makes the best oatmeal cookies in the county. And if you don’t believe me, just ask her.”
“Oh, Clarence, you old goof.” The smiling little woman flapped a hand at him. “Jesse, don’t pay any mind to my husband. This isn’t my recipe and he knows it. Lindsey’s grandma gave it to me. Now that woman could cook.”
Blood quickening, Jesse saw the opportunity and took it. “You knew Lindsey’s grandparents?”
“Sure did. Better folks never walked the earth, as far as I’m concerned.” She paused long enough to dole out more cookies to passers-by. Jesse kept his mouth shut, waiting for her to go on, blood humming with the hope that he was about to learn something.
“Betty Jean—that was her grandma—could do about anything domestic. A country version of Martha Stewart, I guess you’d say.” She chuckled softly at her own joke. “And she wasn’t stingy about it either. Would share a jar of pickles or a recipe without batting an eye. A fine neighbor, she was. A real fine neighbor.”
She looked a little sad and Jesse shifted uncomfortably. He needed to keep Loraine and Clarence talking but he didn’t want to think of the Mitchells as decent folks. There was nothing decent about stealing from an orphan.
Keeping his tone casual, Jesse said, “Lindsey’s a good cook too.”
“Betty Jean would have made sure of that.” Loraine thrust the nearly empty plate toward him. “Another cookie?”
“Might as well take one, Jesse,” Clarence put in with a chortle. “She ain’t happy unless she’s feeding someone.”
Jesse hid a smile. It was hard not to like Loraine and Clarence Stone. “Thanks.”
He accepted the cookie, mind searching for a way to gain more information. He’d suffered through an hour of stilted conversation to get this far. He wasn’t about to let this chance slip away.
“What about Lindsey’s grandpa? I guess he’s the one who taught her to use that rifle….”
“Yep,” Clarence said. “That was Charlie, all right. Me and him used to hunt and fish together, and he liked to brag about Lindsey’s shooting. Called her his little Annie Oakley.”
Jesse’s stomach leaped.
Charlie.
His patience had paid off. At last, he had someone to blame along with his stepfather. Lindsey’s grandfather, the man who’d stolen this eighty-acre farm from a teenage boy, was named Charlie Mitchell.
In the shadowy distance, snatches of conversation and laughter floated on the night air. One particular laugh—a throaty, warm sound that sent shivers down his spine—stood out from the rest.
