The Woman Who Loved Jesse James Read Online Free Page A

the trees and Jesse fell into step beside me. “Are you really worried about Union soldiers disrupting the wedding party?” I asked.
    “I’ll leave and draw them away before I let that happen.”
    I stumbled on a fallen branch and he took my elbow to steady me, his hand remaining there for a heartbeat too long. I glanced up and found his eyes fixed on me with uncommon intensity. “What is it?” I asked, annoyed at being the object of such scrutiny.
    “Last time I saw you, you were a skinny girl,” he said. “You’ve grown into a fine woman.”
    My cheeks burned and I looked away, reminding myself that this was the boy who had ruined my skirt with mudballs, the one who had cried and run to his mother when I dared to retaliate by firing a rock at him.
    But this was no boy standing beside me. Jesse’s voice was the deep, rich tones of a man, and he had a man’s build. A man’s capable hands reached out and guided me over a second fallen branch, and this time they did not release me. He leaned close and I caught the smells of leather and gun oil that clung to him. “Did you truly not recognize me just now?” he asked.
    “It’s been a few years since we last met,” I said. “I was thinking of you as a boy still.”
    “I’ve done and seen things no boy should do or see,” he said solemnly.
    A shout rose from among the wedding guests, distracting him. He looked across the clearing to where his brother Frank, who Jesse always called Buck, stood with a group of young men. The men were surrounded by a bevy of young women, including Rachel, Fanny and Esme. “I’d better join my friends,” he said, releasing my arm. “Good afternoon, Cousin.”
    He nodded, then strode away. I stood as still and calm as the atmosphere on a sultry afternoon, nothing within me moving, though the air around me had the heavy, charged atmosphere of a storm about to break.
    The handsome, young bushwhackers swept into the celebration like a cool mountain breeze, enlivening the party with a jolt of energy and daring. Women circled them like butterflies around blossoms and the men obliged by flattering and flirting, paying court to each young miss with equal fervor. Darkness fell and lamps were lit and hung in the trees and from the eaves of buildings, and large canvas sheets were spread on the ground for dancing.
    The band began a lively reel and the young men and women paired off. I was more than pleased when one of the bushwhackers, a handsome young man named Cole Younger, bowed before me. “May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked.
    On trembling legs, I stood and put my hand in his. “Certainly,” I said.
    Though forbidden to dance, Esme and I had practiced the steps of the waltz and the quadrille in my attic bedroom, humming to ourselves as we turned, twirled, and promenaded. We were determined to be as accomplished as the young women in the novels, also forbidden, that we read in secret—hours spent in the seclusion of the woods behind my house, huddled over the pages of Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights and other romantic tales.
    But dancing with a man would be a different thing altogether, and I prayed I would not disgrace myself in this, my maiden public effort.
    “Zerelda! What do you think you’re doing?”
    I froze as my father’s voice cut through the hum of conversation and whirl of music. Cole released my hand as if singed, and turned to face my father. “Sir,” he said, with a stiff bow.
    Father ignored him and turned to me. “Zerelda, what are you doing?” he demanded again.
    I held my head high, and willed my voice not to shake. “Mr. Younger has done me the honor of asking me to dance,” I said.
    Father turned to Cole. “I am sorry if my daughter has misled you,” he said. “But she does not dance.”
    “The fault is entirely mine, sir.” He flashed me a look full of sympathy, bowed, and melted into the crowd.
    Father turned to me once more. “Zerelda,” he began.
    “I don’t see what