The Woman Who Loved Jesse James Read Free

mother and stepfather.”
    “It was disgraceful, hauling a woman in her condition off to jail simply because she refused to tell what she didn’t even know,” Mrs. Peabody said.
    “And poor Dr. Samuel almost died from their ill treatment of him,” Esme said.
    That spring, a group of militiamen had descended on my aunt and uncle’s home and demanded to know the location of William Quantrill and his men. Though Jesse was still at home at the time, his brother Frank was said to be riding with the famous guerrilla. Zerelda and her husband, Dr. Samuel, refused to provide any information to men they viewed as their enemies, and for their trouble Dr. Samuel was beaten and hanged to within an inch of his life and Zerelda, pregnant with her sixth child, had been jailed for many miserable weeks. Shortly after this, Jesse had joined his older brother in riding with the bushwhackers, aligning himself with one of Quantrill’s lieutenants, William “Bloody Bill” Anderson.
    “He and Frank will have to watch themselves today,” Mrs. Peabody said. “Lest some Northern sympathizer decide to try to make himself a hero and take them out.”
    I shivered at the idea. I might not care for Jesse and his brother much, but they were still my kin. “The Browders wouldn’t invite any Yankees to the wedding,” I said.
    “A party that large, who’s to tell?” She smoothed her skirts, then looked at us expectantly. “Now surely you girls didn’t come all this way on a hot day to show me your dresses. What really brings you here?”
    “We were hoping you’d read our tea leaves,” Esme said. “And tell me who I’m to marry.” She glanced at me. “Though my father says such things are tools of the devil.”
    “And who’s to say the devil doesn’t know the truth as well as the Lord, considering Satan was once said to be the highest angel?” Mrs. Peabody laughed at Esme’s shocked expression. Then she turned to me. “What about you, Zee? Do you want to know what type of man you’ll wed?”
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    Mrs. Peabody rubbed her hands together. “It’s too hot for brewing tea, so I’ll read your palms instead. You first, Esme.”
    Esme hesitated, then thrust out her hand, as if she half-expected Mrs. P. to sever it at the wrist. Our hostess grasped Esme’s arm and held it steady while she bent low over the palm.
    “You will live a long life,” Mrs. Peabody said, tracing the crease across the center of Esme’s palm. With her forefinger, she followed another line. “You will marry a man with three children. A farmer, I think.”
    Esme’s eyes widened. “That sounds like Mr. Colquit! Does my future husband have a mole?”
    “A mole? I can’t tell that. But he will treat you well and you will be happy and have . . . ” She paused and studied Esme’s palm again. “You’ll have five children of your own.”
    “Five?” Esme grinned. “I hope you’re right.”
    “My turn.” I offered my hand. Mrs. Peabody took it, her skin cool and dry against my own, her fingers work-roughened and red as she traced the lines across my palm. Deep furrows marred her brow as she studied my hand for a long time, saying nothing.
    Esme and I exchanged glances. “What is it?” I demanded. “What do you see?”
    She hesitated. “You’ll marry a handsome young man.” She released my hand. “A man who will make you the envy of many.”
    “What else?” I asked.
    She shook her head, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing else. I wish you every happiness.”
    “There was something else,” I said. “You saw something that upset you. What is it?”
    She pursed her lips. “I saw that it won’t all be happiness for you,” she said. “There will be . . . hard times.”
    Hard times were nothing new, but the way she said the words sent a cold shiver up my spine—the feeling my mother referred to as ‘someone walking across your grave.’ I wanted to ask for more details. What kind of hard times would these be? But I was a coward and