The Woman Who Loved Jesse James Read Free Page B

the pleasure of knowing that he loves you with the same intensity and passion.”
    Passion . The word and the sentiment it conveyed were as exotic as a rare orchid or a tropical bird. It was a word that hinted at sex and sin and emotions not kept demurely in check. The ideas made me shiver and started an ache deep inside me. That was the kind of man I wanted—not cool Mr. Colquit and his good manners, but a man of passion.
    “Mr. Henry?” Esme’s astonishment reminded me that the man to whom Mrs. Peabody was so devoted was not the sort to make my own heart beat faster. The sheriff was a stout, graying man who walked with a limp from a ball he had taken in the leg at Antietam.
    Mrs. Peabody laughed again. “A man’s looks and age have little to do with his skill at pleasing a woman,” she said. She patted my knee. “Now that I’ve sufficiently shocked you, why don’t you take off those bonnets and let me fix your hair? I have a new issue of Godey’s that shows some very fetching styles.”
    The wedding of my sister Lucy to Mr. Bowling Browder was the social event of the year in our part of the county. Easily a hundred buggies, traps and saddle horses filled the pastures and lined the drive leading up to the Browders’s house, a two-storied, whitewashed manse with a broad front veranda.
    Lucy looked happy and not at all nervous as she stood with her husband-to-be to say her vows. My father performed the ceremony on the top step of the verandah while friends and family looked on. Bowling stammered a little, but recovered enough to plant a not-so-chaste kiss on his new wife, while his friends whistled and cheered.
    Afterwards, Esme and I joined the crowd making its way to the buffet spread beneath trees behind the house. Darkies in crisp white aprons delivered trays of smoked meats, pickled and fresh vegetables, fried chicken, baked beans, and steaming rolls. To finish, there was a huge white-frosted cake decorated with sugared flowers, its layers rising three feet above the table where it sat, watched over by a small black boy who kept away the flies with a palmetto fan.
    Esme and I filled our plates and found a spot on a blanket beneath a spreading oak, from which vantage point we could observe the crowd. “There’s Mr. Henry,” Esme said, nodding toward a group of men who loitered near the cookhouse. The sheriff stood at their center, gleaming pistols just visible beneath his open coat. I studied his stout, stocky figure. This was Mrs. Peabody’s skilled lover?
    “He must be over thirty-five,” Esme said. “Almost as old as my father.”
    “Mrs. Peabody must be at least that old,” I said. Though I still couldn’t imagine wanting to sleep with a man like Mr. Henry.
    “Have you seen your cousins yet?” Esme asked.
    “Frank and Jesse?” I shook my head. “No.” Then again, would I even recognize the boys if I saw them again?
    We were almost finished eating when Fanny and Rachel Grace, friends from school, joined us. “There’s a group of young men here, recently returned from the war,” Fanny said, her eyes shining.
    “How many of them are there?” Esme’s face brightened. Young men meant possible suitors.
    “I heard half a dozen,” Rachel said. “Though if any of them are worth knowing, I can’t say.”
    “I say any eligible young man is worth knowing in these times.” Fanny glared at her sister. Already twenty-two, she was in danger of being labeled an old maid, while Rachel was just eighteen.
    “Or even an eligible older man,” Esme said, giving me a knowing look. “If he’s nice and can support a wife I wouldn’t say no to him.”
    “Frank and Jesse James might be worth knowing,” Rachel said. “I hear Jesse in particular is a handsome one.”
    “Are they here?” Esme asked.
    “So I hear,” Rachel said. “Though never having met them, I couldn’t say.”
    “Frank and Jesse are Zee’s cousins,” Esme volunteered.
    Fanny regarded me with renewed interest. “Then perhaps