Chapter twenty five

KATE'S HEAD ACHED terribly and the house seemed intolerably warm as she hurried about gathering up the few clothes and personal treasures that she could not leave behind. Her father was at the newspaper office and her mother was out running errands. It was the first chance that she had to pack. She had written a letter to her parents explaining what she had done, praying with each painful sentence that they would understand and someday believe that she was happy. She put the envelope on her bedside table, intending to leave it in the kitchen the next day for them to find. She wanted to get everything ready so that she could leave as soon as the house was empty in the morning. Tomorrow was Martha's day to visit her new friends at the ladies' weekly luncheon gathering. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow I will go to Jessie and we will make a new life.

It had only been twenty-four hours since they had parted, but she already missed Jessie terribly. Now, when things were so very hard, she needed her near. Jessie was always so calm, so steady. So strong. When she thought of Jessie leaving the ranch, Kate's heart ached. She had only to envision Jessie standing on the wide front porch looking contentedly out over her land, or astride one of her great horses, grinning and confidant and so totally at peace, to know what a great sacrifice Jessie was making. Kate hated for Jessie to give up such a part of herself, but she could not imagine any other way. They could not stay, and Kate could not give her up. They must go, because to lose Jessie would surely kill her.

She opened her travel trunk, the one she had packed with such optimism less than a year before. She passed a trembling hand over her forehead, wiping with a handkerchief at the icy sweat that had broken out there. She felt suddenly cold. Shivering, she reached for a shawl. She finished filling the suitcase, adding to the top her slim book of sonnets. She remembered sitting by Jessie's bedside reading them, and the thought of Jessie warmed her even as her body grew more chilled. She dragged the heavy valise toward her closet, suddenly lightheaded. She grasped the dresser for support, dizzy. She had had no breakfast, being much too nervous to eat. She could not recall if she had eaten dinner the night before. It was becoming more difficult by the moment for her to think clearly.

"I must get something to drink," she murmured, frightened by the trembling in her limbs. She descended the staircase unsteadily and made her way carefully to the kitchen, one hand trailing along the wall, struggling to stay upright. She found a pitcher of tea her mother had left in the heavy icebox and carried it with shaking hands to the table.

"A bit of bread and honey is all I need," she murmured, her vision wavering slightly. She laid the shawl aside, much too warm now.

As she reached for a glass, her head spun and a wave of nausea overtook her. She clutched the counter, her knees buckling, the room swirling about her. A curtain of gray obscured her vision, and she was dimly aware of the cool kitchen floor under her cheek. Barely conscious, too weak to rise, she called Jessie's name. She lost all sense of time. At some point she was aware of being moved, and voices rising and falling somewhere far away. She struggled weakly, protesting incoherently, as someone removed her clothing. She tried desperately to focus, knowing there was something she must do. Somewhere she must go. Eventually her body surrendered to the fever and she slipped into total unconsciousness, Jessie's name, unspoken, on her lips.

 

Jessie paced the length of the porch, watching the dusk give way to darkness. A tarp-covered wagon stood waiting behind the house, packed with all they would need for their trip over the Rockies. Star and Rory were fed and bridled, ready for the journey as well. She stood at the rail, one arm braced along the porch post, staring toward the cookhouse. There were lights in the windows and the smell of stew in the air. Jed would be there, with the men. God, it was hard, saying goodbye.

Jed had said little when she told him she was leaving. He had stood quietly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of hay, as Jessie explained that she would send legal papers giving him the authority to handle all the business affairs of the ranch. She thought at one point her voice would give out, but she held steady and looked him in the eye while she talked.

When she finished and fell silent, Jed had looked past her toward the mountains, as if gauging the climb. "You'll need to hurry if you're going to beat the snows," he said finally.

"Yes," she replied, waiting.

He had taken off his hat and brushed it lightly against his thigh. They leaned against the corral fence, the two of them, hunched in their heavy jackets, eyes tearing faintly in the cold wind. "I know you ain't running from the law," he said at length.

"No."

"There are only two things I know that will make a man leave his home," Jed remarked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the distant hills. "The law, or a woman."

She stiffened slightly, pushed her hands a little deeper in the pockets of her jacket. "Yes."

He looked at her, and all he saw was the same clear gaze and steady strength he had always seen. "Ain't nothing you can do but leave?"

Her eyes grew dark with pain, the anger gone now. "No."

"Well," he said after another long pause. "When you feel you can come back, it will all still be here waitin'. I can assure you that."

They had remained a while longer, their shoulders barely touching, watching the sky cloud over and the wind blow bare branches around the yard. She was glad for his company because it kept the sadness away.

That had been hours ago, and Kate should have arrived before sundown. Jessie looked up the road in the descending gloom for the hundredth time, even though she knew in her heart that Kate would have come by now if she were coming at all. Something must have happened. Perhaps she had been discovered. A faint voice in the back of her mind kept whispering that perhaps Kate had changed her mind, that Kate would have come had she wanted to. Perhaps when the moment had come, Kate could not say goodbye. Too much risk, too much loss. Jessie could almost understand if that's what had happened. It would be harder for Kate than for her, leaving everything behind. Maybe what they shared wasn't enough, maybe - maybe --

"No," she growled under her breath, beginning to pace again. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't! She remembered Kate's eyes when Kate had declared that she loved her. She remembered Kate's touch, and her smile, and her soft sighs as they lay quietly wrapped in one another after loving. Of course Kate would come. She had said that she would! But the night said otherwise.

When total darkness finally surrounded her, Jessie sat on the steps, weary from the hours of anxious waiting, elbows propped on her knees, her head down. She stared bleakly at nothing, her mind a blank. The star-filled sky revolved slowly overhead and the night air drew down around her, but she remained motionless, impervious to the cold that slowly chilled her to the bone. When all the lights were out in the bunkhouses, and even the night seemed to sleep, she roused herself. Star and Rory still waited patiently, tied to the wagon, and she could not leave them unsheltered in the brutal wind. Mechanically, she walked them down to the barn, removed their bridles, and led them into stalls. Then she made her way back up to the house, pausing on the porch to search the dark with desperate eyes, hoping to see salvation emerge from the shadows. She swayed slightly, grasping the banister to steady herself, running a hand over her face, surprised at the moisture on her cheeks. She couldn't feel anything. Then, very slowly, she turned her back to the road, walked into the house, and shut the door behind her.