Christmas on My Mind, page 3
“Like feeding Francine’s cat? Tell me, sheriff, do you have a mean side?”
“I do. But don’t worry, I save it for the bad guys.” Ben squared himself for the serious conversation he needed to have with her. “Jess, I’m glad you got off to a good start with your mother. But if you don’t understand what you’re getting into with her, things could turn sour in a hurry.”
“Okay. So tell me about her.” Jess put down her mug and leaned toward him. “I get it that she’s troubled. But she’s so sweet and funny. Surely, with someone here to care about her—”
“So you’re really planning to stay?”
“If I can find a place to live and some kind of job, yes. My mother needs help, and I want to be here for her.”
“Then listen to me, Jess. Francine’s a delightful woman—all my deputies like her. I do too. But she’s an alcoholic mess. When she drinks—and she will—she’s over the top. Today, when you met her, she was cold sober. But when she’s on the bottle, she swears like a drunken sailor, gets in fights and usually ends up passed out in some alley. Get in her way, and she can be meaner than a skunk.”
“But what about Alcoholics Anonymous? Didn’t you tell me that she’d be going to their meetings as part of her probation? Won’t that help her?”
“It could, if Francine wanted help. But we’ve been down that road with her before. She’ll come up with every excuse in the book not to show up at those meetings—she’s sick, it’s too cold, it’s raining, or she’s just too passed-out drunk to go. If you get her there, she’ll sit in the back and sleep, or pretend to. There’s a good group in the county, but the last sponsor she had finally threw up his hands and quit. If you’re not prepared to handle that kind of behavior, the kindest thing you can do is say good-bye now and find a reason to walk away. Otherwise you could both end up with your hearts broken.”
Emotions flickered across Jess’s pretty face—shock, dismay and finally determination. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. But she’s my mother, my own flesh and blood. I can’t walk away until I’ve done everything I can to help her.”
And what about you, Jess? You look like you could use some help yourself. Who’s going to help you?
Ben kept that thought to himself. Jess had already shown herself to be fiercely independent. Telling her she needed help wouldn’t set well with her. And as sheriff, Ben knew better than to get personally involved in situations like this. The sooner he could back off and get back to work, the better for all concerned.
* * *
“Right now, I need to see about my car,” Jess said. “If you’ll leave me at the garage, with my suitcase, I can manage from there.”
“Let me give them a call.” Ben whipped out his cell phone. “Even if they’ve got your car, they can’t fix it till you give them the okay.” He scrolled down and punched in the call. “Silas? It’s me, Ben. Did you get time to tow in that old green Pontiac? . . . Yeah? . . . Sure, she’s right here. I’ll put her on.”
Jess took the phone. “Hello? Have you got my car?”
“Yup,” a nasal voice answered. “Looks like the fuel line. Good news is, it won’t cost much to fix—maybe a couple hundred with the tow. Bad news is, we ain’t got the part. We can order it in, but it’ll take a couple of days. You want us to go ahead?”
Jess hesitated. For a beat-up old car, even two hundred dollars was a lot of money. But she didn’t have much choice. “Sure,” she said. “Go ahead. I’ll give you my cell number. You can call me when it’s done.”
She gave him her number, ended the call and returned the phone to Ben. “It looks like I’m stuck on foot for a couple of days. But that’s not your problem. Just drop me off at the nearest cheap motel.”
He looked bemused. “Sorry, but the nearest motel, cheap or not, is forty miles up the road in Cottonwood Springs. There’s nothing here in Branding Iron.”
Her heart sank. “No boarding house? No bed-and-breakfast?”
“That’s what I said. Nothing.”
“I suppose I could crash in Francine’s trailer . . .” Even saying the words made her cringe.
“Not on your life,” he said. “My mother has a spare room in her house. She’ll be happy to put you up for a few days. You’re coming home with me.”
Chapter Three
As Ben drove across town to his mother’s house, Jess took in the quiet streets, the modest homes and yards. Most were neatly tended, a few cluttered with weeds, old appliances and junk cars. Here and there a sign advertised a home business—a backyard welding shop, a beauty salon, a cake decorator. If anybody in Branding Iron had money, they didn’t appear to flaunt it.
Ben hadn’t tried to get her talking again. He seemed to know that she had a lot to think about, and she did.
She’d told him she was determined to stay. But she’d be foolish to ignore his warning about Francine’s behavior—and even more foolish to assume that, just by being here, she could heal her mother’s addiction. Alcoholism was a disease, and the only known cure had to spring from a deep motivation to change. Could she foster that motivation in her mother? Did she have the patience to try, fail and try again? If not, maybe Ben was right. Maybe the kindest thing she could do was walk away now, before it was too late.
“Here we are.” Ben slowed down in front of a two-story frame house with white siding and dark green shutters. Gingerbread trim shadowed the wide covered porch. A bare wisteria vine, promising springtime beauty, spiraled up a corner post to creep across the edge of the roof. Set on a quiet street, with a stately sycamore in the well-groomed front yard, the home was the picture of graciousness, respectability and security—all the things that, if she’d ever known them, were missing from Jess’s memory.
“This is where you grew up?” Jess asked as Ben pulled into the driveway.
“It is. My great-grandfather built the place after World War One. It’s been in the family ever since.”
“And your mother won’t mind having me stay for a couple of nights? I hate to impose on someone who doesn’t even know me.”
“Relax.” Ben gave her a boyish grin. “I called her while you were in the restroom at Buckaroo’s. She said she’d enjoy the company. Knowing her, she’ll treat you like family.”
“But does she know who I am? Does she know about . . . ?”
“About Francine? Sure, I mentioned it to her. You can expect a few questions, but my mother’s never been one to judge. Come on, you’ll be fine.” He climbed out of the vehicle, retrieved her suitcase from the back and strode on around to open her door. A tall, silver-haired woman dressed in gray slacks and a cheery red cardigan came down the steps, one hand gripping the wrought-iron rail for support. She appeared to be in her late sixties at least, maybe older. She must not have been young when Ben was born.
“Welcome, Jessica. I’m Clara.” She was thin and slightly stooped, clearly not strong, but her smile and her sparkling brown eyes lit her face. “Come on inside. My daughter’s old room is set up for guests, so it’s all ready for you. Ben, be a dear and take that suitcase upstairs. I’ve got fresh carrot cake and hot tea in the kitchen. If that sounds good to you, we can sit at the table and visit a little.”
Jess had just filled up on pizza, but she wanted a chance to know her hostess better. “It sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’ll even serve if you’ll let me.”
“Hey, save some cake for me. Then I’ve got to get back to work.” Ben headed up the narrow staircase with Jess’s suitcase. She heard the thump as he set it on the floor. By the time he reappeared in the doorway of the cozy, old-fashioned kitchen, Jess and Clara were seated at the kitchen table with small slices of carrot cake and cups of steaming ginger tea. He grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around the generous wedge of cake Jess had cut for him. “I’ll take this on the run,” he said. “Just got a call about a drug bust. Couple of middle school girls smoking weed in the Shop Mart parking lot. They need me to show up, give them a good scare and talk to their parents. Thanks for the cake, Mom.”
He vanished out the front door. A moment later Jess heard the SUV roar out of the driveway, siren wailing.
Jess shook her head. “Good grief, is all that fuss necessary? It’s just a couple of kids—and they’re girls!”
Clara gave her a knowing smile. “The siren and lights are just theater. Ben’s way with lawbreaking kids is to make a big deal of it, put the fear of God into them so, hopefully, they’ll never do it again. Most of the time, it works.”
“I can tell you’re proud of him,” Jess said.
“I am. Ben’s been through some rough times—losing his chance at the NFL when he blew out his knee in college, going to work for his father-in-law, and then having his marriage break up. But he’s done all right for himself since he came home. He’s a good sheriff and a good son.”
“You mentioned something about a daughter.”
“Yes. Ellie would be about your age. She’s married to a lawyer and lives in San Francisco. I get a call from her every few weeks, but I don’t see as much of her as I’d like.” For a moment she looked wistful. Then she smiled again. “Ben tells me you plan to settle here in Branding Iron.”
“Yes, if I can find a job and a place to live—and if things work out with my . . .” Could she say the word? “My mother.”
“Ben told me you came to find her,” Clara said. “I think you’re very brave. You’re going to have your hands full, trying to help Francine.”
Clara’s acceptance was like the opening of a door into a warm place. Only now did Jess realize how much she’d needed a sympathetic ear—and how much she needed to learn about her mother.
“Ben tried to talk me out of getting involved with her,” she said. “But now that I’m here, how can I just turn my back and walk away?” Still nervous, she took a bite of cake, then another. “This cake is delicious. I hope you won’t mind sharing the recipe.”
“Not at all. I actually made it for the little group I’m hosting here later today—the committee for planning this year’s Cowboy Christmas Ball. You’re welcome to join us—it would give you a chance to make some friends here. Heaven knows, if you stay and take on Francine, you’re going to need some support.”
“Thanks. Let me think about it.” The thought of meeting the respectable ladies of the town was enough to make Jess cringe with dread. But Clara was right. If she stayed in Branding Iron, she was going to need friends. And she might never have a better chance at making some than today.
“What can you tell me about the Cowboy Christmas Ball?” she asked. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Oh, it is—although it’s also a lot of work behind the scenes. The idea for a Cowboy Christmas Ball started over in Anson. It’s still a huge thing there. But a few years after that, folks in Branding Iron decided they wanted their own. Our first Christmas ball was held here after the boys came back from World War One. It’s become a tradition. Everybody dresses for an old-fashioned western dance—even the children. There’s a barbecue, plenty of food and dancing. And we usually sign a big-name country band for the music. It’s the biggest event of the year. Most of the planning’s already been done. This meeting is mostly just to go down the checklist and make sure everything’s covered.”
“It does sound like fun,” Jess said. “And it would be a great chance to meet people. I want to learn more about the town and especially about Francine. How well do you know her?”
“We were never close friends—she’s quite a bit younger than I am. But we both grew up here in Branding Iron.” Clara gazed out the window, as if looking into the past. “I remember what a beautiful young girl she was—wild, to be sure, but so full of life. Then it all changed. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What happened?” Jess leaned toward her. “Did it have something to do with me—or with my father, whoever he was?” She’d seen the name and the note on her birth certificate—Denver Jackson, deceased. But that was all she knew.
“Francine didn’t tell you?”
“We only had a few minutes together. She said we could talk more when she got out of jail. But if you know what happened, I’d like to hear your version.”
“I can only tell you what I saw and heard.” Clara stirred a sugar cube into her tea. “She was about seventeen, as I remember, and the prettiest girl in town. He was a rodeo cowboy, a bull rider, passing through to earn a little prize money at the county rodeo—handsome as the devil’s own, with flame-red hair—” She glanced up at Jess. “Hair the same color as yours.
“When the rodeo money wasn’t enough, he signed on to help with the haying season. All the girls were crazy for him, but it was Francine he chose. When her father, who owned the bank at the time, ordered him to stay away from her, he left and went back on the rodeo circuit. She went with him.”
“That must’ve been a hard life for her,” Jess said.
Clara nodded. “I don’t know the details. Francine claimed later that they’d gotten married, but I don’t know if that was true. Nobody ever saw a ring or a license. A few weeks after they left town, he was killed by a bull in the arena—the story was in the paper, so we knew about it here.”
“And Francine?”
“She was right there and saw it happen. You can imagine what that must’ve done to her. When she finally came home, pregnant and half out of her mind, her father had disowned her. He wouldn’t even let her in the house to get her things. Heaven knows where she found shelter or how she lived, but she had her baby and gave it up. After that she left town and disappeared. Nobody knew where she’d gone, but about eight years ago she came back. And now . . .” She gave Jess a reassuring smile. “Here you are, my dear.”
Jess blinked back tears. After Ben’s warning, she’d questioned her decision to stay in Branding Iron. Now that she knew Francine’s story, those questions were fading. As Clara had said, here she was—and it had to be for a reason. No one else could provide the love and support it would take to save her mother. She was the poor woman’s only chance.
“Are you all right?” Clara laid a gentle hand on her arm.
With effort, Jess found her voice. “Yes, just emotional. I had no idea . . .” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you for telling me about my mother, and especially for taking me in. Now, I hope you’ll let me clear the table and take care of these dishes.” Standing, she began collecting the cups and saucers.
“I can do that.” Clara rose. “Since I’ve taken a couple of falls, Ben treats me like an invalid. But that’s far from true. I just need to be careful. Why don’t you get some rest before my friends show up? The upstairs bath is right across the hall from your room. Feel free to take a shower. Run along now.” She shooed Jess out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
* * *
The room in which Ben had left Jess’s suitcase looked much the same as it must have when his sister was in high school—the pink-checked ruffled coverlet; the bed piled with pillows and stuffed animals; the bedside lamps with lace doilies under their bases; and the dresser with its tall mirror and little round stool, covered with fabric that matched the bed cover and the window curtains.
On the wall was a framed photo of a pretty, dark-haired girl in a cheerleading costume. This had to be Ben’s sister, Ellie. Even in the picture, she looked strong-willed. Jess couldn’t help wondering about the wistful tone in Clara’s voice as she spoke of her. Maybe something had gone wrong between them. Or maybe Ellie was just too involved in her California lifestyle to spare much time for her mother.
After stacking the stuffed animals in the corner, Jess hefted her suitcase onto the bed and opened it flat. She’d packed hastily, and most of her clothes were wrinkled. But she found black leggings, a tunic-length tweed sweater and black slippers that would look presentable enough for company. Clara’s friends on the Christmas Ball committee would probably look like they’d stepped out of Good Housekeeping. But they would just have to take her as she was.
A quick shower would feel heavenly before she put on clean clothes. In the old-style bathroom, with the showerhead mounted above the footed tub, she stripped naked. She’d turned on the water and was about to climb in when she noticed the steel razor lying next to the sink—and the single toothbrush in the porcelain holder.
Her heart went thud. Of course, this would be Ben’s bathroom. And his bedroom would be on this floor too. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But as she stepped into the warm shower, she couldn’t help imagining him standing in this very spot, the water sluicing over his drool-worthy superhero body.
She willed the image away. Any notion of romance with the handsome sheriff was a dead-end road. He might be unattached, as his mother had let her know. There might even be some sizzle between them. But all he’d have to do was enter her name into the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Check System, and she’d be history. It wouldn’t matter that she’d paid her dues or that her testimony had put the real criminal—her former husband—behind bars. To a square-jawed Sir Galahad like Ben Marsden, she’d be tainted goods. End of story.
After turning off the water, she climbed out of the tub and dried herself with an oversized white bath towel, which she then wrapped around her body, tucking it at the top like a sarong. Clutching her discarded clothes, she stepped out into the hall.
She would have gone back into the guest bedroom to get dressed, but something caught her eye—a door on the far side of the bathroom. Was that the door to Ben’s room?
Overcome by curiosity, she walked closer. If the door had been tightly closed, there was no way she would have opened it. But it stood slightly ajar, almost beckoning her to steal a look inside.
Feeling vaguely naughty, she peered through the narrow opening. Ben’s mother had mentioned that he’d been an NFL hopeful. Would the room be lined with high-school and college football trophies, maybe framed news articles and photos of his teams? Jess hoped not. There was something juvenile about men who never moved on past their athletic glory days.
She used her bare toe to nudge the door open a few more inches. She saw no trophies. Just a rumpled bed, hastily made with a faded quilt on top, and a blue terry robe flung across the foot. A basket of laundry sat on the floor. There were venetian blinds on the windows and a chest of drawers standing next to a half-open closet. On the nightstand, next to the bed, were three things—a digital alarm clock, a book and a framed school picture of a young boy.
