by Texas Lover
Wes allowed the mayor to pump his hand, but he remained seated. He didn't much like politicians with wide, toothy smiles.
Apparently unconcerned by the slight, Faraday beamed at him as he adjusted his glasses. He had ink stains on his rolled-up sleeves and a smudge on his nose. It occurred to Wes that Faraday must be the owner of the local newspaper.
"Of course," Faraday went on, "you being a stranger, you probably aren't aware of our no-gun ordinance." His tone was amicable but the gaze he trained on Wes's Colts was wary. "If you don't mind my asking, what's your business here, mister?"
Wes delayed his answer as the bartender deposited a plate of greasy food before him. The man kept his eyes to the ground as he edged around Dukker and high-tailed it back to the safety of his bar.
"My name's Rawlins," Wes said finally. "I've got Ranger business with Sheriff Boudreau."
Faraday's eyebrows humped up like twin caterpillars. "Rawlins? Ranger Cord Rawlins?"
Wes tried not to grimace. Folks in Bandera County often confused him with his legendary, law-fighting brother. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Cord had left the force years ago. Besides, Cord was six inches shorter—not to mention fourteen years older—than he.
"Cord's a relation of mine," he answered coolly. "Anything else I can do for you, Mayor? I've got a meal waiting on me."
Dukker sneered, folding apelike arms across a barrel-sized chest. "Reckon you ain't heard then, eh, Rawlins?"
"Heard what?"
"You're late, that's what. Cousin Gator was expecting you two damned weeks ago. 'Course, he's dead now, so I reckon any business you got is with me."
Wes nearly choked on his mouthful of beans. "Boudreau's dead?"
"Yep." Dukker nodded ominously. "Shot and ambushed about twelve miles west of town. Hell, if you'd been doing your job, hunting down renegade niggers like you were supposed to, Cousin Gator would still be hunting and fishing with my boys."
Wes set down his fork. He didn't much like Dukker's accusation, mainly because there was a ring of truth in it. He could have ridden much harder, but he'd chosen to rest Two-Step during the hottest parts of the afternoon. He'd holed up for dust devils and lightning storms, and he'd even allowed a calico queen to lure him into an overnight stay. Could he have prevented the sheriff's ambush if he'd arrived sooner?
A pang of guilt stabbed through him.
"This is the first I've heard of Boudreau's death. Or of any renegades," he added cautiously. "Seems strange no one mentioned it to me while I was walking through town."
"Maybe no one mentioned it to you 'cause you ain't wearing a badge," Dukker retorted. "I reckon you Rangers get your jollies by strapping on Big Irons and scaring the living daylights out of unarmed folks."
Wes felt his neck heat. He knew he should allow for Dukker's grief at his cousin's death, but the man was making it hard.
"You've got a right to be angry. I apologize. Now you want to tell me why I had to bust my britches riding nearly two hundred miles?"
"I already told you it was renegades," Dukker snapped. "'Course, if those niggers had a lick of sense, they'd be halfway to New Mexico by now."
Faraday cleared his throat, his shrewd gaze darting to Wes. "You know we can't be entirely sure of that, Hannibal. And the county isn't within your jurisdiction—"
"A man's got a right to defend his property."
"Yes, but Mr. Rawlins has the legal authority to enforce the law until our new sheriff is elected. Perhaps before he rides off to track down Gator's killers, Mr. Rawlins can help you settle the trouble on your cousin's spread—you being so busy with the election campaign and all."
Dukker's face darkened. He seemed on the verge of a virulent protest until a cagey expression flickered in his eyes.
"Hell, you're right, Faraday. It's just that Gator was my boys' closest relation. Creed spent half the summer working those fields. Gator wanted his homestead to pass to my boy, and I'll be damned if I let some squatters lay a claim."
"Perfectly understandable, of course," Faraday said briskly. "No Texican is fond of squatters." He flashed Wes an apologetic smile, but his shoulders remained taut. "Perhaps now, Mr. Rawlins, you can see why Hannibal is so... er, quick on the draw. Since Gator's spread's only ten miles west of Elodea, none of us here wants trouble. What we do want is justice. And a Ranger can end this dispute. I can personally attest that Hannibal has been as patient as a man can be these last two weeks, but the Sinclairs—" Faraday sighed, shaking his head, "they're just—"
"A bunch of damned Yankees," Dukker interrupted, screwing up his face to spit.
Wes grimaced, pushing aside his plate. He didn't know which turned his stomach more: the greasy beans or Dukker. If Dukker's claim was legitimate—and the town mayor seemed to think it was—then Wes had a legal obligation to ride out to Boudreau's farm. He had a moral one, too, if the story of Boudreau's death was the gospel truth. But damn. Squatters. After riding two hundred miles, he deserved a more exciting mission than ending a property squabble.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked, eyeing Dukker in disgust.
"Round 'em up," Dukker said. "Drive 'em out. Hell, shoot 'em if you have to. But don't hurt none of the livestock," he added quickly, a covetous gleam lighting his wintry gaze. "I plan on selling it. Them goats and chickens ain't much, but they'll help pay for what needs mending. Ol' Gator wasn't good with roofs and windows and such, if you catch my meaning."
Wes's lip curled. He'd caught Dukker's meaning all right. "How 'bout if I just burn them out?"
Dukker bristled at Wes's sarcasm, but Faraday's quick laughter diffused the tension.
"That's a knee-slapper, Rawlins. Burn them out." He chuckled again, slapping Wes on the shoulder. "Tell you what. Instead of eating that day-old hash, why don't you come over to my house? My wife makes the best fried chicken in the county. And my Lorelei, why she's Bandera's prettiest belle."
Wes managed a thin smile. Any man who was a bachelor—and wanted to stay that way—didn't go sparking a virgin at her father's invitation. But the chicken sure was tempting. He'd gotten mighty tired of canned peaches and roasted rabbit on the trail.
"Much obliged, Mayor. I'd like to take you up on that." Wes stood and noticed with satisfaction that Dukker had to crane his neck back to look him in the eye. "But first I'd like to ride out to Boudreau's farm. Ask the Sinclairs what they know about his murder."
Dukker stiffened.
"Of course. Of course," Faraday said with brassy brightness. "Come on by the Enquirer when you're ready, and I'll escort you to the house."
Wes nodded.
Faraday turned to Dukker. "Buy you a drink. Hannibal?"
He gestured toward the bar with a wide smile, but the strain between the two men was hard to mistake. Considering that town marshals were typically hired by the mayor and his council, Wes found Faraday's kowtowing curious.
Keeping a wary eye on the two men, he stooped for his saddle. The sooner he rode to Boudreau's farm, the sooner he could get the coming unpleasantness over with. He planned to listen to the Sinclairs' story, of course, but he didn't have a lot of faith in the validity of their claim. If one could believe Faraday's testimonial, the law was on Dukker's side.
Heaving his saddle to his shoulder, he headed for the swinging doors. By sundown, hopefully, the squatter issue would be settled. He wanted to start tracking Boudreau's killer at dawn. With any luck, his manhunt would take him out of Bandera County before Cord and the rest of the family caught wind of his return.
Setting his hat on his head, he turned his thoughts to his meeting with Mr. Sinclair.
* * *
"Rider coming!"
The cry of alarm was the first thing Wes heard as Two-Step trotted up the drive of the Boudreau homestead.
Somewhere, a door slammed. A dozen or so boys and girls converged upon the yard, running from all directions, charging through squawking chickens and bleating goats. Every race and color seemed to be represented as the youngs
ters rushed by, clutching straw dolls and fishing poles, some clinging to another child's hand.
Surprised, he reined in, throwing up an arm just in time to protect his hat from the frenzied flapping of a hen.
A squat black woman was gesturing frantically, shooing the children like chicks into the storm cellar by her feet. Every last one of the youngsters looked scared—if not of him, Wes noticed with growing concern, then of the yawning black pit below them. The woman was insistent, though, and she snatched up the smallest bawling child, kissing his hair as she hurried down the stairs after her wards. Two chubby brown arms reached past her, a pigtailed head bobbed, then the doors fell shut, sealing everyone in with a resounding bang.
Wes blinked.
Now if that wasn't the oddest damned thing he'd ever seen....
"What's your business here, mister?"
His head snapped around at the sharp midwestern accent. He'd been so bemused by the rush of little bodies that he hadn't noticed the statuesque woman beneath the magnolia tree by the front of the house. He recognized the sunflowers on her mud-spattered skirt, and for a moment, he allowed himself to admire what her straw hat had hidden from him earlier. A honey-brown sheaf of primly coiffed hair framed the classical features of her face, one that appeared to be a few years older than his own, and yet striking in its maturity. Her high, thoughtful brow and elegantly chiseled cheekbones both bloomed pink at the moment, no doubt due to her agitation, and her firm, full lips were pressed together over a dimpled chin.
But the feature that struck him the most, the characteristic that downright stole his breath away, was her eyes: two fiery jewels of amber. And right now, those eyes were burning into him as if he were Satan's own messenger.
Which wasn't that far from the truth, he thought with a twinge of guilt.
Suddenly he remembered the badge in his pocket. A part of him cringed to think that in Mrs. Sinclair's eyes, his star would probably put him in a league with Hannibal Dukker. Still, he'd resigned himself early in his Ranger career to the fact that duty was rarely pleasant.
Thinking to save himself a lot of argument by proving his legal authority, he reached for his hidden star. The glint of steel froze him in midgesture. Warned of her .45 before Mrs. Sinclair drew it from her skirts, he spent the next heartbeat or so cursing himself for having fewer brains than a wooden Indian.
Then he smiled. He couldn't help himself.
He'd looked down many a gun barrel before, but never once had he faced a woman with the bearing of a queen and the courage of a mother cougar.
Chapter 2
"Keep your hands where I can see them, mister," Aurora Sinclair ordered. She locked her trembling knees and drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten, shooting the stranger her fiercest glare and praying to heaven that the children were all safely in the cellar.
For days she had drilled her charges in the emergency procedure, her distrust of Hannibal Dukker spurring her to take precautions. Although the marshal had yet to threaten her household, she feared his retaliation was only a matter of time. The night before, she had finally convinced him to take his courtship elsewhere; only that afternoon, Creed had given free rein to his envy of Shae.
Even if Rorie could have convinced herself Hannibal's courtship had been based on love—or his boys' desperate need of a mother—she would never have surrendered her orphans' guardianship simply to relieve her own loneliness.
Still, she had spent last night wondering if she had been prudent to reject Marshal Dukker. She would have had to suffer his suit for only another few weeks, until her more civilized beau returned from his cattle drive, or until Shae turned eighteen and could inherit the land she held in trust for him. If she had been wise enough to bide her time where Dukker was concerned, she might not be standing there now worrying that she had endangered the children.
Or that this dusty stranger, who had ridden out of town with twin revolvers on his hips, was part of Dukker's revenge.
Swallowing hard, she tightened her fists over the butt of the .45 and tried to hold it steady, as Shae had taught her. Her best gunfighter's stance only seemed to amuse the stranger, though. He was young, perhaps five or six years younger than she, but his accessories suggested that he was an expert at destruction. In addition to his six-shooters, his cartridge belt, and the sheathed Bowie knife that peeked from his boot, a Winchester rifle glinted against his saddle.
No casual cowpoke carried so much firing power, even in Texas, the Braggadocio Capital of the South.
Cocking his head, the stranger grinned at her. "You planning on shooting me, ma'am?"
The very idea made her stomach roil. "If I must."
"You'll have to aim a bit higher then."
A slow heat crept up her neck. He was trying to intimidate her. She'd been practicing for two whole weeks, and she knew she could hit the side of a barrel—most of the time.
"You have yet to answer my question," she retorted in her sternest schoolmarm voice. "What is your business here?"
He doffed his hat. His hair was as thick as a lion's mane, and flared around his darkly tanned face with the red-gold glory of a sunset. For a moment, she simply could not tear her eyes away. She had stared down onto her former husband's shiny pate for so long, she had forgotten a man could be blessed with such magnificent hair.
"The name's Rawlins. Wes Rawlins," the stranger drawled in his rumbling baritone, one which might have been musical if not for its tiny twang of bluster. "I've come to see Mr. Sinclair."
"Then you have come to the wrong place."
"This is Gator Boudreau's homestead, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or rather, it was. But Sheriff Boudreau was—"
She bit her tongue. Prudence, she reminded herself. She had enough problems with Dukker; she would be inviting disaster if she accused him of complicity in Gator's murder without a single shred of evidence.
"Ma'am?"
Swallowing, Rorie forced herself to meet Rawlins's eyes. They were so startlingly green, they looked like polished emeralds set into the copper of his face.
"Did you know Sheriff Boudreau, Mr. Rawlins?"
"No, ma'am. I've heard talk of him, though."
"Gator was a good man. A decent, Christian man," she added firmly, knowing firsthand the damage gossips could do. "You would never have found him behaving like one of those rude, uncouth Rangers he often kept the company of."
A hint of amusement again crept across Rawlins's chiseled features. She noticed for the first time that he had a smattering of freckles on his nose. They blended almost to perfection with his tan.
"Do you know a lot of Rangers, ma'am?"
"I know a lot of lawmen, Mr. Rawlins. And I can't think of a single one—other than Gator—whom I'd consider trustworthy."
Rawlins frowned. His eyes bored into hers, and for a moment, she had the unsettling feeling that he knew more about her suspicions than she wanted to reveal.
Shae, for heaven's sake where are you? She wished the boy would come home. He'd been so furious with her for interfering in his fistfight that he had driven them back from town and unloaded the wagon without a single word to her. Then he had stalked off for a sulk.
Of course, Shae or no Shae, Rorie would do what had to be done to protect the children. She certainly would feel better about martyrdom, though, knowing Shae's shotgun was guarding the cellar. Even Gator hadn't been able to beat Shae in an honest shooting match.
"I'm real sorry, ma'am," Rawlins said, "about the way Sheriff Boudreau passed on." He inclined his head. "You must have been right close to him, Mrs.... er, Miss...?"
"For the last time, Mr. Rawlins, what do you want?"
She had amused him again. There was a winsome charm in his smile, a youthful appeal that was more than a little disarming. She tried to steel herself against it. She recalled Gator's tales of Billy the Kid, a young man who had always smiled before he killed.
"Well, for starters," Rawlins said, "how 'bout putting down that Equalizer before you shoot y
our foot off?"
"I assure you, Mr. Rawlins, I am not the one in danger. Now I suggest you ride on."
"You' re not from around here, are you, ma'am?" Leaning forward, he winked in a conspiratorial manner. "I can always peg a Yankee lady by the way she doles out hospitality."
Rorie felt her face flame. Well!
" 'Course, I meant no offense," he continued, with that lilting vocal swagger of his. "And I sure don't want to put you out any. It's just that I've had a long ride and I'm real thirsty. Do you think we might call a truce so I can get a dipper of water? Shoot, I'll take my gun belt off, if that'd make you feel better."
Oh, he was a clever one, this Wes Rawlins. He'd gone straight to the heart of her female pride—her hospitality. How in good conscience could she refuse him water? By the looks of him, he had had a long ride. And the nearest body of water, Ramble Creek, was another mile to the west.
"All right," she said. "You may go to the well. But keep your hands away from your guns."
"Sure thing, ma'am. Whatever you say."
He was humoring her. She felt it as surely as she felt the growing fatigue in her arms. She worried she wouldn't be able to draw a straight bead on him much longer. She worried, too, about the heat and the darkness in that cellar. Poor Ginevee probably had her hands full, trying to ease the qualms of a dozen monster-fearing children.
"Please hurry, Mr. Rawlins, before my well and my patience dry up."
He swung a leg over his saddle, and her heart quickened as he unfolded. True to his word, he kept his hands high, but his cooperation wasn't what imprinted itself on her senses. She realized suddenly that he was taller than Shae—at least four inches taller, and Shae was six-foot! She couldn't remember the last time she'd had to tilt her head back to look a man in the eye.
Rawlins bent his head and grinned down into her flushed face. "You mind if I use my hands now? On the dipper, I mean."
Her insides fluttered at the provocative warmth in his voice. "Of course not."
