by Texas Lover
"Much obliged... Mrs. Sinclair. It is Mrs. Sinclair, isn't it?"
"I am Aurora Sinclair," she admitted grudgingly, less annoyed by the reminder of her failed marriage than by the rush of her silly pulse.
Those green eyes laughed at her as he started to turn away. To her surprise, he limped. His easy masculine confidence couldn't conceal his grimace, and her annoyance ebbed slightly. He hadn't mentioned he was hurt. What had happened to him?
Chagrin trickled through her; she struggled against a swell of motherly instinct. Had she judged him too quickly? After all, he could have pleaded pain or injury and then, when her guard was down, he could have jumped her. If she were back in Cincinnati, where young men didn't wear revolvers during social calls, she would have known immediately where she stood with Wes Rawlins.
But in Texas, a genteel, impeccably dressed gentleman might ride into town and dynamite the bank, while the grizzled, squinty-eyed type might turn out to be a traveling preacher. Rorie hated to pass judgment simply on appearances, but there was too much at stake in her cellar.
"So." He looked curiously around him, his gaze traveling from the chicken coop's half-hinged door to the cistern's rusting pump, and from the house's one boarded window to the fence's tumbled posts. "Are you running a school here, Mrs. Sinclair?"
"A school for some. A home for others."
He turned, dipper in hand, and rested his weight on the well. "A home? You mean you've made this old rat-trap into an orphanage?"
"The children have nowhere else to go, Mr. Rawlins, and our neighbors in Elodea are not inclined to charity."
"I see."
I doubt it, she thought, but she kept her peace. The Negro and Mexican farmers had always been kind to her, sparing what grains and livestock they could in exchange for their children's education. But the townsfolk of Elodea had yanked every one of their children from her tutelage. The parents had been aghast to learn that their precious Billy Bobs and Peggy Sues were sharing readers with her orphans. Preacher Jenkins and Mayor Faraday had tried repeatedly to replace her, but no teacher could satisfy the Elodean ideal.
"So how long have y'all been living here, if you don't mind my asking?"
"One year."
"That's all?"
She eyed him sharply. What kind of question was that?
"Well, if you must know, Mr. Rawlins, I was hired one year ago as Elodea's schoolmistress. But I was denied the house I was promised because certain elements in Elodea cannot suffer to live beside people of a different color. Fortunately Gator took the orphans in so we would all have a roof over our heads."
"And your husband?" Rawlins's face had darkened in a way that suggested anger. "Where was Mr. Sinclair when you were being booted out of town?"
In some whorehouse, no doubt. But she didn't need to tell Rawlins about Jarrod's peccadillos.
"My husband is none of your concern. And I will thank you now to leave our home."
Rawlins shook his head, and her heart leaped. Anxiously she watched him replace the dipper in the pail and let the pail sink into the well. The whizzing crank and groaning rope were the only sounds in the yard until several seconds later, when she heard a muffled splash.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but you seem eager to get rid of me. It kind of makes me wonder." Frank eyes searched her own. "Did I give you some reason to be scared? 'Cause even with this hair and all, I don't usually send children running and ladies reaching for their six-shooters. Not on purpose, anyway," he added with the tiniest, self-deprecating smile.
Rorie swallowed. For a moment, she spied concern, warm and genuine, in the jade recesses of his gaze. Guilt warred anew with her doubts. She started to wonder if, perhaps, she should try to explain. Or at least to apologize. She was on the verge of doing the latter when a sudden nerve-rattling howl made her jump.
"Flower bit me! Flower bit me!"
Rorie spun, her heart in her throat. She realized that the other children must have forgotten Po in their rush for the cellar. Sloughing off mud and petals, the two-year-old scrambled out of the rose bushes and rushed toward her with outstretched arms. After only three frantic steps, his shoes tangled in their unfastened straps, and he fell flat on his face with a thud. His howls crescendoed to an earsplitting pitch.
Rawlins chuckled, and his long legs outdistanced hers as he hurried with her to the toddler's rescue.
"Here now, pardner," he said, undaunted by all the dirt, shrieks, and tears. "Let me see that flower bite."
"Hurt. Hurt!" Po wailed, his great, almond eyes gushing tears.
The gunslinger lifted the boy with the skill of a mammy, and Rorie halted, momentarily stunned. Discarding her .45, she planned to snatch Po away, but Rawlins had taken complete charge, turning over each muddy little hand for inspection.
"Aw, the tyke's just scared, ma'am. See? No scratches. No hurt," he told Po, who must have finally sensed he was being held by a stranger, not Shae. Whimpering, he reached for Rorie, and Rawlins obliged, lowering the child into her arms.
"What's his name?" he asked.
She cradled the boy, kissing his silky black hair. "Po. That's the name his mother gave him," she added defensively. "She was Cantonese."
She waited for Rawlins to back away as if Po had bubonic plague. To her surprise, he leaned closer instead, his smile turning wistful. Stretching out a freckled hand, he patted the boy's head.
"He's a cute little younker. Reminds me of my nephew Seth. Seth was always getting into trouble at that age, and Cord had to build a baby corral just so Fancy could—"
Damn. Wes bit his tongue, blushing furiously. He'd done it again. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't reminisce about Fancy, but here he was, only a couple of hours later, mooning over her memory—and in front of another woman yet!
He glanced sheepishly at Aurora Sinclair, figuring he'd just made a first-class fool of himself. To his relief, he found a new acceptance warring with the suspicion on her face. She looked like she might even smile. Not that it mattered, but she would be pretty if she did. Downright beautiful, in fact. He didn't like grimness, especially in a woman, but he had to concede that Aurora Sinclair had better reasons than most. Her husband was missing; her protector—and lover?—had been gunned down; and the marshal of the local town was trying to ride her out on a rail.
What was Dukker's big hurry, anyway? Sure, the land might belong to him, but Aurora had orphans to rear. What difference did it make if she lived here a couple of weeks longer until she found them a new home?
He gazed once more into the big, watery eyes that peeked up at him from the hollow of Aurora's neck.
Something wasn't right here. Or, as Aunt Lally would say, "Son, there's a fox in the henhouse."
Thinking he might get some answers now, as long as he stayed circumspect, Wes prepared to ask about Boudreau's death. The scrabble of pebbles distracted him. A long, lean shadow poured across his boots, and he tensed, reacting instinctively to being watched from behind. He had wondered what had happened to the mulatto.
"You all right, Miss Aurora?" Shae asked. "I heard Po crying."
"Yes. Yes, of course," she said a little breathlessly. "I'm fine. And so is Po."
Wes didn't have to turn to understand the reason for her agitation. A slender, polelike shadow had rippled outward from the youth's. He guessed it was a shotgun.
"You must be Shae," he said, turning as casually as he was able. He saw instantly that he faced a marksman. Despite the youth's swollen knuckles and blackened eye, his grip was firm and his bead dead-on. Wes returned that narrowed stare with a calm respect. The youth could have blown him away if he'd wanted to, but Wes knew he wouldn't. His gut told him so.
"That's right. I'm Shae. What's it to you, mister?"
"I saw you in town today. You put up some fight."
"Yeah?" Suspicion hardened the youth's jaw. "What are you doing here?"
Wes glanced at Aurora. She had managed to hush Po. Now she bit her lip as she gazed at the double-barreled Whitney
, trained with such precision on his chest. Recalling the badge still in his pocket, Wes suffered another pang of guilt. Unfortunately, this didn't seem like the best of times to pull it out and pin it on.
"I'm here 'cause I heard there might be work for me to do," he replied evenly.
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Oh, from someone who claimed Boudreau wasn't much good at carpentry."
Shae's lips twisted, revealing startling, white teeth. "Carpentry, eh? Well, I don't know any carpenters who wear double-holstered rigs."
Wes hid a smile. Someone had taught the boy well. "That may be, Shae. But a man can't be too careful these days, what with renegades roaming the county, shooting down the law. I figured it's the talk of all those renegades that has Mrs. Sinclair so spooked. Am I right?"
Shae's gaze flickered to Aurora. She fidgeted.
"We don't need any hired hands," the youth said firmly.
Their evasiveness confirmed Wes's growing suspicions. There was more to their skittishness than a couple of Negro outlaws who, if they had ever even existed, were undoubtedly in the next county by now. And if there were no renegade Negroes, then another, more ominous question followed: Who had killed Sheriff Boudreau?
Feeling as responsible for the man's death as he did, Wes had more than an official duty to pursue that question. He suspected the answer could be found on Boudreau's spread. Or in Elodea. In either event, it didn't look like he would be leaving Bandera County quite as quickly as he'd hoped.
That realization helped him make a decision. He could put to good use the anonymity he had earned. If Aurora distrusted lawmen as much as she claimed, then she certainly wouldn't tell him anything if she learned he was a Ranger. He'd just keep his badge a secret from her and Shae for a while. In the meantime, he could try to settle this land issue in a peace-abiding way.
"I don't mean any offense, folks," he said, "but take a good look around you. You need a hand, all right. Luckily for you I've got two here, and they're just as good with hammers as with guns."
Po was yawning now around his thumb. Shifting him to her other hip, Aurora finally flashed the smile that Wes had been waiting for. It tugged at his heartstrings. Just as he'd imagined, it had the potential to be beautiful, but right now it looked weary. And strained.
"The truth is, Mr. Rawlins, we don't have the money to pay you."
He gazed into her eyes, those breathtaking, tawny eyes, and his heart twanged again. Only this time, the vibration moved through every nerve and fiber, going deeper than he had ever felt a feeling go before. The sensation was discomfiting. Hastily he donned his roguish grin, the one that never failed to fan pink fire beneath a woman's cheeks.
"Well, you can cook, can't you, ma'am? 'Cause all I need is a hot meal. And a place for me and Two-Step to bed down."
"For how long?" Shae demanded.
Wes forced his attention away from the pretty shade of rose that made Aurora look softer and younger, and a whole lot more appealing than her frowns.
"That's hard to say. As long as it takes, I reckon. You wouldn't want any of those little ones falling through a rotted floorboard, would you? Or stepping on some rusty nail?"
Shae pressed his lips together. "Miss Aurora?"
Wes could see the uncertainty in her eyes. She looked down at Po, then up at Wes. He suspected he'd just about won her over—until she sighed.
"It's not my decision, Shae. The land is yours now."
Wes's brows shot up. Shae's land? Dukker hadn't mentioned anything about Shae contesting his title to the property.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Did I hear you right? I thought your husband was laying claim to this spread."
She tensed, and the look she shot him would have stiffened fresh cream. "As I told you earlier, Mr. Rawlins, my husband is none of your concern."
"You'd best keep your nose out of other people's business if you want to work for me," Shae said, the faintest of threats in his tone. "If a night of sleep doesn't change your mind, come back tomorrow morning around seven. I'll be starting the roof of my barn about then."
"Your barn?"
"That's right."
Now wouldn't Pa Dukker have a screaming fit to hear a mulatto talk that way? Wes mused. A tiny smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. He was beginning to like Shae better each minute.
"I've got to ask you, son," he said, " 'cause this is a fair piece of land in spite of all the wood rot. How'd you scrape up enough money to buy it?"
Wes waited expectantly. If the boy was squatting, or if he was simply covering up for Mr. Sinclair's lies, Wes figured he would know by a shifty eye or a stammer.
Shae met his gaze head on, and his speech rang as clear as a church bell. "I didn't buy the land, Rawlins. It was willed to me by my father. Gator Boudreau."
Chapter 3
It was a good thing Wes had worn his high boots, because the manure was piling up pretty thick around Elodea.
After Shae had claimed that Gator Boudreau was his father, Wes's jaw had nearly hit the dirt. Never once, in the eight years since his family had moved their cattle outfit from Bosque County to Bandera, had Wes heard any rumor about Sheriff Boudreau fathering an illegitimate child, not with a white woman or a black one. The conviction in Shae's manner, though, had made him think twice about challenging the boy.
Back in Elodea, Wes made some discreet inquiries about Shae's background at Sultan's Dance Hall. He made a few more at the public bathhouse, while getting a haircut and shave for his dinner engagement at the Faradays' place. According to patrons of both establishments, Shae "sure as shootin' " must have been one of "them renegade niggers" who'd ambushed and murdered the "poor sumbitch" he'd had nerve enough to claim was his pa.
The townsfolks' opinions of Aurora Sinclair weren't much better. If one listened to Elodea's queen mud dauber, Mrs. Minerva Faraday, Aurora was the original serpent from Eden. Mrs. Faraday was only too happy to repeat the most sordid of the rumors while she piled Wes with chicken, fried okra, and cornbread. She staunchly defended public belief that Aurora had been sinning with Boudreau long before his wife passed away four short months ago. It was Aurora, Mrs. Faraday insisted, who had put Shae up to his outrageous lies. After all, Boudreau had never once mentioned he'd spawned a bastard boy. Hannibal and Creed Dukker could both vouch for that.
"Now don't go getting me wrong, Mr. Rawlins," Mrs. Faraday said in her honey-dripping voice. "As a Christian woman, I can certainly allow that Mrs. Sinclair must have her finer points too. It takes a special breed of woman to rear darkies who aren't even wanted by their own kind."
Mrs. Faraday plopped a slab of sweet-potato pie onto his plate and leaned closer. "But truly, sir, wouldn't you question the decency of a woman who buries her—" she paused delicately, " friend on a Sunday afternoon, and by Monday evening has entertained his cousin?"
"Mama, please." Lorelei Faraday's pretty young face screwed up in disgust. "Marshal Dukker is the one whose decency you should question. Shae said the man has been making a downright nuisance of himself ever since—"
"Lorelei." The reprimand came from her father, who dropped his bushy eyebrows so low they seemed to perch on the tops of his spectacles. "Did I not tell you, for safety's sake, to keep your distance from Shae McFadden?"
In surprise, Wes caught Lorelei's eye. A crimson blush spread across her porcelain face.
"I'm sorry, Papa." Ducking her head, she fiddled with her fork. "But I couldn't very well avoid him. He was coming out of church after the service for Sheriff Boudreau."
Mrs. Faraday puffed up like a bullfrog. "The nerve of that Shae McFadden. Showing up in God's house after his boldfaced lies. Claiming he was spawned by Gator was bad enough, I must say. But then that awful boy insisted that Gator named him his heir in some preposterous deathbed will! Why, poor Gator must be turning over in his grave. Everyone knows he intended for his farm to go to Creed Dukker."
"I don't know that, Mama."
"Lorelei!"
The girl's backbone stiffene
d. "It's Shae's word—and Mrs. Sinclair's too—against the word of Creed and Marshal Dukker."
Mrs. Faraday snorted. "As if there was ever a doubt. Lorelei, I'm appalled. Why are you listening to such rubbish? And Father, when are you going to put an end to Shae McFadden's lies? That boy is poisoning the mind of our daughter, and in our own church yet!"
"Now, Mother." Faraday looked mildly uncomfortable as he sliced a second helping of pie. "The boy has a right to religion. And the right to free speech, as I understand it, under the law."
"Well, I think Shae McFadden and his kind should take their blessed rights someplace else!"
Lorelei made an exasperated sound. Wes was hard-pressed not to do the same. The taste of sweet potatoes had turned bitter on his tongue, and he pushed back his plate.
"Oh, dear." For a moment, Mrs. Faraday looked positively stricken to see a large portion of his pie go uneaten. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Rawlins?"
Wes forced a smile. "Not at all, ma'am." In truth, he preferred his aunt Lally's pie recipe, not to mention her company. The Rawlins matriarch never judged a man by his skin color, and she'd taught Wes to do the same. "It's just that this belt of mine needs a little loosening." He winked, leaning back and patting his belly.
Mrs. Faraday tittered. Lorelei's face fell. Standing abruptly, she pressed her lips together and began to gather serving platters.
The mayor looked up, his brow wrinkling in concern. "Lorelei? Is something wrong, child?"
"Of course not, Papa. Don't mind me. I'm sure you and Mr. Rawlins have a great many things to discuss."
"Nonsense, Lorelei." Mrs. Faraday's smile was tight with annoyance. "Mr. Rawlins has called to talk with you. The dishes can wait."
Mrs. Faraday practically forced Lorelei and Wes to sit on the porch swing together, and the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty perched nervously on its edge. As the silence grew more awkward, Wes wondered how to remove himself so he could wire headquarters.
Finally Lorelei stopped worrying her bottom lip long enough to speak.
"I... hope you won't judge Mrs. Sinclair too harshly, Mr. Rawlins," she said, tossing an irritated glance toward the parlor window, where they could see her mother's stout silhouette. "In spite of the things Mama says, I can't help but feel sorry for Mrs. Sinclair. At her age, and with those children, she'd be uncommonly fortunate to do better than a Dukker."
