Adrienne deWolfe

by Texas Lover

  Rorie sighed, slipping on her apron and tying a large bow at her back. She supposed it was too late now to hope Merrilee might ever seek her out for comfort, as she would with a real mother. Jarrod, who'd never truly wanted to raise another man's child, had always insisted that the orphans call him "Mr. Jarrod," and her, "Miss Aurora." For the sake of domestic peace, Rorie had resigned herself to the formal address.

  Now, hearing how readily the children were calling Wes "uncle," she wished she had put her foot down and had told the children they could call her Mama, even though she knew she could never live up to such a lofty title. She loved the children, but she was well aware that her love was only a substitute for the love they should have known.

  Turning toward the mirror, Rorie noticed the reflection of her journal, sitting behind her on the bedside table. The memory of Wes's snooping brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks. Maybe she'd been foolish the night before to forget her journal and leave it downstairs, but she'd never dreamed she might catch the scoundrel riffling its pages. Trust no longer came easily to her where men were concerned, and it stung to think she'd been humbugged by yet another male charmer. Why, only ten short hours ago, she'd convinced herself to believe in Wes!

  Although Merrilee had defended him, claiming he couldn't read, Rorie wasn't so sure. Wes was too glib, too smooth, not to have some knowledge of letters. Of course, there was always the possibility he didn't read well. She hoped that was the case, since her insides turned queasy when she imagined him entertaining himself with her most recent entry.

  Wes—as he insists on being called—is an inveterate charmer who has the distressing ability to make me forget my God-given sense and agree to the most outrageous things, like hiring him in the first place. What is worse, my heart trips all over itself and my stomach performs the giddiest acrobatics whenever he smiles into my eyes. One would think, at the staid old age of 30, that I had at last become immune to sweet talk and swagger; yet though barely two days in our employ, Wes has made me recall again the secret kisses and stolen embraces I so enjoyed in my father's garden, when innocence was such a tedious burden and the nights were electric, not empty...

  Rorie smiled ruefully. She was beginning to live up to her sordid reputation.

  If the truth were known, she'd always enjoyed her marital relations—or rather, she had until Jarrod's frustration with her barrenness became so great, that he'd stopped hiding his disgust for her big bones and angular frame. While he'd courted her, he'd been quick to praise her height, calling her a goddess or an Amazon queen. It wasn't until much later that she'd learned the awful truth: her father, fearing she would never attract a husband, had offered to pay off all of Jarrod's university debts if he would consent to wed her.

  Rorie swallowed the old bitterness with practiced efficiency.

  Turning to her reflection, she straightened her pinafore and tucked a stray lock of hair into the knot at the nape of her neck. Neatness and poise, her father had always said, would stand a woman in good stead if her physical proportions weren't as pleasing as some men preferred.

  She smiled mirthlessly. Her father had also stressed that she should cultivate a modest, unassuming attitude, and that she should refrain from voicing her opinions. Poor Papa would have rolled over in his grave if he knew she now carried a firearm and openly supported the women's suffrage and temperance movements. Was it any wonder, then, that her only suitors were bullies like Hannibal Dukker or men twenty years her senior, like Ethan Hawkins?

  After a last resigned inspection of her patched-up calico skirt, Rorie blew out her lamp and headed down the stairs. She avoided the creaking floorboard in the dining room, more out of habit than necessity, and approached the kitchen door. She was intending to fetch the basket in which she always put her eggs, but the sound of voices stopped her.

  "You got that batter stirred up, Topher?"

  "Yeah, but..." Topher sounded mutinous. "I don't see why we got to do it. Men don't cook. That's women's work."

  Wes's chuckle floated out to her. "And just who do you think cooks for the cattlemen, the Rangers, and the buffalo hunters when there aren't any womenfolk on the trail?"

  A traitorous smile stole across Rorie's face.

  She edged forward, her footsteps muffled by the rattle of pans, and furtively poked her head around the corner. What she saw nearly left her choking as she stifled her amusement.

  The kitchen was in a shambles. A bucket had been overturned beneath the sink, and one of the window curtains was twisted and wrinkled as if a small hand had grabbed it, probably to haul Topher up onto the sideboard to steal cookies. That hypothesis would explain why all the jars and bottles were in disarray on the top pantry shelf and why an empty cookie tin lay beneath a bench.

  The picture grew more comical. On the table, nestled between little mountains of flour, were several discarded egg shells, each dripping the last of their remains into the powdery residue sprinkled across the floor. In fact, flour seemed to be everywhere. It decorated the milk pitcher with the imprint of a large masculine hand; it trailed footsteps to the butter churn and Ginevee's prized rack of spices; and it made Topher look like a ghost—or rather a raccoon, since his big blue eyes stared out from a pasty mask.

  At the moment, Wes's back was turned to her. But after he slipped his head into the bib of Ginevee's apron, Rorie saw he had not been left untouched. The flour storm had blown into the crevices of his rolled-up sleeves and had rained down on his hair, giving him a sort of confectioner's halo. She had to clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a giggle when he brushed a rakish curl off his forehead, leaving a smear of white in its place. Then he grabbed a bowl and began filling it with the flour mountains inside, sweeping them off the table with his forearm and into the bowl.

  Topher's brows furrowed, dribbling a few flakes of flour into the batter he was stirring. "Just what are slabberdabs, anyway?"

  With a deft flick of his wrist, Wes broke an egg into his bowl. "Why, they're my pa's prized trail flapjacks. Pa passed the secret on to my brother, Cord, and Cord passed it on to Zack and me. Now I'm letting you in on the recipe. It's a time-honored tradition, son, and no women can ever know about it."

  He fixed Topher with a stern stare. "You're going to have to swear a pinky oath."

  Topher's eyes nearly bugged out. "Gee, that's serious."

  This time, Rorie clapped both hands to her mouth as Wes nodded gravely.

  "Do you hereby swear to take to your grave the Rawlins brothers' secret slabberdab recipe?"

  Topher linked his smallest finger with Wes's. "Ain't no woman going to pry it out of me until the worms eat out my eyeballs."

  Rorie's mirth lodged in her throat when she heard a footstep behind her. She turned guiltily, blushing to think that Shae or Nita had caught her eavesdropping. Instead she recognized the squat, round form of Ginevee approaching through the lifting shadows of sunrise. Rorie hastily pressed a finger to her lips, grinning as she beckoned her friend closer.

  Meanwhile, Topher was standing on a chair, straining to get a better view of Wes's bowl. "Whatcha got in there? Another secret recipe?"

  "Naw. Just some biscuits. I could be making huckydummy, though, if I had raisins."

  "We got raisins," Topher said brightly. Jumping back down to the floor, he blazed a trail through the flour drifts and stood on tiptoe to haul a tin container down from the shelves. "How many raisins you need?" he called as the metal lid clattered onto the floor.

  "Well," Wes said thoughtfully, raising his spoon and watching the batter plop back into the bowl. "We got eight hungry people coming to breakfast, and I reckon they'll want at least two biscuits each. I figure we'll need about ten raisins per person; so how many does that make, Topher?"

  The enthusiasm on Topher's face dwindled to confusion. "I don't know." He scowled. "Sixteen?"

  Ginevee nudged Rorie as if to say, "That boy hasn't been doing his lessons," and Rorie shrugged helplessly. Topher had known the answer to eight times ten two weeks a
go, when she'd tested the older children on their multiplication tables—or at least, he had seemed to. Had the boy been cheating again?

  "No," Wes said gently. "Try again. Eight tens are how many?"

  Topher's chin jutted. "I ain't any good at numbers."

  "You want to know a secret?" Wes winked. "I'm not either."

  The tenseness eased from Topher's shoulders. "You're not?"

  "Nope. That's why I made up a song to help me. Want to hear it?"

  Topher nodded eagerly. Grinning, Wes sang:

  Grisly's in the honeycomb,

  Queen bee, she's a bawlin',

  Hound dog treed a cougar cat,

  and kitty's up there squallin'.

  In spite of Wes's total disregard for pitch, Rorie recognized the tune because it belonged to a childhood game she had played in Cincinnati. Wes had taken liberty with the lyrics, though. Either that or he was yodeling the Texas version, because she couldn't remember singing about grizzly bears or cougars in Ohio.

  Perhaps it was just as well, she thought, delighted to watch the enthusiasm return to Topher's face. To hear the boy finally memorize his multiplication tables under Wes's tutelage, she had a hard time remembering how angry she'd been when she'd caught Wes with her journal. Her hired hand might be insubordinate, but he was gifted with children. What was more, Wes seemed to genuinely enjoy their company, unlike Jarrod, whose arm had to be twisted to pay them the slightest attention, or Gator, who had treated them with tolerant resignation.

  Suddenly, painfully, Rorie realized Wes would make a wonderful father—the kind of father she would want for her own children, if she could have them.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Topher threw back his head and joined Wes for the second refrain:

  Ten times 5 is 50, ten times 6 is 60;

  Ten times 7 is 70, ten times 8 is 80.

  The combination of squeaky soprano and rusty baritone was so awful, so wonderfully, blessedly awful, that Rorie couldn't help herself. She snickered.

  Ginevee, who was the county's uncontested fiddle-playing champion, covered her ears and did the same.

  The next thing Rorie knew, the two of them were howling with laughter, clutching their sides, and staggering against the wall for support, tears of mirth streaking their cheeks.

  "Uh oh," Topher warned in a mortified whisper. "Women!"

  Wes broke off his singing as Topher leaped for the empty cookie tin and kicked it behind the flour barrel.

  "You can't come in here!" he called, racing to hide his bowl behind his back. "No women allowed!"

  Seeing the complete and utter panic on Topher's face, Wes nearly laughed himself. After making the boy swear a pinky oath, he supposed the least he could do was pretend there really was a Rawlins brothers' secret flapjack recipe worth defending with his life. It was just so hard to take slabberdabs seriously with Rorie all but oozing into a puddle of merriment. The bright silvery peals of her laughter sang through him, playing on his heartstrings and flushing him with unexpected warmth. He realized he'd never heard her laugh before.

  "I do declare, Ginevee, isn't this a lovely surprise?" Rorie called in a lilting voice. "These two fine gentlemen are making us breakfast."

  "It's a surprise all right," Ginevee quipped, casting a meaningful glance at the chaos. "What do you suppose the occasion is? I don't recall it being my birthday, and I'm pretty sure it's not yours."

  "Oh, dear. Then it must be just as I feared," Rorie said, wringing her hands in mock consternation. "We've met our competition for the Founder's Day baking contest."

  Ginevee hooted with laughter, and Topher sent them a fierce look.

  "Men can cook just as good as women," he said hotly. "Uncle Wes says so."

  "Did he indeed?" Rorie turned to Wes. "I daresay he's right, as long as a secret family recipe's involved."

  "She's been listening!" Topher hissed.

  Wes folded his arms across his chest. "The young man is bringing mighty serious charges against you, Mrs. Sinclair," he said in his sternest voice. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

  Her face was flushed with laughter, and her eyes shone as brightly as twin stars. It did strange things to his insides, seeing her happy that way.

  "Am I on trial, sir?"

  "With all due respect, ma'am, you've been caught smack dab in the middle of the act."

  "Then I submit, sir, that there were extenuating circumstances, much like earlier this morning, when I caught you red-handed, reading my diary."

  Wes has hard-pressed to keep his poker face in light of this reminder. It stirred in him the memory of lamplight shimmering on her amber brown hair, and shadows flirting with the modest nightgown that clung to her mile-long legs. She seemed to have forgiven him for snooping. He wasn't sure why, but he'd never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  He wagged a finger under her nose. "Don't go trying to cloud the issue with inadmissible evidence."

  "Now you really do sound like a lawman."

  He started, then mentally kicked himself. Lord, if someone were to put his brain in a grasshopper, it would jump backward.

  He rallied with his wickedest grin and his smokiest drawl. "Do you like me better as a bad man?"

  He heard the tiny catch in her breath, and the pulse at her throat quickened.

  "I... think you deliberately distract us from the subject at hand," she stammered, "to avoid the comeuppance you and your partner in crime so richly deserve."

  He arched his eyebrows, enjoying the fresh spurt of color that rushed to her face. "And here I thought we'd been discussing how you and your lady friend listen at keyholes."

  She laughed again, to his delight. Ginevee laughed, too, but Wes's eyes and ears were only for Rorie. He didn't think he'd ever heard a sweeter sound or watched a lovelier transformation. This playful, merry Rorie was aglow, a slice of heaven that twinkled within his reach. Here was the Rorie that Jarrod Sinclair must have known before all the burdens and woes, the heartaches and fears, had tamped down her spark of joy.

  Her gaiety stirred something in him that went far beyond the civil bounds of admiration and respect.

  He wanted her.

  The realization hit him so forcefully, he heated from head to toe. Every nerve in his body tingled, and his private parts began to twitch. It was more than a little disconcerting to think that he could get so randy over a woman's laugh, especially Rorie's laugh. The last thing she needed was some sagebrush Romeo to ride into her life and fill her belly with a bastard.

  God knew, that was the last thing he needed too.

  A loud thump jerked his thoughts and his eyes away from Rorie—and none too soon, he decided, furtively adjusting the skirt of his apron. Shae had pushed up the kitchen window from the outside and now leaned across the sill, irritation clearly etched on his face.

  "Miss Aurora." He nodded at her and then at Topher, leaving Ginevee out of the greeting. Wes had a moment to wonder if the snub was deliberate before Shae's gaze raked him. "You planning on working today, Rawlins?"

  Wes pressed his lips together. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen the hurt flicker across Ginevee's face. The boy had been noticeably cool to his kinswoman ever since Wes had ridden onto the property, and Wes didn't like it.

  "Yeah. I'm working today, Shae."

  "Glad to hear it."

  The boy straightened and started to turn. Ginevee hurried forward, her hands clasped nervously before her.

  "Shae."

  He halted dutifully, but his features resembled carved stone. "Yes, ma'am?"

  Ginevee fidgeted. "I'll have flapjacks ready in a jiffy if you—"

  "I'm not hungry. Thanks," he said and continued on his way.

  Wes frowned. He saw the compassion in Rorie's gaze and the discomfort in Topher's as Ginevee quickly turned to the stove and busied herself with the fire.

  "Shae hardly ever eats with us nowadays," Topher complained, setting his bowl down at last. "Ever since he found out Sheriff Gator was his pa, it see
ms like he don't want to be part of our family no more."

  Wes suspected Rorie's smile was forced as she knelt before the boy.

  "Now, Topher. I'm sure that's not the case," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Shae's just hurting that's all. He misses Sheriff Gator like the rest of us."

  "And he plans on punishing me for it for the rest of his days," Ginevee muttered, shoving a frying pan across the stove.

  Wes caught Rorie's eye. He saw the frustration and grief in her gaze, feelings she quickly repressed as she tried to comfort Topher and Ginevee. Seeing the three of them so worked up, when only moments ago they'd been happy, Wes wanted to wring Shae's neck.

  He peeled off Ginevee's apron. "I'll talk to the boy, ma'am."

  Rorie climbed quickly to her feet. "Wes, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

  "Shae doesn't like anyone meddling in his business," Ginevee added with a mirthless laugh.

  "That's never stopped me before." Wes winked, dusting off his hat and setting it on his head.

  "Don't you worry, ladies. My knee's a lot taller than yours. It's just the right size for turning over a boy who's grown too big for his britches."

  Chapter 8

  Wes caught up with Shae as he was dragging a ladder from the tool shed. Sleep apparently hadn't improved the boy's mood, for he looked as grim today as he had when he'd stalked from the dinner table the night before.

  In fact, Shae's features were screwed into a don't-mess-with-me look which Wes might have enjoyed ribbing him out of, if he hadn't been so riled up himself. The way he saw it, grief didn't give Shae the right to show his grandmother disrespect.