by Texas Lover
Halting beside the door, Wes curbed his immediate impulse to challenge the boy when he saw how Shae was struggling with the ladder.
"Need a hand with that?"
"Nope."
Wes suspected Shae was deliberately keeping his back turned as he heaved the heavy wooden planks to his shoulder. He hadn't balanced the weight, though, and he staggered. When Wes threw out a hand to help, Shae tossed him a dark look.
"I said I got it."
He turned toward the barn, and Wes ducked hastily to avoid being hit by the swinging ladder.
"Something eating you, son?" he asked, falling into step at Shae's side.
"Just busy, that's all."
"Too busy to be civil?"
The boy snorted. "Did I forget to wish you a good morning, Rawlins?"
"I don't give a damn how you talk to me. Your grandmother has feelings, though."
"Sent you out here, did she?"
"I think you know better than that."
Shae averted his eyes. Busying himself with the ladder, he got it righted and propped against the barn wall. His movements were short and jerky, speaking volumes in his silence.
"You're mad at her." Wes made the words a statement, careful to keep the accusation from his voice.
"Wouldn't you be, if she'd lied to you all your life about your folks?"
"Maybe." He watched Shae intently. "Seems to me I could forgive her, though, if she loved me as much as she loves you."
Shae's jaw hardened. "What kind of love is that? All these years, she denied me the right to know who I am."
Wes heard more pain than anger in the boy's tone. Shae had been through a helluva lot, finding his father and losing him, as Wes understood it, all in the space of an hour. Still, Ginevee must have had her reasons for keeping such a weighty secret. Maybe Gator had forbidden her to tell Shae. Maybe she had thought she was protecting him.
"I can't pretend to know how deep your hurt is," he said quietly. "I've never been cheated quite that way before. Did you ever ask her why she did it?"
"Of course I did."
"And?"
Shae's spine went rigid. Turning abruptly, he pushed past Wes and walked inside the barn. "Leave it alone, Rawlins," he called over his shoulder. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"Yeah?" Wes followed at a more leisurely pace. "Then how come you're so spitting mad?"
"Because it isn't any of your business."
"Oh, I'll be the first to admit that," he said dryly.
"Then why can't you keep your nose out of it?"
Shae's voice broke, and Wes's heart went out to him. His original intention when he followed Shae out here had been to pump him for information. Now, Wes found his softer nature sneaking up on him again, making him more interested in helping Shae than condemning him.
"Because, son," he said in answer to Shae's question, "you're wound so tight, a tornado couldn't stick a straw in you. It might do you some good to talk about your father."
Shae's eyes narrowed to slits. "You want to know about my father? I'll tell you about him. He was good with his guns and good with his promises. That's how he got to be sheriff. Everyone said he was a fair man, and I reckon he was—with thieves, murderers, and such. But when it came to me, he never played square. He just couldn't bear for his childhood sweetheart to know he'd sired a black boy the spring before he married her."
Shae turned, reaching for the work gloves he'd left on the milking stool. "When mama died in childbed," he continued less harshly, "I guess some part of Gator couldn't make peace with the guilt. I remember how he used to come by the hotel where Maw-Maw cooked, bringing me candy, toys, and such. 'Course I never knew who he was then. Maw-Maw told me he was a peddler man who liked her rabbit stew.
"For thirteen years, Gator kept his dirty little secret—with Maw-Maw's help," Shae added acidly. "Then one day his wagon overturned, killing his real son and leaving Mrs. Boudreau an invalid. Gator couldn't nurse her on his own, so he wired Maw-Maw, asking for her help. She became his housekeeper, and I became his hired hand.
"That was five years ago." Shae's jaw twitched, and he turned away. "The bastard never did have the courage to admit who I was, until four months after his wife finally died. 'Course, that was the day he got shot, and he had to make peace with his Maker."
Wes shifted uncomfortably. As much as he sympathized with the boy's grief, duty reminded him he still had an investigation to conduct.
"Well, Shae," he said with deliberate nonchalance, "at least you got Gator's land."
Shae made a guttural sound. Pulling on his gloves, he shouldered past Wes and headed for the door.
"I would rather have had my pa."
Wes watched thoughtfully as Shae clambered up the ladder. Reflecting on the hurt he'd heard in the boy's voice, he found it difficult to believe in his original suspicion, namely, that Shae had been one of the Negroes who'd killed Boudreau.
Besides, if given half a reason to believe in the boy's guilt, Dukker probably would have shot him. As for Shae's claim of kinship to Gator, well... Dukker had every reason to discount it, skin color being only one of them.
Strolling outside, Wes picked up the box of nails Shae had left beside the ladder and climbed to the roof.
"I didn't realize you and Gator were so close." He watched the boy's shuttered features closely for some reaction. " 'Course, I never met the man myself, but it seems like him coming clean and naming you his heir was a good sign. He must have thought right highly of you. And Miss Rorie must, too, seeing as how she's stood by you all these weeks. Maybe it's time to put a cinch in all those wagging tongues and prove to Elodea you're who you say you are."
Shae said nothing.
"Gator did leave some kind of will, didn't he?"
Smiling mirthlessly, Shae pulled a hammer from his belt loop and began prying rotten pieces of wood from the weather vane's cupola.
"Yeah, he left a will."
"So where is it?"
"Well now, that's a funny thing." He gave a particularly vicious pull, and splinters of debris went flying. "Nobody seems to know."
"Then who witnessed the signing? I mean, if Gator named you his heir on his deathbed, then he had to scribble something down to make it valid. Who was there to watch him do it?"
"Hmm. Let's see," Shae said dryly. "There was me, Miss Aurora, Hannibal Dukker—oh, yeah. And old Doc Warren."
"Doc Warren? Now he'd be an impartial witness. Where's he?"
Shae continued to smile, but the twitch in his jawline betrayed his anger. "Seems like nobody knows that, either."
Wes felt his skin prickle. "Do you think Dukker had something to do with Warren's disappearance?"
Shae's head shot up. Wes could almost see the boy's guard rise again.
"It doesn't matter what I think."
"It does to me."
Shae's eyes narrowed, and Wes had the fleeting notion that words wouldn't go far in earning the boy's trust.
"What are you really after, Rawlins?"
"Just the facts."
"The facts aren't any of your business. My family isn't any of your business. Now, if you want my roof over your head tonight and my vittles in your belly, you'd best get yourself a hammer."
"Seems to me like you're pretty quick to take offense—"
"You don't listen so good, Rawlins. Get a hammer, or ride on."
Wes stiffened. He'd never much liked being told what to do. He liked lip from a boy even less. Part of him wanted to haul Shae down off the roof and teach him a lesson in manners he'd never forget. Another part couldn't help but admire the boy's grit. As abrasive as Shae's attitude was, Wes knew he had good reason to be wary. Shae had a household of women and children to protect, and not a single friend to stand by him—not that the boy made it easy to be his friend. If Shae didn't learn to muzzle that mouth of his, he was bound to get himself another black eye, if not worse.
"All right, son," he said, holding up his hands in a mock gesture of defeat. "Don't throw a duc
k fit."
"You've got a hell of a mouth, Rawlins."
He chuckled. "And here I was thinking the same about you." He swung a leg over the ladder, then glanced back at Shae, who was still glaring. "Don't get your hopes up, son. I'll be back."
Privately, however, Wes wondered if befriending Shae would be the most effective use of his time. Given the boy's level of distrust, he wasn't likely to reveal something useful about Dukker or the lightning whiskey still for a good, long while. The children would be more open and honest, but they probably didn't know anything. As for Ginevee... If she could keep Gator's and Shae's kinship a secret all these years, he didn't have much hope of prying confidences out of her.
That left Rorie—and Rorie's journal.
His gaze trailed to the second story of the house, where three open windows welcomed the breeze into the family's sleeping quarters.
To think of climbing the trellis in the moonlight and prowling along the upper veranda while the others slept, did strange things to his insides. He suspected he would forget all about diaries, though, if he peeked in one of those windows and saw Rorie dreaming in her nightgown.
He quickly chided himself for such thoughts. Rorie was a lady, and as such, she was off limits. She would expect more from him than he was ready—or able—to give. The only thing he must seek from her was cooperation. Once she satisfied him that she wasn't hiding anything to protect Shae, he could take his investigation elsewhere. He would hunt down the killer, win her appreciation, and ride off into the sunset, leaving behind a grateful Rorie and her four idolizing orphans.
At least, that's how the Rangers in the penny dreadful always did it.
* * *
Evening—and the inevitable reading lesson—approached much too quickly for Rorie's comfort. Torn between a giddy, girlish excitement and the pangs of spinsterly dread, she had tried to distract herself with the harried routine of an average Thursday.
Wes, however, managed to sneak into her thoughts no matter what she did. She couldn't conduct her history lesson without recalling his Pocahontas story and the twinkle in his eyes. She couldn't peel potatoes without remembering his lopsided grin or the endearing smudge of flour that had dusted his forehead. She couldn't water Mrs. Boudreau's beloved magnolia tree without visions of him swinging from its limbs, his firm abdomen and taut thighs on shameless display.
What was worse, she lost all track of time as she worked in the garden, daydreaming rather than weeding. Her gaze kept straying to Wes's powerful sun-dappled frame, bending and stretching, reaching and flexing, above her on the barn. Even Po's indignant screeching couldn't rouse her long from her mesmerized state, once she learned Nita had merely taken his trowel away to keep him from eating dirt.
As the day wore on, Rorie's heart tripped over the silliest things—the sound of his voice, the passing of his shadow. Her insides dissolved to a quivering jumble whenever he climbed down the ladder to fetch water from the well. He would stand behind her for endless pulse-firing moments, his presence as tangible as the beads of moisture on her palms.
She would feel his gaze upon her, but she didn't dare look at him during those water breaks. It took every ounce of will she possessed not to heed the silent calling of his eyes. She never once flattered herself into thinking his interest was serious. After all, a man with his good looks, with his jovial nature and ready charm, had no need of an over-the-hill castoff like herself.
Since scoldings and reprimands had done little to dissuade him, she told herself she needed a new defense against his practiced roguery. She decided to laugh off his flirtations and to treat them as he did: like amusing pastimes. The Lord knew, she could use a little amusement in her life these days.
So when dinner came and his broad shoulders filled the doorway, dwarfing every memory she'd ever had of Jarrod, she carefully ignored the thumping of her pulse and cast a welcoming smile his way.
When he gallantly held out her chair for her, she made light of the way his hands brushed her shoulders.
When he smiled into her eyes, complimenting her cobbler in a voice that fairly throbbed with another kind of hunger, she managed a gracious thank-you in spite of the sudden constriction in her throat.
At his every glance, his every contrived touch and compliment, she reminded herself that Wes Rawlins was a natural-born rouge who'd perfected the art of philandering. To make the mistake of taking his glances and innuendos seriously would only leave her looking like a fool.
As the clock ticked off the eighth hour of the evening, Wes's stories for the children finally drew to a close. Brer Rabbit saved the farmer from the monstrous chickie-lickie-chow-chow-chow, and the children, who'd huddled together in nervous apprehension throughout the tale, burst into claps and cheers.
Merrilee gave him a great hug and thanked him for the story; Topher made him promise to hunt worms with him on the morrow; and Nita said a bashful good-night as she caught hold of Po, who was running around in circles shouting, "Chow, chow, chow!" His cries could still be heard echoing from the stairwell as Ginevee led the children to their bedrooms.
Rorie had an attack of the jitters when she realized she and Wes were alone at long last. She hastily stacked her mending between them, then grabbed her sewing basket and busied her hands with the spools of thread inside.
"You've worked a long, hard day, Wes, so of course I would understand if you wanted to postpone the reading lesson."
"Shoot, no," he said with buoyant good spirits. "I've been looking forward to our reading lesson all day."
"Oh." She winced to hear how disappointed she sounded.
" 'Course, if you'd rather sit and talk—"
"No, that's quite all right," she said quickly. "A reading lesson would be just the thing." To keep you out of mischief, she added silently. "Let's go to the dining room." Where there's a good deal more breathing room. "Er, the books are in there."
She jumped up to fetch a peg lamp and was disconcerted when she returned to find he had swept all her mending into the basket and stood ready with the handle slung over his arm.
"Lead the way," he said.
She grudgingly obeyed. She didn't know which disturbed her more: the suspicion that he strolled behind her less for chivalry's sake than to watch the swaying of her hips, or the worry that she was in grave danger of losing control of this situation. Although she suspected they were evenly matched where innate cleverness was concerned, she liked to think she held the final advantage with her years of book learning. She just wished she could keep that book-learned brain of hers from conjuring up images of his naked chest.
"So what are we going to read?" he asked.
She crossed to her cabinet. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him swinging his leg over the back of a chair. His maneuver was so casual, so unconsciously youthful, it chose the book for her.
"I thought we'd start with one of Topher's favorites," she said, seating herself a judiciously safe three feet from his side. "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer."
Undaunted, he pushed her sewing basket out of the way and dragged his chair closer. "Tom Sawyer? Who's that?"
"He was, er..." Somehow, she resisted the urge to clutch the volume to her breast as his invasive warmth rolled over her. "He was a southern boy who got into a lot of mischief. I daresay he was a lot like you must have been at that age."
"So you reckon this story's about me?" Amusement colored his tone. He took the book and turned it over in his hands. "Is this the kind of stuff you like to read?"
"Oh, no." She laughed a little at the idea. "I keep Tom Sawyer and Little Women for the children. I prefer more serious fare, such as the essays by Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Lucretia Mott."
Wes's brows knitted. "Aren't they lady suffragettes?"
She nodded, secretly impressed by his knowledge. "Mrs. Mott also wrote about women's rights in commerce. I was especially intrigued by her argument that male and female teachers should receive equal wages."
"Makes sense
to me," he said. "I've had live dictionaries of both persuasions, and it would have been nigh on impossible to figure out who worked harder for an honest day's wage."
She was so surprised by his admission, all she could do was blink. She'd expected a heated debate on the subject.
"I also believe," she said deliberately, "that the so-called justice women receive from our courts is reprehensible. A man can be tried before a jury of his peers, yet a woman is denied the same basic human right."
"Oh, I'm all for women's basic human rights," he said wickedly.
She glared at him. "It's all very well for you to jest. You're protected by the law. Women, however, are still treated like chattel. Not long ago, I read an account of two offenders who were brought before a judge in this very county. One had stolen a pair of boots, the other had beaten his wife to the point of senselessness. The thief was sentenced to six months in prison while the brutalizer was released with a scolding from the judge."
She smiled mirthlessly. "Gator said the courts in this county rarely sink to such detestable lows. For the sake of us women who live here, I hope he's right. But as long as we are debased by unequal laws, we will continue to be degraded by our husbands, employers, and neighbors."
Wes frowned. "Rorie, I can assure you, if I'd been in town when that nonsense was going on, I would have hauled that judge back to Austin so fast—"
He broke off and fidgeted, as if thinking better of his words. "I mean, I would have made such a ruckus, they would have heard it all the way back at the Supreme Court building. A man like that has no business being a judge."
She leaned forward, excited by his words. "Then you agree a woman should be given the right to vote to protect herself from such outrages?"
Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. He leaned forward, too, so that their foreheads nearly touched.
"Considering how we've given the vote to immigrants—a lot of whom came from prisons and asylums," he added dryly, "I see no reason why we can't let our womenfolk jump on the voting bandwagon."
"Really?" She cleared her throat, embarrassed to hear how husky her voice had become. His potent maleness was demanding notice from her senses once more. "You're not just saying what you think I want to hear, are you?"
