by Texas Lover
He chuckled and straightened, much to her relief.
"My Aunt Lally has been a partner with my brothers in their cattle business for close to nine years now, and you can bet she gets a vote in everything they do. Sometimes two votes. And of course, Fancy—"
He seemed to catch himself again.
"What about Fancy?"
He averted his eyes. The pain in his features was hard to mistake, even with the two bright spots of color staining his cheeks.
"Oh..." Waving in a dismissive gesture, he laughed, the sound sharp and forced. "Fancy never needed the law to tell her what her rights were."
Rorie watched him thoughtfully. This was the third time he had spoken of Fancy, only to become uncomfortable, even agitated, at her mention. What was it about his sister-in-law that upset him so?
"Are you and Fancy... close?" she ventured.
His head shot up, and his eyes narrowed. "I told you. She's family."
Rorie caught her breath, then furtively released it. Perhaps she was leaping to conclusions, but her female logic told her that Wes was in love with his sister-in-law.
"So tell me about this Dukker fellow," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "Is it true he asked you to marry him?"
Caught off guard, she blinked. How could he possibly have known...? Oh, yes. He'd spent the morning with Topher and Merrilee.
"There's nothing to tell." She smiled ruefully. "Yes, he did, and I declined. Now why don't you turn to page—"
"How come?"
She arched her eyebrows. "Because you'll never learn to read anything unless you open that book."
"I was asking why you turned him down," he said with elaborate patience.
She suspected it would have been wiser to put him in his place the moment he broached the topic. Now she'd given credence to something she could have passed off as simply a young child's misunderstanding.
"As delightful as our conversation has been, Wes, we came here to read, remember?"
"Why don't you want to talk about Dukker?"
She squarely met the challenge in his gaze. "Why don't you want to talk about Fancy?"
For the tiniest fraction of time, his eyes widened.
"Hmm," he murmured. "I reckon we might get started at that."
She smiled to herself. "Why don't you try reading a bit of the story to me?"
"You mean out loud?"
She nodded, hoping to soothe his fears. "I'm sure you'll do fine. But if you come across a word you don't know, I'll be here to help you."
"Well... all right."
Opening the book, he shook out the pages, then squinted hard at the type. Rorie reached over and turned the book right side up in his hand.
"Oh, er, thank you, ma'am."
Next he crunched down in his chair, his chin all but touching his chest as he stared at the page. Great furrows of concentration lined his brow. A full minute passed before he cleared his throat.
"What's this one?" He pointed to the first word on the page. Rorie leaned across his arm, trying not to let the elusive scents of sandalwood soap and leather distract her from her mission of enlightenment.
"The," she said helpfully.
"The," he repeated in a grave voice.
More squinting ensued. He cocked his head to the right, and then to the left. "Ah..." He pointed again to the page and looked at her piteously.
"Adventures," she said gently. "That's a rather difficult word. When they're difficult, we try to break them into syllables." She taught him how to divide "adventures" into segments, then said, "Now let's turn to chapter one and try again."
"Chapter One?" he asked suspiciously. "What's that?"
She was beginning to suspect she had agreed to a Herculean task. "Chapter One is the beginning of the story. You've been reading the title page."
"Oh," he said in a mystified tone.
She glanced at him sharply. Was that the sparkle of merriment lurking in his eyes? Before she could decide, he'd averted his gaze and began thumbing through the volume.
"Let's see," he said in a voice that sounded a little too cheerful for her peace of mind. "Chapter One. I reckon that'd be about here." He grinned triumphantly.
He'd turned to Chapter Two.
She remembered her earlier thought, that he was too glib not to have had some exposure to education, and since he'd told her minutes earlier that he'd had both male and female teachers, she found it doubtful that a man who could multiply numbers and recount history didn't have a clue how to find the beginning of a book.
"Wes," she asked, "do you know your alphabet?"
"Sure I do." He nodded vigorously for emphasis.
Rising, she pulled a slate and a piece of chalk from the shelf and handed them to him. "Why don't you show me?"
His face fell. "You mean now?"
The patience on which she had always prided herself began to wane. "Most certainly. Do you have a reason why you should wait?"
He fidgeted, reminding her of Topher when the boy had been caught in a lie. "Well, to tell the truth, ma'am, it would save us a heap of time if I just spelled out my name."
She arched a brow in question.
"It ain't quite as much trouble," he explained.
She cringed to hear his misuse of language, but she didn't correct him. After all, reading, spelling, and grammar were a bit much to tackle in one lesson.
"Very well. Spell out your name."
Looking eager to please, he balanced the bottom of the slate on his abdomen and, hunching over the board, began sketching in large, bold strokes. He stopped once or twice in mid-gesture, rubbing out a mistake with his elbow, before continuing with his task. At last he finished his masterpiece, and beaming, turned the board around for her inspection.
A giant X filled the slate from top to bottom.
It was all she could do not to snatch the board from his hands. "That is not your name."
"It's not?"
He gazed at her in innocence, a state of being so completely unnatural to him, that she knew in an instant she'd been hoodwinked.
"Wesley Rawlins—"
"Wescott's my name."
She started. Momentarily robbed of her indignation, she blinked at him. "Wescott?"
He nodded, grimacing. "Mama was an angel, but she had the devil of a time naming boys. I got Wescott, Zack got Zachariah, and Cord..." He snickered, shaking his head. "Cord got Cordero. It means 'little lamb' in Spanish."
She didn't know whether to believe this absurd tale, but she was certain she could never stay mad at Wes for long. He was much too quick to deflect her ire with his charm.
"Very well, Wescott Rawlins," she said sternly. "Are you humbugging me?"
"Oh no, ma'am. That's Cord's real name. Honest."
She began tapping her toe. "That is not what I meant and you know it. Can you, or can you not, read?"
"Well..." He cast her a sidelong glance. "I reckon I can."
"I knew it!"
Undaunted, he sidled closer. "You know, ma'am, reading is powerful hard work." His gaze trailed provocatively from her eyes to her lips. "Why don't we rest for a spell?"
His lips strayed dangerously close—and kept coming. Gasping, she jumped to her feet. Her quick reflexes barely let her escape his kiss.
"It does seem to be getting rather warm in here," she said, tossing him a quelling look.
"Is that a fact?" He chuckled, leisurely unfolding his long frame. "Then maybe we should take a stroll outside."
"Very well." She raised her chin, determined this upstart of a hired hand wouldn't get the better of her. She would rather be tarred and feathered than let her silly biological processes make her capitulate to a randy young man.
Besides, he'd snooped, lied, and played her for a fool. She was not a wilting wallflower, and she would not suffer such roguish behavior without doling out the comeuppance he so richly deserved.
It was war now, her wits against his. Just as the dining room was bigger than the kitchen, the out-of-doors
were infinitely larger than the dining room.
A general couldn't hope for a better field advantage.
Chapter 9
Her head held at a regal angle, Rorie swept past Wes and out the door. He kept pace a few yards behind her, like a wolf trailing a nervous doe.
He wasn't exactly sure how she'd eluded his questions. Oh, she was quick enough on her feet, but he liked to think he wasn't any quarter-wit where interrogations were concerned. As best as he could figure, she must have used her perfume to unfair advantage, and he'd been just churn-headed enough to let its delicate floral scent tie his tongue in knots.
Or maybe he'd been thrown off track by her defense of women's rights and the flash of righteousness in those tawny eyes. He'd so enjoyed crossing sabers with her that he never quite managed to work the conversation back to Dukker. God knew, his original strategy hadn't included trying to kiss her.
The more he thought about it, though, the more kissing her appealed to him. He figured after one cool peck on the lips from a prim-and-proper live dictionary like Rorie, she'd be out of his loins for good. Then he could finally concentrate on his mission.
His gaze strayed in reluctant fascination to the gentle rolling of her hips. For some reason, thoughts of his investigation kept slipping his mind.
Great gray clouds scudded across the moon as Rorie halted before the magnolia tree, her skirts flapping in the wind. Wes could taste the tang of rain in the air, and he muttered an oath. If the heavens unleashed themselves tonight, he'd have to wait for yet another opportunity to ride into town for his telegraph. He didn't like slogging through muddy downpours any more than Two-Step did, and that meant another wasted night.
"Is something wrong, ma'am?"
She'd been staring into the branches, her hand resting on the rough bark of the trunk. She started at his words, as if he'd pulled her from a deep well of thought.
"Er, no. Not really." She sighed, dropping her arm. "It's just that this poor old tree has lost so many leaves in the last few weeks. I worry about it with the coming storm."
Wes tipped his head back for a better view of the branches he'd romped through two days earlier. He'd been so busy showing off that he hadn't paid much attention to the telltale signs of brittle greenery or the occasional sparsely covered limb. Although this magnolia wasn't particularly grand compared to the ones that grew in humid east Texas, the tree had a certain feisty stubbornness that had allowed it to grow in a dry climate alien to its nature. Magnolias were evergreens, so it was unusual for the tree to be dropping its leaves—unless, of course, it was dying.
"What do you suppose is ailing it?" he asked, careful not to telegraph his private prognosis of doom.
"I don't know." She raised troubled eyes to his. "It was doing so beautifully up until Mrs. Boudreau passed on. Then it just seemed to fade away, as if it had lost its spirit."
Once more she turned to the tree, running a loving hand along its spine. Watching her caress the planes of that trunk, he felt a strange tingle in the pit of his belly. He wondered wistfully what her fingers would feel like some morning, stroking the stubble on his chin.
"She really loved this tree," Rorie said so quietly, he wasn't sure she'd meant for him to hear.
"You mean Mrs. Boudreau?"
She nodded. "She told me its story once, how she and Gator met as children when she went out to her father's yard to water the sapling he'd just planted there. She said there'd never been another man for her from that moment on. When she got old enough, Gator courted her formally and he asked her to marry him right under that tree. A few years later, he decided to try his hand at ranching in Texas. Mrs. Boudreau was so sad to leave her Louisiana home that Gator rode back to her papa's place and made arrangements for the tree to be shipped to his farm."
Rorie smiled at the thought. "I suppose he must have had the devil of a time hauling a twenty-foot tree all the way from New Orleans to Bandera County without the benefit of a train, but Mrs. Boudreau said Gator had a way with green things, even if he'd never had one with steers.
"I always thought that was such a beautiful story," she added, turning the warmth of her smile on Wes. "To meet Gator, you would never have thought the man had a romantic bone in his body. Yet he went to all that trouble to make his bayou bride feel at home in Texas."
Wes smiled too. He'd always liked a good story. "Well, that explains it. About the tree, I mean. It's doing poorly 'cause there aren't any sweethearts around."
She looked bemused. "I beg your pardon?"
"This here's a sweetheart tree." He could tell by her face, she didn't have the vaguest idea what he meant. "You mean you never heard the legend of the sweetheart tree?"
She shook her head. He did, too, in mock despair.
"Just what do you Yankee schoolmarms teach your younguns up there?"
She opened her mouth as if to defend herself, but he held up both hands, staving off an earful.
"Never mind. That's what you book-learned folks like to call a rhetorical question."
Amusement flickered across her features.
"Now then, the sweetheart tree is a big ol' tree that's been around fifty or sixty years." Wes patted the trunk. "I'd say this one's just about old enough to be wise in the ways of folks like you and me."
Nodding gravely to emphasize his point, he took an oh-so casual step toward her.
"Being a sweetheart tree is a mighty big honor among the plant kingdom," he continued. "As I hear it told, those big fellas don't let just any old twig or bush sign up. You see, a sweetheart tree has got to know the difference between true love and... well, let's just call it unchaperoned sparking."
He watched her furtively for some sign of priggish outrage, and was encouraged by her peeking dimples. He took another step closer.
"Some folks will try to tell you that a sweetheart tree is a crabapple or a dogwood 'cause, come spring time, white flowers bust out all over them. But I beg to differ."
"You do, huh?"
"Uh-huh."
They were standing nearly toe to toe now, and he congratulated himself on his progress. "Oh, I'm sure that a crabapple or a dogwood could do in a pinch," he said with a lofty wave of his hand. "But a magnolia tree's got those Yankee pretenders beat hands down."
She crossed her arms, but her show of offense was belied by the glow in her eyes. "And why is that, pray tell?"
He gazed at her in mock surprise. " 'Cause magnolia trees have been around for ages and ages. Some book-learned fellas—you know, the kind that cut up fruits and stare at them through a magnifying glass—say magnolias are the granddaddies of all flowering plants."
He made one last strategic move, cutting her off from the most likely avenue of escape.
"Besides, magnolias are evergreens," he added. "They don't go to sleep all winter long, making sweethearts wait months on end to see if they've found their one and only love."
"Hmm." She sounded thoughtful. "And how does the magnolia achieve its grandiose mission in life?"
He decided to back her against the trunk. To his surprise, though, his graceful doe stood her ground. He almost frowned. It took all the fun out of being a predator if the prey didn't know she was being stalked.
Then again, maybe she did know, he thought in sudden wolfish triumph. Maybe all her ladylike airs were just a pretense, and deep down, she really wanted to be pursued.
"Well," he drawled in his best sparking voice, "the magnolia tree keeps a watch out for sweethearts. When a couple comes along, it takes stock of the way they hold hands, the way they look into each other's eyes..." He lowered his voice to a throbbing whisper. "The way they kiss."
He leaned closer, and still she didn't retreat. It was an exhilarating feeling, having her gaze up at him so sweetly. He couldn't remember her looking at him like that before, and he kind of liked it. But just as he drew close enough to kiss her, she threw a question between them like a gauntlet.
"So then what does the sweetheart tree do?"
His brows r
ose. So she'd played this game before, had she? The notion brought him a smug sense of satisfaction—until he realized she must have played it with Jarrod Sinclair.
"Let's see..." He could feel her skirt, whipped up by the wind, wrapping his calves like the long, silken limbs of a lover. The image brought a surge of heat to his groin, and he had to remind himself that he was kissing her for one reason and one reason only: To get her off his mind.
"The tree gives a sign, since it's so wise in the ways of true love. If a couple is meant to stay together for the rest of their lives, great white flowers start to bloom instantly, no matter what the time of year."
"How interesting," she said huskily.
She had leaned back ever so slightly from his advance. Now her eyelids drooped, as if she were staring at his mouth, and he imagined he could see the hunger behind her veil of lashes. A thrill of expectancy coursed through him, and he pressed forward once more, close enough for their thighs to brush. This time when he lowered his head, he reached for her waist too. That's when her tender smile stopped his heart.
"So what you're saying is, I should let Ethan kiss me under this tree."
If she had slapped his face, she couldn't have made him recoil faster.
"Ethan? Who's Ethan?"
She shot him a sly, coquettish look, one that he would have sworn her incapable of ten minutes ago.
"Why," she said in a honeyed voice, "Ethan Hawkins is one of my gentleman callers. He owns fifteen thousand acres and a modest herd of Hereford cattle on a range that starts about a dozen miles south of here."
Shock washed over Wes, then disbelief. Both were followed by a confused jumble of emotions that he couldn't entirely sort out, but which left him feeling as if he'd just been punched in the gut.
"Why would you want to kiss this Ethan Hawkins?" he asked, unaccountably irritated by the whole idea.
Rorie kept her eyes lowered. She used the ploy less to convey demureness than to stall for time to gather her wits. When she'd thrown out Ethan's name, she'd been a four-star general playing a game of battlefield chess. Now she felt like a raw recruit who had just watched her bullet claim her first enemy casualty. She told herself remorse was ridiculous, not to mention lily-livered. After all, she'd been under attack all day long, and she had every right to strike a defense. The problem was, she hadn't expected Wes to look so... hurt.
