Adrienne deWolfe

by Texas Lover

  Nita gave his question grave consideration. "I guess so," she answered after a moment. "I've never heard her say anything against it."

  Rorie bit her lip. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. For Wes to ask such a question, he must have been thinking about her at least half as much as she'd been thinking about him. Why, after their encounter in the barn, she'd been so hot and restless in her bed, she'd skimmed guilty hands over her belly, touching her tangle of womanly hair, clutching her pillow between her thighs. A hundred times or more the previous night, she had imagined him: his warm leathery palms, his hot hungry lips, the velvet granite of his naked flesh.

  She knew it was wrong to fantasize about one man when she was encouraging the suit of another, but she seemed especially drawn to Wes's new, enigmatic darkness—that primal shadow that lurked beneath his light-hearted facade. She didn't understand how she could long for a scoundrel when she could have the security and predictability of Ethan. A hard-working, honest rancher rooted in his land, Ethan was exactly what she needed for herself and the children.

  But Ethan had never made her heart trip with his smile or her knees weaken with his glance. In fact, nothing about Ethan's mannerisms made her giddy, perhaps because he always conducted himself like a gentleman in her presence, rather than some shameless, cocksure flirt.

  Maybe with the right kind of encouragement, she thought, Ethan could curl her toes. Wes was always telling her to give a fellow a chance. Maybe if she let Ethan kiss her, she would feel the same spark of passion for him that she felt for Wes.

  One could always hope so, she mused ruefully.

  That night, after dinner, Shae had to take Nardo home. The child had dutifully arrived after lunch with a basket of his mother's tamales as weekly payment for his lessons, and Topher had persuaded him to play chase—until Nardo had twisted his ankle and abruptly ended the game.

  As Shae hitched Daisy to the wagon, Wes showed the first sign that his easygoing manner still hid a lingering wariness.

  "How long do you think you'll be away?" he demanded, casting a glance at the setting sun.

  Shae's color deepened as he glanced at Rorie, standing near the wagon bed and holding Nardo's hand. She guessed Shae had hoped to use Nardo's ankle as an excuse to disappear for a while, doing whatever young men did on a Saturday night. She suspected Lorelei Faraday was the object of Shae's affection, but other than a cautionary word about "innocent young women" and "gentlemanly honor," she'd always been careful not to pry into his private affairs. Shae was a sensitive and intelligent young man, and she trusted him not to sire bastards all over the county.

  "I don't know how long I'll be," Shae answered, drawing himself up a little taller and meeting Wes's stare with a narrowed gaze of his own. "Why?"

  Topher snickered, nudging Nardo in the ribs. "Shae's still sweet on your sister Rosa."

  The boys tittered, and the tension seemed to ease somewhat from Wes's shoulders. He shrugged, pasting on a smile. "No reason. Just... keep your eyes peeled."

  Shae nodded. He shoved his shotgun under the driver's seat only to have Wes hand him one of his Peacemaker's—much to Rorie's uneasiness.

  "I expect you won't be needing it, son, since you're only driving out to the Garcias' place," Wes said pointedly. His smile turned wry. "If I thought you did need it, you couldn't keep me from riding along."

  Their eyes locked again, and some manly understanding seemed to pass between them.

  "I trust you can keep an eye on things while I'm gone?" Shae said.

  "Oh yeah." Hooking his thumbs over his gun belt, Wes tossed Rorie a mouthwatering grin. "I'll watch things real good."

  So Shae and Nardo rode off into the sunset, leaving Rorie to fend for herself—against Wes. Fortunately, she had Ginevee and four more children to distract him from mischief. They all crowded around as he put the finishing touches on Merrilee's new, elevated shoe. Topher wanted to wear the shoe first, ostensibly to help Merrilee break it in. Seeing how self-conscious the girl had become, Ginevee chased Topher and the others from the sitting room.

  Even so, Merrilee looked as if she'd prefer to run and hide. Wes must have murmured every tender encouragement he knew to get her to take her first hesitant step with him. His patience was truly extraordinary. Standing at the opposite end of the room, Rorie watched his ministrations with a mixture of misty-eyed gratitude and maternal distrust. Every time Merrilee teetered or stumbled, Rorie was tempted to run to the child, but Wes was always at her side, stopping her fall.

  He must have worked for a full half hour, buoying Merrilee's confidence, before she finally set his hand free and paced the room's perimeter without his help. The look of joyous wonder on her face made tears stream down Rorie's own.

  And when Merrilee completed her solo trip, throwing her arms around Wes's waist in an exuberant show of gratitude, Rorie was hard-pressed not to do the same.

  A chorus of cheers and applause erupted from outside. Startled, Rorie turned to find Topher and Nita, Po and Ginevee, all peeking through the open window.

  "That was ripsnortin', Merrilee!" Topher crowed.

  "Bully for you," Nita chimed in.

  "Bull-wee shortin'! Bang, bang, bang!" Po shouted, bouncing up and down in Ginevee's arms and brandishing the wooden gun Wes had whittled for him.

  Everyone laughed, and Ginevee wiped a tear from her eye.

  "I reckon this calls for a celebration," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

  "Hoo-boy! Cookies!"

  "Topher," Nita chided, "you just had dessert."

  "So?"

  Ginevee chuckled, waving the children inside. "I was thinking more along the lines of pie. Pecan pie."

  "That's even better," Wes quipped, winking down at Merrilee. "But don't you eat too much, you near? This being your fandango and all, I'm going to want the first dance."

  "Wes, really." Rorie laughed, blinking away the last of her tears. She couldn't remember the last time a man had brought such happiness into her home. "I don't think Merrilee's up to dancing just yet."

  "Sure she is." He kissed the back of the beaming child's hand. "Merrilee can do anything. It's Ginevee I'm worried about," he teased as the woman reappeared, herding the other children through the front door. "You think you can pluck out a boot-scootin' tune on that old fiddle of yours?"

  Her eyes twinkling, Ginevee tossed her head. "Just try and keep up with me, clodhopper."

  The children dashed from the kitchen back to the sitting room each holding a plate with a generous slice of pie on it. Wes joked that he didn't need sawdust on the floor since he had Topher's pie crumbs for traction. As he pushed the furniture against the wall, Ginevee rosined up her bow. There was a general hush of excitement as everyone waited for her to play. Even Topher stopped smacking his lips long enough to hear the first lively strains of melody—"Turkey in the Straw."

  Wes threw back his head and laughed. "C'mon, Merrilee. We'll show Ginevee we're no lead-footed bumpkins."

  Doubling over, he swung the child into his arms and spun her around the room. Laughter bubbled up in Rorie's throat as she watched his stomping and swaying. The man had rhythm, that was certain, and a carefree energy that stole her breath away. Just watching his whirlwind turns made her heart pound, and when he bowed next to Nita, she felt a trickle of jealousy that made her feel guilty and foolish.

  Trying to ignore her muddled emotions, she bounced Po on her knee, clapping the toddler's hands in time to Ginevee's spirited bowing. The sun had set, and the lamplight sent Wes's shadow leaping and dancing across the walls. Her foot began tapping to the sound of his boots.

  She'd always loved waltzes and reels, but Jarrod had discouraged her enthusiasm after they were wed, saying it was scandalous for a married woman to "carry on so." As self-conscious as Jarrod was about her height, she'd often suspected he denied her the pleasure of dancing simply because he felt awkward leading a woman whose shoulder obscured his view. In any event, she could count on one hand the number of times she had d
anced in the past eight years.

  "Not bad for a hayseed," Ginevee called to Wes. "You warmed up enough for some real foot stompin'?"

  He grinned at her, releasing Nita's hand. "And here I'd thought you'd fallen asleep with that bow. Give me the best you've got, fiddler."

  He was standing before Rorie now, offering her his hand, and her pulse took off like a runaway train. Thanks to Jarrod, she had never had a chance to learn the two-step that Texicans favored—and that Wes had been dancing with carefree enthusiasm. She clutched Po a little tighter.

  "Thank you, Wes. But after all that pie—"

  He snatched Po out of her arms and passed him to Nita.

  "You'll work off that pie in a dance or two. On your feet, Mrs. Sinclair. Or can't a Yankee lady keep up with a Texican cyclone like me?"

  She blushed at his challenge. "Well, to tell you the truth, we don't practice your particular, er, style in Cincinnati."

  "Shoot. I'll teach you." He was dragging her out of her chair. "After you taught me how to read, that seems only fair."

  She laughed at his jest. She couldn't help herself. Nothing she had ever learned in finishing school had prepared her for Wes. He was a homespun gallant, impossible to resist. And when his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her breathlessly close to his chest, she forgot her reasons for trying.

  "This isn't some fuddy-duddy waltz now," he teased in her ear. "You just might have to kick up your heels."

  His heat spiraled through her as he turned her around the room. She quickly realized that two-stepping had all the vigor of a polka, minus one of the steps. Quick to learn, she had little trouble adjusting her feet to the pattern. But that freed up her attention, leaving her endless moments to concentrate on forbidden things, like him.

  She knew it was wrong to enjoy the half circle of his arm, so audaciously possessive and yet strangely comforting as he anchored her waist to his; or the devilishly casual way his thighs brushed hers, making her pulse skitter each time he pressed her back in a straight line. She couldn't remember the last time she'd danced and looked up into an attentive, laughing face—rather than down into a glazed and distant stare.

  A delicious shiver tiptoed down her spine. The glow in his gaze was intoxicating; she imagined she was valued and admired, even pretty, in his eyes. His smile dazzled her enough to believe it. She hadn't felt so exhilarated, so lighthearted or joyful in years.

  She knew she was dangerously close to surrender, that all her high ideals and righteous principles couldn't save her from this man. As much as she tried to convince herself that latent desire was to blame, deep down she knew her loneliness had little to do with her attraction to Wes. Clever and winsome, sensitive and sensual, he'd razed the final barrier to her heart when he combined compassion and ingenuity for Merrilee's sake. Rorie tried to tell herself it was too soon to have such feelings, that she'd known him for only six short days, and yet, the same giddy question kept racing through her brain: Could she be falling in love with him?

  It was her last thought before a shot rang out, smashing the window and showering glass all around her.

  Chapter 12

  "Everybody down!" Wes shouted.

  Rorie barely had time to react before his hard body toppled hers, shielding her from the spray of glass. She dimly heard the whoops of mounted gunmen and the frightened cries of the children, and she fought the rush of her own panic as Wes scrambled to his feet. He drew his .45 and doused the lamps.

  "Miss Rorie?" Merrilee's shaky whisper followed fast on the heels of a sob. As her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, Rorie spied the child huddled with her doll under the table. Crawling hastily to her side, she pulled Merrilee into her arms. Topher, his face ashen, scampered into her lap.

  "McFadden!" It was Creed's voice, slurred from drink. "We got a score to settle, you nigger bastard. Come on out! I know you're hiding in there behind all those skirts!"

  Amidst the cacophony of laughter, jeers, and revolver reports, she heard flames whoosh to life outside. In the light of the blaze, she glimpsed Ginevee clutching Po and Nita to her breasts.

  Suddenly Wes's shadow leaped across the wall. Protective, fearless, and larger than life, it loomed over them all, much as Wes loomed in the window. His face was a mask of stark, raw fury. When he raised his Peacemaker she held her breath.

  Once, twice, three times, the muzzle spat fire. Each shot was followed by a howl, a yelp, or a curse.

  "My leg!"

  "My arm!"

  "You didn't tell us the nigger could shoot. Let's get the hell out of here!"

  A trio of centaur shadows rolled across the wall. Just as quickly as it had begun, the shooting was over. Creed and his band of bullies rode off to lick their wounds, and Rorie was left with a roomful of cowering, whimpering children. Her own limbs were shaking so badly, she wasn't sure she could stand.

  "Wes!" Her voice cracked, and he hesitated in his rush for the door. "The children," she said hoarsely, too stunned and too awed by his ferocious skill to utter a single word more.

  She watched his jaw twitch. His gaze flitted to the straw effigy, most likely Gator's scarecrow, burning in the dirt drive outside. Then his eyes met hers, and his features softened.

  "Is anyone hurt?" He scanned the children's trembling bodies and tearstained faces in the effigy's eerie light.

  Four little heads shook, but no one spoke. No one hardly dared to breathe, in fact, as everyone looked up at Wes, so authoritative and commanding, and so startlingly different from the flirt who'd danced with them only minutes before.

  "It's over now." His voice was gruff, allowing no room for argument. "They're gone now, and they won't be coming back."

  Rorie bit her tongue on her doubts, but Merrilee shifted under her arm, peeking up at Wes through her fingers.

  "Was it the bad men?" she whispered tremulously.

  Outrage vied with the tender concern spreading across Wes's face. "No, sweetheart." Holstering his gun, he squatted down before the child. "It was Creed Dukker and some of his friends. They were out for a little sport, that's all. They weren't firing at anybody on purpose."

  Rorie wasn't entirely convinced. Creed had come to make trouble with Shae. No doubt he'd intended to finish the fistfight over Lorelei Faraday that Rorie had interrupted on Monday.

  Nita must have suspected the same thing, for she glanced anxiously up at Ginevee before turning her troubled gaze to Wes.

  "But what about Shae?" she asked. "I mean, ever since that Lorelei Faraday made it clear she'd rather court anyone—even a colored boy—over the likes of Creed Dukker, the whole town has been mean to Shae. It isn't even Shae that's causing the trouble!"

  Rorie knew Nita's version of the truth was based on her jealousy. In reality, Shae had always been ambitious, which some Elodeans liked to term uppity. He hadn't discouraged Lorelei's calf-eyed glances, particularly after the Dukkers accused him of trying to rise above his so-called station.

  Rorie knew Lorelei's attention flattered Shae, but she also knew the boy had no real interest in courtship and marriage at this time. College was his heart's desire.

  "You needn't worry about Shae, Nita," Rorie said as firmly as her constricted throat would allow. "He's safe at the Garcias'. Besides, he's got one of Wes's revolvers and Gator's shotgun to protect him."

  "Yeah, but Shae can't shoot like Uncle Wes can," Topher said, scrambling to his feet as Wes reached to help Merrilee. "Even Sheriff Gator never shot as good as you," Topher added, this time to Wes. Admiration replaced the dread on his still-pale face. "Three shots and three hits all on moving targets. And in the dark too! Can you teach me to shoot like that, Uncle Wes? Can you?"

  The eagerness in Topher's voice made Rorie's gut knot. She met Wes's eyes uneasily.

  "A man doesn't fire on another man unless he's ready to take a bullet himself," he answered firmly, offering Rorie his hand. "If I had my druthers, I wouldn't have hit anyone at all. Creed Dukker had to be taught he can't go around shooting up houses full of wo
men and children. That was a low-down, cowardly stunt he pulled, son, and damned irresponsible too."

  Rorie silently blessed him. Then his warm, strong fingers closed around hers, and she came dangerously close to tears. What if he hadn't been here to chase off Creed and his hooligans? What if Wes had ridden into town for Saturday-night recreation like any other red-blooded, unmarried man? What would she and Ginevee have done then?

  "Are you hurt?" he murmured, his gaze anxious and questioning as he helped her rise.

  Shaking her head, she stumbled on the glass. His arm wrapped her waist, pulling her against him. She squeezed her eyes closed, hating the moisture that lurked there. She wished she dared let him hold her to his heart forever, so she could absorb his comforting warmth and fill herself with his strength, but she had the children to think about. She couldn't let them see her grow weepy.

  "It's going to be all right," he said huskily in her ear. "I won't let anyone hurt you or the children."

  She nodded, pasting on a brave smile as she dragged herself from his embrace. "Of course not. You... are very kind. And we owe you a great debt, Wes. One, I'm afraid, which we can't fully repay."

  His brows knitted. "Rorie—"

  She looked away. She couldn't bear for him to gaze at her with such tender concern. Not now, when she was struggling not to fling herself back into his arms.

  "Ginevee, please help me put the children to bed."

  "Rorie." He was more insistent this time, his hand closing over her sleeve. "I need to talk with you—"

  "Not now, Wes, please." She glanced meaningfully at the children. "I need for you to put out that fire before the wind spreads it to the house."

  His jaw grew harder at her rebuff. "All right."

  She released a shuddering breath, relieved, yet disappointed as well, when he dropped his hand. Drawing herself up taller, she took refuge from the tumult in her breast by turning to the only haven she'd ever had.