by Texas Lover
"Come along, children. I'll read you a bedtime story before we douse the lights. Something with a happy ending. Would you like that?"
* * *
Wes paced the porch like a caged puma. He kept one eye on the door, hoping Rorie would come outside so he could finally confess he was a Ranger. He kept his other eye on the drive, wondering where the hell Shae was and if the boy might not be in trouble after all.
Riding after Creed and beating the stuffing out of him would have gone a long way to restoring Wes's humor. He didn't dare leave Rorie alone to fend for herself, though. When the window had shattered around her, he'd feared she'd been pierced by the shards of glass or the bullet that had launched them, and terror had ripped through his soul.
In that frozen moment in time, when he'd been helpless to do anything more than wrap himself around her, a mindless rage had seized him. He would have walked into a hail of gunfire naked and unarmed, just to tear Creed Dukker limb from limb. That sonuvabitch had been lucky. If four impressionable children hadn't been watching, Wes might not have been so careful to inflict mere flesh wounds on Creed's gang.
He scowled first at the sitting-room window, which he'd had to board, and then at the charred remains of Gator's scarecrow. He'd seen similar debris a hundred or more times after some drunken cowboys hurrahed a town, but after seeing Rorie so pale and shaking, he would never be able to forgive Creed's mischief.
Rorie's expression had nearly done him in. With her eyes so misty pleading, he'd been certain she'd wanted him—needed him—to console her. The minute he tried to comfort her, though, she'd turned coltish on him again. The woman ran so hot and cold, it made his head spin. If she were a born coquette or an accomplished schemer, he might have thought she was indulging in some elaborate tease.
Instead, she'd taken great pains to be honest with him about her intentions and Ethan. At least, that's what she'd claimed two nights ago.
He scowled at the memory.
Maybe she didn't know her own mind. Or maybe she did, but what she secretly wanted, a man like him, frightened the living daylights out of her. Maybe that was why she kept trying to convince him her wanting didn't exist.
She wasn't fooling him, though. Not after their kiss. A river of passion ran through Aurora Sinclair, and the harder she tried to dam it, the more he wanted her. God help him. He wanted a proper lady with four children, more principled notions than he could count, and a hurting streak so wide, it made the Rio Grande look like a crack full of water. Had he lost his ever-loving mind?
The sound of a galloping horse pricked his ears and jerked his attention back to his surroundings. Grabbing his Winchester, he dropped behind the corner of the house where the shadows were dark and concealing. He didn't have to wait long for the rider to come into view. Recognizing Daisy's pale flanks and flattened ears, he marveled that Shae had left the wagon behind to spur the nag out of her habitually lazy gait.
The boy reined in hard when he saw the ashes and the window. Drawing Wes's .45, he jumped to the ground. He knelt for a moment, rubbing his fingers over dark splotches on the drive. Wes stepped forward in time to see the boy sniff what he'd found. Shae stiffened.
They regarded each other with long measured stares for what seemed like an uncommonly long time. Finally, reluctantly, Shae turned the borrowed revolver butt-forward and handed it back to Wes.
"So it's you," he said flatly.
"Heard the gunshots?"
Shae's smile was grim and wary. "Half the county heard. There's blood here. Whose is it?"
"Creed's... and some other fellas who came looking for you."
Shae started, his gaze rising to the lighted second-story of the house.
"The children are scared, but they're not hurt," Wes said, answering the boy's unspoken question. "Do you want to tell me what the hell I've been protecting them from?"
Shae stiffened, but his chagrin gave way to ire. "You've got some explaining to do first, Rawlins."
He pulled a folded wad of newspaper from the bib of his overalls and tossed it at Wes's feet.
"Ranger Rawlins Ousts The Sinclair Squatters." Shae's voice was dry as he read the headline aloud. "Imagine my surprise."
It was Wes's turn to fidget. "You got this from Lorelei?"
"Does it matter? I knew you weren't any damned carpenter. Your name always did sound familiar, although it took me a week to remember why. There's a retired U.S. marshal named Rawlins who settled north of here awhile back. They say he has two brothers. One's a rancher, the other's a Ranger. I reckon the Ranger must be you."
Wes released the breath he'd been holding. He didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed that the truth was finally out.
"Yeah, that's right. I'm the Ranger. And it's a damned good thing, too, since the law around here isn't worth a plug nickel."
"My pa was."
"Your pa isn't who I'm talking about."
Shae regarded him in a mixture of suspicion and shattered trust. Shoving the paper closer with his toe, he finally blurted out, "It says you're in cahoots with Marshal Dukker. That it was Dukker who sent you here with orders to shoot us so he could lay claim to Pa's spread."
"I don't take orders from Hannibal Dukker."
"Yeah? Then why the big secret? Why didn't you tell us straight out who you are?"
"You want the truth?"
"I figure you owe it to me."
"All right." Wes met his glare evenly. "Because I was told some renegade Negroes shot Gator. I thought you might have been one of them, to claim his land. You have to admit, it's pretty damned suspicious, you not having a shred of evidence to back up your kinship claim. And some mighty incriminating things are being said about you and Rorie back in Elodea."
Shae folded his arms across his chest. "So you rode out here to see what we're like, is that it?"
"Something like that."
"And your opinion?"
"I think you're one helluva fine man," Wes said more quietly. "And I think Rorie is the victim of some extremely malicious lies."
"Good answer."
Wes bit back an oath, steeling himself against his rising irritation. "Look, Shae. If I was going to run you off your land, don't you think I would have done it the first day I got here?"
"Maybe." Shae's tone was as sharp as his gaze. "Or maybe you thought you'd bide your time, catch a little amusement first on the side."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I think you know damned well." Looking Wes square in the eye, Shae didn't mince words. "What are your intentions toward Miss Aurora?"
Wes felt his face heat.
"I've seen how you look at her," Shae went on grimly.
"Yeah? Well, she's an attractive woman."
"And vulnerable to the likes of you."
"You paint me as some kind of sagebrush Romeo."
"Are you?"
"No."
Shae cocked his head, as if he wasn't sure what to believe. "She's a lady, Rawlins."
"I know that."
"And she's a good woman."
"I know that too," he said less defensively.
"She doesn't take kindly to lies. She got a bellyful from her husband. From the little Maw-Maw told me, I gather Sinclair spent most of his Saturday nights drinking and whoring." Shae shook his head."You're going to have a helluva time convincing her to trust you after all the whoppers you've told."
"I had no choice," Wes said, averting his eyes. "My investigation came first."
"Well, for your sake, I hope she sees things the same way."
Wes frowned. Shae obviously thought the chances of that were slim.
"So when are you going to tell her who you are?"
"I've tried telling her three times already."
"No offense, but I suggest you try a little harder; Rawlins. Tomorrow being Sunday and all, she's bound to hear about you in church."
Wes groaned inwardly. Of course she'd hear about him in church! How could he not have considered that? Rorie w
ould bundle every last one of the children off to the house of the Lord, even if the whole town disapproved of her so-called squatting. She was too strong a woman to let prejudice and spite stand in the way of her orphans' little souls.
"You're not going to spill the beans before that?" he asked sheepishly.
"Nope." Shae's tone, if not his manner, had softened. "I figure she has the right to hear it from you."
Wes swallowed, his smile weak. "Thanks."
An awkward silence lengthened between them.
"If it makes you feel any better, I think she's fond of you," Shae said grudgingly. "At least, she started smiling again after you rode in. That's got to mean something."
Wes was relieved by the boy's admission. He didn't know why, but it bothered him to think Rorie might never forgive him for his lies. Perhaps it was because he'd worked so damned hard to earn her trust. He'd seemed to be making real progress, too, since she actually loosened up enough to dance and flirt with him.
Of course, Creed's poor timing had put an end to whatever Wes might have reaped from that flirtation. Was it any wonder he wanted to flatten the boy?
Shae was watching him with disconcertingly keen eyes."You care about her, don't you."
The words were a bald, blunt assessment, not an indulgence in curiosity. Wes flinched, unable to deny to himself any longer what he feared was true.
"A man would have to have a heart of stone not to," he hedged.
Amusement lifted the corners of Shae's mouth, but just as quickly, his lips flattened into a solemn line. "Then you and I have something in common—besides a healthy distrust of Dukkers, I mean. Tell her who you are and get it over with, Rawlins. She'll be hurt, and she'll be bothered, but she's about the fairest person I know. She'll come around."
Wes felt an uneasy anticipation as he glanced at Rorie's window. When he realized the house was dark, disappointment vied with a guilty sense of relief.
Shae's gaze followed his to the blackened panes.
"Well, looks like you missed your opportunity," he said dryly. "But you can put the night to good use, studying that slander everyone will be talking about in church. Maybe then you can prepare her for the worst of what she'll hear."
Wes would have preferred to tear the paper to shreds, just as he had the first time he read it in town. But Shae did have a point, so he snatched up the rag and tucked it under his arm. "Damn Faraday."
Shae's mirth was fleeting. "He's no Mark Twain, that's true, but he's not entirely in Dukker's back pocket either. We have Miss Lorelei to thank for that. She's shared Miss Aurora's opinion of Dukker ever since last Christmas, when he came sniffing around Lorelei as her caller."
Wes started, wondering if he'd misunderstood, but the hardened planes of Shae's face told him differently.
"Well, I reckon the wagon can keep till tomorrow. It's too rickety to be worth stealing." Nodding, Shae stifled a yawn as he stepped past Wes to take Daisy's reins. "Good night, Rawlins."
Wes watched thoughtfully as the boy led the mare to the corral. So Pa Dukker had courted Lorelei? Just what did Creed think about that?
Wes remembered the stricken, puppy look the boy had worn when Lorelei had hurried away from him in town. Maybe Creed and his pa weren't that close after all.
And maybe that could work to his advantage.
Chapter 13
Sitting in the dark, Rorie waited impatiently for the creaking of Shae's mattress and the long stretch of silence that would indicate he slept. She'd been waiting for what seemed like hours for him to return, not daring to telegraph her private worries to Ginevee or the children. But the murmur of male voices below had reassured her Shae was safe and that she could retire in peace to her own sleep.
Unfortunately, she'd been afraid to close her eyes. The violent proof of Creed's jealousy toward Shae had shaken her far more than she dared admit to four frightened children and Shae's anxious grandmother.
In her heart, Rorie knew she must convince Shae to give up the land—his land—the only thing he had left of his father. The realization caused her as much rage as it did grief. It wasn't fair Shae had enemies simply because his keen intelligence, good looks, and lofty ambitions threatened Hannibal Dukker's peace of mind.
Even so, if Shae continued to live near Elodea, he wouldn't be safe. Rorie had experienced enough of life to know that people often feared what they didn't understand. And what they feared, they destroyed.
Swallowing hard, she peeked once more past her curtain toward the light radiating from the half-open barn door. She liked to tell herself that that burning lamp drew her only because of her urgent concern for Shae. Since Wes had earned the boy's respect, he might be able to help her make Shae see sense. That was why she must speak with Wes now.
But that was only part of the reason.
The shameful reality was, she was too frightened, too worried, too lonely to spend a single moment longer by herself.
And she couldn't think of anyone else she'd rather spend a lonely night with than Wes.
Gathering what was left of her courage, she tossed a modest shawl over her shoulders and hurried on shaking legs to the barn. As quiet as she tried to be, Wes must have heard her approach. Before she'd drawn enough breath to announce herself, his head snapped up, and he reached for his Colt. She nearly lost her nerve completely then, and it didn't help to see his surprise dissolve to embarrassment when he hastily shoved something into the straw beneath his saddlebag.
It occurred to her that he was probably in the midst of his nighttime toilette, since he sat without boots. His feet with their dusting of freckles were almost as provocative in their innocence as the gaping of his untucked, unbuttoned shirt. Beneath the faded blue folds, golden light and auburn shadow cavorted in a tantalizing game of hide and seek.
Her heart quickened to a dizzying rate, and she dragged her gaze to his face. All the implications, all the possibilities, of her visit to his resting place were enough to make her knees wobble.
"Rorie?" Concern crinkled the corners of his eyes, darkening them to a smoky shade of pine. "I thought you were asleep. Is everything all right?"
She nodded feebly, her tongue too swollen to answer. Although common sense told her she should be babbling apologies and backing out the door just as fast as her rubbery legs could carry her, she couldn't flee.
He rose and walked toward her with a lithe grace that was more like a ripple than a stride. She remembered how he'd stalked her beneath the magnolia tree, and how he'd cornered her inside the stall. A tremor of longing rocked her, and she wondered what it would be like—what it would really be like—to let him feed the sweet, hot hunger that his touch had ignited inside her.
"I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice a husky murmur. "I was hoping you'd come."
He was?
A tiny thrill danced down her spine. "I... need to talk with you."
He nodded, his gaze pouring into hers, filling her with warmth. "Me too."
He reached past her, pulling the door shut. For a breathless moment, the world fell away. There were no broken promises, shattered dreams, or scarred memories of days past. There were only starlight and silence, spilling in through the naked rafters, and the heady glow of something ancient and alluring in the unjaded eyes that held her own.
"Come sit awhile."
He took her hand, which pleased her far more than she had any right to let it. Leading her to the milking stool, he settled her there with all the consideration of a serious beau. His care made her heart ache for something more, something her mind didn't dare focus on for long. Otherwise, she might weep, recalling the lonely hurting that was such an inescapable part of her nights.
Dropping her eyes from the questions in his gaze, she clasped her hands in her lap and struggled for the composure to begin. "I'm so worried about Shae," she whispered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "If he had been at the window tonight instead of you, he... might be dead now."
Wes knelt in front of her, rocking
back on his heels. He steeled himself against the pressing urge to comfort her with touches, as he had earlier, after the shooting. Her face still looked pale against the honeyed length of her waist-long braid, and the hollows beneath her eyes were shadowed by unshed tears.
For her to come alone to him in the middle of the night, she must have been badly shaken by the shootout.
The way she'd shooed him off with her usual stiff-backed practicality, he'd figured she'd gotten over the ordeal within a minute or two of the smoke's clearing. At the time, he'd marveled that she could be so nonchalant, but then he'd hoped it was a good sign, indicating she might just as quickly get over his confession.
"You're not alone anymore, Rorie," he said gently, "and neither is Shae. I told you my guns are for your protection. I told Hannibal Dukker, too, but I reckon Creed just had to find out the hard way."
She grew even paler. "Wes, you shouldn't have. You don't know what Hannibal's capable of, and with his badge to protect him—"
"He won't be wearing that badge for long. Not if I have my way."
Panic stole across her features. "What do you mean? You're not going to—to—"
"Shoot him like the cur dog he is?" He indulged in a wan smile. "I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind a time or two. But no, I don't put myself above the law. I told you I'm square, Rorie. And well..." He sighed, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. "I was kind of hoping you believed me."
"I do," she said quickly, a spot of color returning to her cheeks. "It's just that I don't want... I mean, you could be..."
Her swallow was audible. For a moment, her eyes became so bright and luminous, he wondered how she managed to stave off the fresh onslaught of tears.
"Wes, please promise me you won't cross him. You could wind up dead, and I couldn't bear that... knowing it was because of me," she added tremulously.
His heart turned over, filling him with a giddy, tingly elation. Her plea was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard. An angel's song couldn't have lifted his spirits half as high.
"Now Rorie, don't you go worrying about me," he said, his voice gruff with pleasure. "I'm more than a match for that two-legged cockroach."
