by Texas Lover
"Shae!" she squealed. "Oh my God, he's got the ladder. He'll see us naked!"
Wes had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep whatever other panicked exclamation she might squeak from floating outside through the hole in the rafters. Damn Shae. That boy had worse timing than a jilted beau bursting in on the bridal "I do's."
"Simmer down," Wes hissed, "and put your clothes on. I'll get Shae out of the way so you can hotfoot it back to the house."
Wes stabbed his legs into his jeans, grabbed his razor, threw his shirt over his shoulder, and hastily let himself out the barn door. His mind was already whirring in high gear, spinning another string of yarns, this time to protect Rorie and her honor. He wondered fleetingly if she'd appreciate the irony once he spilled the beans on his greater fib—the one that was bound to hurt her.
Gritting his teeth, he slowed his pace to a casual one as he rounded the corner and found Shae positioning the ladder.
With any luck his big lie would be out within the hour. It would have to be, Wes thought grimly, if he wanted at least even odds of parting from Rorie as friends.
Meanwhile, dressing frantically in the barn, Rorie was too mortified to imagine Shae, whom she regarded as a son, catching her naked with a lover, to spare much thought for Wes's uncharacteristically awkward speech. She could hear his voice, glib and cocksure again, calling to Shae from the other side of the wall.
"Did the devil light a fire under you, son, to get you working on the Sabbath?"
She heard the creaking of wood, as if a boot had stepped down on a ladder rung, and she nearly bit her tongue in two to keep from shouting, "Go away, Shae!"
"I had to get up to fetch the wagon," Shae said. "Then I figured I might as well throw this tarpaulin back over the hole in the roof. Looks like the wind blew it off last night."
"Hell, that's what you woke me up for?" Wes snorted, and Rorie could almost see the amusement on his face. "There's not a sign of rain in those clouds, son. But if you're so jo-fired to get a job done, why don't you come down to the springhouse with me. That damned pipe's got so rusted it took a hammer to knock it loose last night. The womenfolk will have our heads if they can't take their shower baths before church."
Shae expressed surprise and a bit of irritation about the pump, which had been working just fine the day before, as Rorie knew well. Then the ladder rung creaked again, and their voices began to fade.
Holding her breath, Rorie cracked open the door, careful not to let its creaking hinges betray her. She spied Wes's bare chest in a burnt-orange blaze of morning as he strolled beside Shae's darker frame. They seemed to be chatting amicably as they headed for the springhouse.
Darting a nervous glance around the yard for spying children, she gulped a prayer, hiked her skirts, and bolted for her bedroom.
A quarter hour later, her hands still trembling from her close call, Rorie was dressing for church. She dreaded the hypocrisy of attending the service, yet she was certain that a change in plans would clue the world at large to her sin. Only a blind man or a total innocent would fail to recognize the evidence on her face: the starry light in her eyes, the glowing pink on her cheeks, the dreamy smile that kept curving her lips.
Every time she glanced in the mirror, she didn't know whether to giggle or groan. Never mind that she was a spindly crane with too-large bones, or a middle-aged goose without a lick of common sense, she felt beautiful. She felt changed somehow, too, although she couldn't quite put her finger on why.
All she knew was that if she didn't stop floating and start walking soon, her secret affair wouldn't be so secret anymore. She might be able to brave the scandal for her own fleeting chance at happiness, but she couldn't bear for it to hurt her children.
With a step she hoped was much less buoyant and an air she prayed was serene, she descended the stairs to practice nonchalance on her family. She proved to be a miserable failure during her first test. Rounding the corner she collided with Shae on the landing. Their impact nearly tumbled them both down the stairs, and she giggled nervously—no doubt the first giveaway to her sin.
"Oh, Shae, do forgive me. I didn't hear you coming."
Steadying her with a wiry arm, he stepped back a respectful space. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"Yes, yes, of course." She tried to wave his concern away, but he was looking her up and down for damage. She turned three shades of crimson, wondering if any of the love nips Wes had given her were visible above the high neck of her gown.
"I didn't expect you up so early after last night's fireworks, ma'am. Did you sleep well, then?"
She pressed her hand to her flaming face—another giveaway. "Fireworks? What do you mean?"
His keen gaze held hers. "Dukker's hurrah."
"Oh, yes. That." She looked away and gulped down air, silently berating herself for her idiocy. "Yes. Very well, considering," she added, wishing she didn't sound quite so flustered and hoping he would attribute her discomfort to their collision.
"Have you... talked with Rawlins since last night?"
"Talked with him?" She made the mistake of glancing upward at his gentle tone, and another burst of heat spread to the roots of her hair. "Why no. I've only just risen."
She'd never been good at lying, and she suspected the game was up completely, since Shae's look of concern softened to sympathy.
"Well, I guess there's still plenty of time for talk before church."
She nodded for no reason other than to placate him and flee. In reality, she wasn't certain church was still a good idea. After all, if she couldn't face Shae, how on earth could she face Preacher Jenkins?
Deciding a solitary spell of reflection was in order, she grabbed the egg basket from the kitchen and mumbled something to Ginevee about checking the hens. She'd no sooner started across the yard than Topher appeared, riding a broomstick nag around the corner of the chicken coop.
"I'll get you, you varmit," he shouted, threatening nothing in particular and aiming the cedar gun that Wes had whittled for him. "Bang, bang!"
She cringed to think he might be hunting men instead of rodents, especially after the worshipful way he had chattered on the night before about Wes's markmanship.
The boy's face lit up when he saw her. "Morning, ma'am," he called, pulling the brim of his straw hat low over his eyes and spurring his pony to intercept her.
"A lady like you had best be careful walking all by her lonesome," he said solemnly, holstering his gun as he reined in. "That mangy cur Jesse James and his gang were sighted hereabouts. I've been sworn to bring them in. See?" he added eagerly. Flipping around his overall's twisted shoulder strap, he produced a battered badge.
Rorie started to smile, thinking Ginevee had gotten awfully good at cutting stars from the bottom of tin cans.
Then Topher announced proudly, "I found it, ma'am. It's a real honest-to-goodness Ranger badge!"
The smile froze on Rorie's lips as his words registered on her preoccupied brain. Setting her basket on the ground, she knelt before the boy.
"Let me see that, Topher."
Beaming, he puffed out his chest as she reached gingerly for his strap. The weight of the star and the style of the insignia were genuine, all right. She'd met a half-dozen swaggering, loud-mouthed, lascivious lawmen wearing similar badges when they'd dropped in to "howdy" Gator.
Puzzled, she gazed up into the boy's excited blue eyes. "Topher, where did you find this?"
"Under a couple of dirty old boots Shae had thrown under his bed." He grinned, crowding his freckles together. "I reckon one of Sheriff Gator's Ranger friends must have lost it there."
Rorie's brows knitted in a frown. Topher's hypothesis was impossible. For as long as she'd been a guest in Gator's home, he'd never allowed a man, unmarried or otherwise, to bunk on the second story where she slept. Other than Shae, in fact, the only man she could recall bedding down in the room next to hers was...
Wes.
A chilling sense of discovery crackled down her spine.
Wes couldn't be a Ranger. If he were, he would have told her, surely, when they'd first met. Besides, what possible reason could he have for keeping such a secret?
A niggling doubt pierced the armor of her denials.
She recalled uneasily how he'd ridden down the drive, carrying more firing power than the average cowboy. She remembered, too, his discomfort when she'd jested about his "lawman" talk. But most of all, she remembered the scar on his chest, the one that looked like half a tin star.
"Am I in trouble?" Topher asked suspiciously.
She realized she was frowning at the child as if she meant to grab him by his ear.
"No, sweetheart." Her voice, coming from somewhere near her toes, croaked when it finally struggled past her lips.
"Then how come you look like you've been sucking on persimmons?"
Dear Topher. He'd always been able to read her much better than any book. He shared that ability with Wes.
Her stomach knotted at the thought, and she battled for control over her burgeoning dread.
"Topher, may I have the badge?"
His chin jutted, and he backed warily from her hands.
"You know the rules," she said as gently as her constricting throat would allow. "When we find something that doesn't belong to us, we try to find the owner before claiming it as our own."
"But those Ranger friends of Sheriff Gator are long gone!"
"You're probably right." Lord, please let the child be right. "But just in case, we owe it to Sheriff Gator's friend to ask questions, since he was our guest. If you had left your marbles at Nardo's house, wouldn't you want somebody to return them?"
"Oh, all right," he grumbled. "Here." He thrust the badge into her hand. "But I get first dibs if you don't find no Ranger."
She was too grateful for an end to the argument to bother correcting his grammar. "Thank you, Topher. Do you know where Wes is?"
"In the shower bath," he answered sullenly.
Her hand closed over the battered tin, and she couldn't quite repress her tremor.
"Would you mind checking on the hens for me, Topher? Then you'll want to put on your Sunday clothes for church."
He made a face. "I bet Rangers don't have to go to church," he muttered, snatching up the basket and stalking toward the chicken coop.
Rorie swallowed hard. She had no reason to believe the boy was wrong, and the implication of his words made her heart sick. Rangers didn't much care about morality or salvation. They lived by the gun. They did whatever pleased them.
Dear God, please don't let my Topher become a Ranger.
She fought off a hot quick stab of panic. Topher worshipped Wes. All the children did. What if he'd been using them? What if his friendship had simply been the means to an end—a tumble with her in the hay?
No! I won't believe that of him. I won't believe he's another Bill Malone.
Shaking, she started to walk, blindly at first. She realized her feet weren't carrying her to the springhouse, though, they were carrying her to the barn. To the scene of his crime.
She pushed that thought back in frantic desperation. Innocent until proven guilty, that's what the courts said. She had no right to condemn him. By some miracle, the badge might not even be his.
That's what she was praying when she found herself kneeling before his saddle bags, the voices of fear and reason shouting in her head.
"What, would you rob him of his privacy?" Fear taunted.
"If he's been lying all this time, he'll only lie again when I confront him with the badge," Reason said.
"What does that matter? You let Jarrod deceive you for years. You didn't want to know the truth then, and you don't want to know it now."
"No!" she sobbed. "I can't live that way anymore." Pressing a hand to her mouth, she dammed the flood of tears. This time, it wasn't a matter of wanting to know. This time, it was a matter of having to, for the children.
"Wes, forgive me for prying," she whispered hoarsely, pulling the bags onto her lap and pushing back the flaps. Inside, she found everything he must own in the world: two changes of shirts, a slicker, a compass, a match safe, rope, first-aid supplies, and two letters written in a flowery, female hand. The first letter, well-worn and faded from handling, was dated December 2nd and was signed by Fancy.
Wes, we miss you. All of us miss you. Please come home for Christmas. Don't let this grudge between you and Cord go on through the new year...
The second letter was even more plaintive than the first. Fancy had dated it six weeks earlier, April 10.
I pray this letter finds you. I pray you're still alive. An occasional message would help ease all our minds....
Cord heard from Captain McQuade that you were shot and almost died near Brownsville. My God, Wes, why didn't you send us a wire? Cord and Zack would have come for you. You didn't have to be alone....
You're family and we love you. Please don't go on this way. All this bitterness, all this anger, it's not worth the pain. It's never too late to make amends, Wes. Please come home....
Rorie blinked back tears, tears that she wasn't sure were for her, for Wes, or for Fancy. The woman clearly had deep feelings for Wes. Just as clearly, those feelings were torn between him and her husband. How sad that Wes called himself an orphan when he had more loving blood-relations than Rorie, Shae, or any of her orphans combined.
Folding the pages with trembling fingers, she slipped them carefully back into a pocket of his duster. Her doubts were eased, but not entirely relieved. She hadn't found a pair of handcuffs or the so-called black book, which Gator said Rangers read more often than the Bible, because it contained their list of fugitives.
"Why look further?" Fear whispered to her heart. "You found nothing to implicate him."
"Nothing except a letter referencing a Captain McQuade," Reason reminded her grimly.
Wes was clearly no army regular. The only other kind of captains she could think of in Texas were the kinds that commanded the loose military divisions known as Rangers.
She fought back another attack of dread. He could have hidden the manacles.
She remembered him the night before, shoving something beneath the straw when she'd surprised him at the door. A knife twisted in her chest. With numbing fingers, she forced herself to push the bags aside, to drop to her hands and search the stall floor where they'd made love two tender, blissful times.
It didn't take long to uncover the dingy white corner of newspaper. When she shook the Enquirer free of straw and spread its rumpled pages before her, it didn't take long to learn the full extent of his duplicity.
She crumpled the paper between her fists.
The bastard.
Chapter 15
Standing beneath the shower bath sluice in the three-walled compartment Shae had rigged for privacy, Wes nearly jumped ten feet when he heard the springhouse door slam. Tossing the sodden hair from his eyes, he turned to find Rorie approaching him. A grin tugged at his lips. He thought about asking her to join him, until he noticed her pinched face and heaving chest. Hastily he turned off the rushing stream of water.
"Rorie, what is it? What's wrong? Has Dukker come—"
His words choked off when she halted, tossing his badge on his pile of discarded clothes.
"A Ranger, I hear," she said acidly, "isn't fully dressed without his star."
Wes's heart stalled. Then it lurched painfully back to life. "Rorie—"
"No doubt it was just an oversight," she continued in that same acerbic tone, "your forgetting to pin it on every day since Monday."
The wall of the stall only came up to his waist. He gripped it hard for support. "I can explain—"
"There's no need."
Producing the Enquirer in the fist she'd held behind her back, she tossed it contemptuously on top of the star.
"You went through my bags?" he asked weakly, stalling for enough time to gather his wits for a defense.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I did, feeling guilty every moment of the shamefu
l chore. Ironic, isn't it? There I was, trying to deny all the evidence, trying to believe every damned lie you'd ever told me. I was worried my behavior might seem like a betrayal, even though you'd as much as admitted you've been plotting to bed me from the moment we first met."
Wes flinched at her words. Things were bad—worse than he'd originally thought—if she was using profanities.
"Rorie, those things Faraday printed aren't true—"
"So you claim to know the difference? Isn't the development of a conscience rather convenient right now?"
His earlier sense of doom returned to squeeze his throat, making his breath wheeze. He didn't know where she'd found the star or how she'd put two and two together. He didn't know what he could say or do to make her understand him. All he knew was he had to try. The ice in her voice and the venom in her eyes were killing him.
"Rorie, listen to me. There were extenuating circumstances. I couldn't tell you who I was right at first because I had to go undercover to investigate Gator's murder. And I never had any intention of driving you off your land without an inquiry. In fact, I'm working now to get a court order to keep Dukker from harassing you until this land dispute can be settled by a judge."
She looked dubious, so he added defensively, "Shae understands why I had to go undercover."
He could see by the shock on her face that she'd thought she was the first one to discover him. He groaned inwardly at his blunder.
"And do undercover Rangers make a habit of seducing their murder suspects?" she bit out, the higher pitch of her voice betraying the first hint of white-hot fury that seethed under her glacial calm. "Or do Rangers limit their rutting to schoolgirls and spinsters more trusting than babes?"
He stiffened. Her accusation cut him like a lash. "I know what you're thinking. But I'm not like Bill Malone."
"Forgive me if I don't take you at your word."
"Dammit Rorie, I made love to you last night! What we did wasn't screwing. It wasn't anything like screwing," he added, his tone made harsh by his own hurt.
