by Texas Lover
Dukker's face turned an ominous shade of red, and Wes caught Lorelei's arm, pulling her safely behind him.
"You have something on your mind, Dukker? Because I sure would love to hear it," Wes said, his hand straying toward his holster.
Dukker's eyes glittered like an ice-covered stream. He freed Lorelei from his glare and slowly, deliberately, raised his gaze to Wes.
"Cute little filly, ain't she? Sassy and wild. Not like that nag you've been riding, eh, boy?"
Wes tensed, and Dukker sneered.
"You folks have a nice day." Dukker turned, lumbering like a bear down the sidewalk toward the saloon.
Lorelei stepped forward, allowing herself a delicate shudder. "I can't imagine that beast of a man having any blood-tie to Sheriff Boudreau, much less to Shae." She shook her head and sighed. "I really wish you could find Sheriff Boudreau's will, Mr. Rawlins. I'm sick and tired of hearing Shae—and Mrs. Sinclair too—slandered by every tongue in this town. No wonder the poor woman stayed at home in her bed."
Wes had been only half-listening as he watched Dukker push inside Sultan's swinging doors. At the mention of Rorie, though, his gaze snapped back to Lorelei.
"Mrs. Sinclair's sick?"
Lorelei nodded, her dark eyes sympathetic. "I'm sure you needn't worry, though. Mrs. Sinclair usually comes to town with Shae each Monday for supplies, but Ginevee accompanied him today. Ginevee said Mrs. Sinclair had a bit of a stomach upset, that's all. If I were her, I'd have butterflies, too, at the prospect of coming to this town. How she manages to face Mrs. Milner, my mama, and the other ladies every week is a mystery to me. But I suppose when one needs supplies, one can't trouble oneself over—"
"Lorelei."
Faraday had appeared on the doorstep, mopping his brow with an ink-stained neckerchief. Wes was quick to notice the agitated throbbing at the man's temple and the jerky movements of his hand.
"There you are, child. What's this I hear about you breakfasting with Shae McFadden?"
She grew pink and edgy by turns, clearly chagrinned that her father had heard her.
"Don't be angry, Papa. I didn't really eat with Shae. I was just trying to put Marshal Dukker in his place."
"Child, you mustn't ever cross Hannibal. And certainly not in Shae McFadden's defense," Faraday added with a dark glance toward the marshal's office. "Come inside now. I've been waiting all morning to see what goodies you've packed for our picnic lunch. Unless, of course, you've promised your afternoon to some other beau?"
When she gave her girlish laugh, the worry in his eyes softened.
"Oh, Papa. Wait until I tell Mama what a rogue you are." Her lashes fluttered as she gazed up at Wes. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rawlins."
Faraday avoided Wes's gaze as he stepped aside to let his daughter pass.
"Faraday."
The mayor hesitated, glancing after Lorelei before he drew himself up another inch to face Wes.
"Yes, and what can I do for you today?"
Wes let a mirthless smile curve his lips. "I think you know damned well. You've got information I want."
"I'm sure I don't know—"
"I was born in the dark, Mayor, but it wasn't yesterday. You can make things a whole lot easier on yourself—and your family," he added grimly, "if you come clean and cooperate in my investigation."
Faraday's double chin quivered, and he tried to disguise his agitation by adjusting his shirt collar. "I've already told you everything I know."
Wes scowled at the man's stubbornness. "And just how much longer do you think you can appease Dukker? How much longer do you think you and your daughter can lead a charmed life?"
"Papa?" Lorelei called gaily from inside. "I've got a peach cobbler waiting for you."
Faraday tensed, looking momentarily uncertain. Then he turned, his fear apparently winning out over good sense.
"Like I told you before, Rawlins, we Elodeans are counting on you to rid us of the outlaw menace in our town. Good day."
* * *
The brisk knock on Rorie's bedroom door that Monday afternoon made her want to groan. She didn't know which was worse: being forced to lie idle with a mind that raced in circles around memories of Wes, or receiving well-meaning visitors with chicken soup and get-well posies, and a dozen or more questions about when their beloved uncle Wes would return.
Go away, I'm dying, she wanted to shout. You can see me—and the few remaining fragments of my heart—when you pay your respects at my funeral.
Of course, she didn't allow herself to say any such thing.
"Come in," she grumbled, wishing it wasn't so hot outside. She wished, too, that she'd had sense enough to chop down Mrs. Boudreau's pathetic excuse for a shade tree, that half-shriveled, swamp-loving magnolia, and plant herself a nice, hearty Ohio buckeye to shelter her window from the sun.
Rorie held the heat solely responsible for her bout of nausea. Ginevee, however, had sagely pointed out that Rorie's sickness might have resulted from her feverish attempts to work herself into a state of exhaustion the past two weeks. All of Rorie's attempts to rid her thoughts and dreams of Wes had been futile.
Ginevee's wiry gray head pushed past the crack in the door. "I've got news," she announced, grinning much like Topher did when he had some shocking, toe-curling exploit to share.
Rorie shifted the arm she'd flung over her eyes just enough to toss her friend a withering glare. "You know I abhor gossip."
"It ain't gossip when you see it with your own eyes—technically."
Rorie didn't bother to argue. She went back to staring at the soothing grayness behind her eyelids.
"Are you going to mope, or are you going to listen?"
Rorie gritted her teeth. "If it will make you happy, and if it will make you leave, then I'll listen."
"That's the spirit."
A creaking floorboard heralded Ginevee's halt beside the bed. "He hasn't left the county yet."
"Who?"
Ginevee snorted. "Who have you been mooning over for the last two weeks?"
"I do not moon," Rorie retorted weakly.
"Child, you've got the worst case of cupid's cramp I ever did see." Ginevee sat on the side of the bed. "And I have half a mind to wring that boy's neck."
"Wes?" Rorie asked hopefully.
"No, Shae. Wes caught up with us as we were driving back from town today. That grandson of mine told him you were too sick for visitors and sent him packing."
"Bully for Shae."
"Aw, honey." Ginevee patted her hand. "I know you're hurting for Wes real bad. And judging by the ruckus he put up when Shae wouldn't let him ride out here to visit you, I'd say he's hurting for you too. Now that he's coming around again, why not invite him in and let nature take its course?"
Rorie winced. She was too ashamed to tell Ginevee that nature had already unabashedly taken its course. "He'd only ride away again."
"You can't know that."
"He's a Ranger, isn't he?"
Ginevee made an exasperated noise. "Child, I love you like you were my own, but sometimes you can be harder on a body than brand new boot leather. The boy lied about his reasons for being here, that's true. He suspected us of some awfully shady doings too. But that was all part of his job. You can't tell me in the week you took to know him you never noticed how sweet he was with those children, fixing their toys, telling them stories, playing with them like a great big kid himself.
"Then there was the way he stood up for us," she continued fiercely, "risking a bullet or two just to make sure you, me, and the children were all safe. Now I don't know what he may have done or said before he rode onto this farm, but while he was here, he showed he has a good and loving heart. I think he wants to make amends, and you're just being stubborn if you don't let him."
"You don't understand."
"I'm trying to, honey."
Rorie turned her face to the wall and tried to swallow her growing knot of tears. In the painful silence, she could hear the soft rustle of her breeze-blown c
urtains. She could see slanting shafts of afternoon light scattering colors across her eastern wall: silver violets on her wash pitcher, golden ivories on her chest of drawers.
Then the wind whispered again, and great oval shadows bobbed along the rose and lilac patches of her wedding ring quilt. Biting her lip, she traced a finger along one of those dancing silhouettes. She knew it belonged to a magnolia leaf.
"I know Wes wants to make amends," she said finally. "I've had a lot of time to think about the things he didn't say, and the things he tried to say. There were times when—when he asked to speak with me, but we were interrupted."
She squeezed her eyes closed, remembering the first time, when the lightning had chased her inside the night they'd kissed under the magnolia tree. The second time, she'd cut him off in her fear for the children on the night of Creed's hurrah. The third time, Shae's arrival had interrupted Wes's awkward, rambling monologue the morning after they'd made love in the barn.
A tear spilled down her cheek.
"I'm learning to forgive him," she said tremulously. "But it's going to take a lot longer to forgive myself."
Ginevee shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"
Rorie drew a long, shuddering breath. "I mean... I let him make love to me."
There was a moment, an awful, lingering moment, when Rorie could feel her friend's shock reverberating through the sheets and mattress. Then Ginevee's hand, warm and kind with female understanding, settled on her shoulder.
"Aurora." She gave Rorie a gentle squeeze. "You're a moral, Christian woman, and lying with the man you love doesn't change that. My Cecily, she loved Gator, and I loved my Jack. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. Happiness doesn't always come inside a marriage, you know that. You deserve joy in your life, and you deserve love—that's all that God has ever wanted for his children. The real sin comes in wasting a life on bitterness and regret."
Rorie dashed the tears from her face as she sat up. "But don't you see? Caring about Wes hurts too much. When I agreed to marry Jarrod, I did it because I thought he loved me. But Wes..." She laced her fingers so tightly her knuckles turned bloodless. "Wes loves a woman named Fancy. Not me."
"Oh, honey. Are you sure?"
In answer, a sob bubbled up from Rorie's throat. A second and a third followed, and soon she wasn't able to dam the flood of tears. Ginevee murmured consolations, rocking her like a child. There was nothing more to say; nothing more that could be said. When a man didn't love a woman, he eventually rode away. Ginevee and Cecily had learned that lesson, and Rorie had too.
An eternity passed before Rorie's tears stopped flowing, leaving a barren, aching emptiness in their wake. Ginevee rested her chin on Rorie's head and stroked her hair.
"Maybe it's for the best then," the older woman said gruffly. "Your not seeing him, I mean. It'll be easier on the children too. They'll be more likely to forget a man if they've only known him for a week."
Nodding miserably, Rorie extracted herself from Ginevee's motherly embrace. The woman had put into words what Rorie had been thinking for days.
"I reckon you'll be glad when Mr. Hawkins comes back from his cattle drive, eh?" Ginevee lightened her tone. "Then you can put Wes behind you."
Rorie said nothing. She suspected forgetting Wes wouldn't be that easy.
Not when the sweetheart tree cast its shadow across her bed.
* * *
By the next Monday morning, Rorie was forcing herself to pick up the broken pieces of her heart. She used the same rigid determination she had always used to ignore sickness. Since her father had abhorred weakness, she had learned as a child not to make a fuss over minor maladies.Thus, whenever she suffered from a cold or stomach upset, she simply told herself she didn't have time for such nonsense and forged ahead with her routine. The same tactics, she decided, must be used if she were to free herself from the pain of Wes.
Whenever her immunity was threatened by some unwanted memory of him, she promptly reminded herself that loving Wes was impractical. Their union was an impossibility, a folly. She was not a foolish woman; therefore, she would not waste her time on hopes and dreams.
Besides, dreaming took too much energy—which probably explained why she felt so tired of late. Keeping up with the children and teaching their morning studies had become a supreme lesson in self-discipline.
It was that same self-discipline that kept her from crawling into her bed as she secretly would have liked when Shae hitched Daisy to the wagon for the weekly Monday-afternoon drive to Milner's General Store. Certain items, like canned peaches, she supposed she could do without. Flour, sugar, salt, and potatoes, however, were imperative.
Besides, she couldn't hide at the farm forever, avoiding Wes.
Thus, accompanied by Shae's young friend, Tom Parker, and Tom's ever-ready shotgun, Rorie and Shae armed themselves for the worst, said good-bye to a worried Ginevee, and drove the wagon into Elodea. The ride down Main Street proved to be uneventful. Apparently, Creed and his bullies weren't as eager to cause trouble now that a quick-drawing Ranger was in town.
While Shae and Tom loaded dry goods onto the wagon bed, Rorie paid for their purchases. She was just congratulating herself on having survived with aplomb Mrs. Milner's questions about Ethan, when the door's cowbell clanged behind her.
A broad, masculine shadow spilled across her shoulders to the counter, growing ever larger as it rippled forward over the canned fruits and vegetables stacked against the wall.
"Need a hand with your packages, Mrs. Sinclair?"
At the sound of that rumbling baritone, all her aplomb drained to her toes, leaving her knees weak and her stomach fluttering.
"Ranger Rawlins," Mrs. Milner cooed, "how good to see you again." Smoothing back her hair, the shopkeeper smiled in a way that left no doubt in Rorie's mind that Wes had indulged in a flirtation with her. He probably had with every woman in town, she thought uncharitably.
"Ma'am." The shadow on the canned goods tipped its hat.
Rorie managed to recover her wits, if not her equilibrium. She couldn't stand there quaking beneath his shadow all day.
"No, thank you, Mr. Rawlins," she said briskly, grabbing the last of her brown-papered bundles. "I can manage quite well without you."
A moment passed as she mustered the extra valor to face him, to bottle up her hurt and longing and keep it inside her chest. She forced herself to think of the children, and all the tears they'd shed in their grief at losing "Uncle Wes." She could not—would not—let her weakness for this man bring him back into their lives so he could hurt them again.
Drawing herself up stiffly, she hiked her chin and turned.
For an instant, Wes held his breath, hope of reconciliation quickening his pulse.
Then Rorie's eyes, as cool and clear as glass, met his, and his insides crumbled. Her face was a mask of ivory marble beneath her gingham bonnet. If not for the two bright spots of color staining her cheeks, he might have thought his presence had no effect on her at all.
"Excuse me, Mr. Rawlins."
She nodded as she sidestepped him, trying to squeeze her way past his thighs and a column of pickle barrels. He'd be damned, though, if she brushed him off like some no-account horsefly. Plucking the two packages from her white-knuckled grasp, he smiled pleasantly to stave off the worst of Mrs. Milner's speculations.
"Why, it's no trouble at all, ma'am. I assure you."
Rorie's lips pressed together in defiance, so he held the door open, leaving her little choice but to keep her peace and step outside.
She sailed past him with a disdainful swish of her well-starched petticoats, her nose waving in the air. Her posture annoyed him even more than it hurt. For the last three weeks he'd been hoping for an opportunity just like this one, but she'd been avoiding town, as best as he could figure, and she had no inkling he and his Winchester held lonely vigils each night in her fields.
At least, that's what Shae claimed. Shae had been keeping him company ea
ch night, and had said that Rorie changed the subject whenever his name was mentioned.
This news had made Wes even more despondent than before. Telling himself his guilt was to blame, and that he would never have peace unless he made Rorie listen to reason, he'd reconsidered his earlier decision to keep his distance and his silence. In fact, the need to see her, to speak with her, had him chomping at the bit. He'd practically camped out on the porch front across the street from Milner's that day, hoping the Sinclairs would make their traditional Monday visit for supplies.
He'd been certain he could convince Rorie to forgive him—until now. As if the hounds of hell dogged her heels, she crossed the sun-warped porch to the wheel-rutted street below, making a beeline for the wagon and Shae. The boy stood on the bed, watching their race with visible discomfort. Wes knew Shae's budding friendship with him couldn't hold a candle to his loyalty to Rorie, so he caught her arm and pulled her back to his side before she could call Shae to her rescue.
"Not so fast, ma'am," he said through clenched teeth. "You're not running away from me again. It's time we had another talk."
"I have nothing more to say to you."
"That's just dandy. You can listen, then." Halting by the wagon's rear axle, he tossed Rorie's packages to Tom, who'd been passing flour sacks up to Shae. "Miss Rorie and I are going to take a stroll, boys."
She twisted, trying to break his grasp, but he ignored her struggles.
"You just holler if you need me," he added to Shae.
"How dare you—"
"You want to make a scene right here in the street?" he interrupted her, noticing that Shae had his hand on the sideboard, as if he intended to jump down and challenge him. "That's fine with me."
When her gaze flickered to Shae, she seemed to change her mind about calling in a champion.
"Very well. Let's get this over with," she said tersely.
She turned as if to march into the grocer's alley, an act of sheer orneriness. He'd never intended to have a side-street brawl with her. Frowning, he redirected her footsteps a block farther up the street to Gator's office. She maintained her seething silence all the way to the door, not even so much as glancing his way, until he released her into the cramped space that Gator had rented from the stagecoach master.
