by Texas Lover
When he slammed the door shut, she rounded on him, looking as if her hand was on a hair trigger, ready to slap. He decided he would be wise to draw the shade on curious passersby.
"Not by any stretch of the imagination," she said, "would I consider your manhandling acceptable behavior."
"If you want to be treated like a lady, quit acting like a whampus cat."
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. You might get your kicks pretending to be a cold slab of marble, but I know the truth. You've got a lot of spit and claw inside you, girl, and I've got the scratch marks to prove it."
"You are no gentleman!"
"I never claimed to be," he flung back. "Now settle yourself down and quit flapping that jaw of yours long enough to listen to what I have to say."
Her mouth snapped closed, and she folded her arms beneath her breasts.
"That's better. Would you like to sit down?" he asked, striving for a more reasonable tone.
"No, thank you."
Was it his imagination, or had a blue norther just blown into the room?
"I heard you were sick."
She said nothing, just as he'd told her to. Faced with her silence, he wasn't sure it was the better option.
"I came by last Monday to talk with you, but Shae said you weren't up to receiving visitors. I wanted you to know that... you're never far from my mind. I worry about you and the children."
If he had thought this confession would move her in some way, he was sadly mistaken.
"Rorie, three beardless boys aren't going to be enough to stop Dukker and his roughriders if they come to the farm."
Still, she said nothing. She simply regarded him with that same unblinking stare. He supposed he'd asked for it, but her deliberate silence was driving him crazy.
"I've talked it over with Shae, and he agrees with me. Until I can find the evidence to throw Dukker in jail, I want to camp nights on your farm to protect you."
"Absolutely not."
Wes scowled. "Maybe you need to think on it a spell," he said. He wanted to camp nearer to the house in case of trouble, but his deeper desire was to close the painful distance that yawned between them.
"I've quite made up my mind, thank you."
"For God's sake, Rorie, will you be reasonable?"
Her smile was brittle. "Very well." She adjusted her arms and drew herself up taller. "If in your professional opinion you believe we are unsafe living on Gator's farm, then wire Ranger headquarters and request a replacement—maybe someone a bit older—who knows how to separate his personal affairs from his investigation."
Wes stiffened. That had cut. That had cut deep.
"I am perfectly capable of handling your protection and Dukker's arrest too."
"Perhaps." Her voice thawed the tiniest bit. "But since you have an entire law-fighting force at your disposal, I see no reason for you not to request support."
He ground his teeth. "Rangers ride alone."
"Then Rangers are fools," she said with a quiet, grim finality.
His patience snapped. For her to attack the force again was simply the last straw.
"Maybe you're right," he said. "I suppose I was foolish to worry enough about your sensibilities to ask for your permission. I'm the law in this county until they elect a sheriff, and if I choose to camp in front of your house to keep your ornery hide from a beating, rape, or worse, then I sure as hell have the legal authority to do it."
As he bluntly named her dangers, the color drained from her face. "You—you would be wasting your time."
"I'll be the judge of that."
"I see." She drew a long and shuddering breath. "It seems I have no choice then." She dropped her arms to her sides. "If that is all, I would like to go."
Without waiting for his answer, she headed for the door, her heels making a sharp, staccato sound. Her race to leave him tore up his insides. He moved quickly to block her way.
"Rorie, wait." He struggled to keep the hurt from his voice. "Do you really hate me that much?"
Her feet faltered only inches from his. When he searched her frozen facade for some hint of feeling, she blushed, tearing her gaze from his.
"What happened between us," she said flatly, "was a lapse in judgment on my part. You cannot be held responsible for that."
His heart quickened. He couldn't decide if her response boded well for him or not. "Rorie—"
He reached to touch her hand, but she recoiled so fast, the flash of heat and ice between them stalled his heart.
"However," she continued, "I shall not allow my poor judgment to jeopardize my children's happiness. I must insist you wait until after dark, when they are in bed, before you show yourself on the grounds. And I further insist that you ride off again long before they wake."
He hadn't expected these terms. In truth, he'd been looking forward to spending time with the orphans. In the past three weeks, he'd found himself worrying about Merrilee's nightmares, Topher's arithmetic problems, Nita's boy hunger, and Po's fondness for eating dirt. Not seeing them, not playing with them or talking to them, would be a bitter pill indeed.
"I don't want to cause trouble," he said in a strained voice.
"Good." She nodded, reaching past him for the doorknob.
"What about... us?"
She stiffened. He could have sworn he saw her hand tremble, but she controlled herself so quickly, he couldn't be certain.
"There is no 'us,' Wes." She met his gaze evenly, although her voice quavered a bit. "As I said, I made a mistake. I will not make it again."
"It was not a mistake, dammit." His jaw hardened. "You wanted me then and you want me now."
She yanked the door open so hard, the window shade flew up, sounding like gunfire in the room. When she smiled again, it was a mirthless, disillusioned expression that spoke volumes.
"I'm afraid we can't always have what we want, Wes. I suggest you learn that lesson now, before a more painful one comes your way. Good afternoon."
As he watched her walk stiffly down the sidewalk, a lump rose to his throat. Loneliness, desire, outrage, caring—they all coiled in on themselves, forming that painful knot. When he swallowed, it plummeted to his gut like a burning rock.
I'll melt you from that frozen fortress yet, Aurora Sinclair, he vowed. When I get my hands on you—and I will—I'll fire up your blood so high, you'll beg me to lay you down. This isn't the end, I promise you.
It's just the beginning.
Chapter 17
The next ten days were the most frustrating ones Wes had ever known. Dukker was keeping his nose out of trouble, playing his lawman's role in an effort to woo voters. Faced with such a well-behaved suspect, one who didn't set foot out of town unless a political rally was involved, Wes found himself with plenty of time on his hands.
He'd never been much good at sitting idle; hence, he'd developed the fondness for whittling, fishing, and dancing girls.
But now his favorite pastimes seemed to inspire forbidden memories. He couldn't hold a knife in his hands without dreaming up some toy to carve or a new improvement for Merrilee's shoes.
He couldn't cast a line without concocting new stories to tell Topher about ghosts and Indians.
As for dancing girls, they all bored Wes to tears. He'd lost interest in their jaded propositions weeks ago, wanting only the class and sass of Rorie's clever tongue.
Even his adolescent dreams of Fancy had never compared to his fantasies of Rorie, all wet and wild and writhing. He would imagine her losing her ladylike control at his touch, arching and straining, shouting out his name in mindless ecstasy. It was enough to harden him in a white-hot flash of desire.
He would imagine, too, a slow and aching kind of lovemaking, watching her matchless eyes grow moist with feeling. He would dream of touching her deepest, most sacred part and becoming one with her, body, heart, and soul.
Thinking like that made him both sweaty-hard and scared. He'd never wanted a wo
man that way before. He didn't want to want a woman that way. With adventures to chase and legends to sow, he wasn't ready for a wife and children.
Why, then, did every moment without Rorie and her orphans make him crazy with loneliness?
Of course, loneliness was only part of his torment. Each night he would spread his bedroll beneath the magnolia under Rorie's window. When a muted glow bloomed behind the farmhouse's second-story windows, his pecker would stand up and take notice. He knew that Rorie was carrying a lamp or a candle as she walked down the hall, cracking open each door to check on her sleeping children.
Eventually that glow would spread across her own curtains. She would step alone into her bedroom, keeping the light just low enough for him to glimpse a tantalizing silhouette of breasts and buttocks while she hastily tugged on a nightdress.
One evening as he lay pumped up and aching, his every breath on fire with his need for her, it occurred to him that he might need a new strategy for wooing. Maybe his brother Zack had the right idea after all.
Unlike him, Zack had never needed to ride into town every other night for female companionship. In fact, that boy rarely got close enough to a lady's skirt to let himself catch calico fever.
Still, there was that one little filly who'd rattled Zack's horns. Bailey McShane had had the audacity to outbid Zack for two hundred acres of prime, water-fed pasturage that bordered the Rawlins spread. Rubbing salt into Zack's wound, she'd then loosed a herd of sheep onto the land.
Wes snickered to himself.
Poor old Zack. A man with his limited lady experience would have his hands full with a neighbor like Bailey McShane. Wes wished he could ride home to watch the fun as Zack pawed sod for Bailey. He wished he could see Aunt Lally and Fancy, and his niece and nephews, and spend a quiet evening comparing outlaw stories with Cord.
Wes was never riding back, though. He'd just have to get used to the idea that he didn't have a home.
Or a family.
But he did have a new friend in Shae. The boy came into town every four or five days with one of his gun-toting friends, Tom or Jasper, while the other boy would stay at the homestead. The boys presumably rode into Elodea for supplies, but Wes knew Shae had other considerations on his mind—namely Lorelei.
Wes warned Shae away from the girl, as much for her sake as for his; and Shae, recognizing the danger his very existence posed to Lorelei, grudgingly conceded that a cooling-off period might be wise.
Lorelei, however, was not quite as cautious. In fact, Wes had discovered that the diminutive, porcelain-faced belle had a stubborn streak longer than the Continental Railroad.
As it turned out, Lorelei Faraday was bored. While her girlish heart might have genuinely beat with affection for Shae, Lorelei was even more fond of the adventure and high drama associated with sparking the town pariah.
At no time was this more evident to Wes than on the Thursday afternoon Shae stopped by his office. Struggling under the financial burden of keeping a roof over Rorie's and the orphans' heads, Shae had just visited the bank to dip into his dwindling savings. If Rorie knew Shae was risking his college education for her sake, Wes felt certain she would be mortified.
"I'm not here for a handout," Shae said quickly, turning a shade darker when Wes pulled his own meager purse from a desk drawer. "Just some advice."
"Hell, son. You know I'd give my life for Rorie and those children. I'm not going to miss a few gold pieces."
Shae's smile was thin. "I know. Thanks. But as a Ranger, you can't be bringing home much more than forty dollars a month."
He lowered himself into a tottering chair by the potbellied stove."If I can just get a clear deed to my pa's land," Shae continued hopefully, "I figure I can sell a piece, and then we'll all live comfortably for a while. That's why I was wondering if you could wire the judge and see if you can't get that squatter hearing pushed up on the docket."
"You figure your money's going to run out before the court order expires?"
Shae made a face, averting his eyes. "Let's just say Dukker owns our creditors. And let's just say he'll get the land damned cheap when the bank decides to foreclose."
Wes frowned. Shae had once confided that he'd led Rorie to believe the money from her eggs and wildflower seeds and from Gator's last harvest were covering her family's expenses. But if money was really as tight around the Sinclair household as Shae now implied, all Dukker needed to do was keep busy with his election campaign and bide his time.
No wonder the bastard had done little more than make threats when Wes had served him the papers to bar him from Shae's land.
Wes had just started assuring Shae he would do whatever he could to sweet-talk the judge, when a pink parasol butted against the door's window. Snapping her umbrella closed, Lorelei Faraday rushed inside, her dark eyes shining.
"Shae, it is you! I thought I recognized Daisy outside."
The boy rose, a shy grin stealing over his face. "Hello, Miss Lorelei."
Her laughter was a sweet tinkle of sound. "Oh, Shae, you needn't be so formal. Ranger Rawlins isn't the old fuddy-duddy Papa is." She smiled brightly at Wes, but her eyes were all for Shae. "When I heard you were in town, I just had to find you. I have such a wonderful idea! I know Ranger Rawlins will think so too."
Wes's brows rose at that.
"An idea for what, Lorelei?" Shae asked, sounding guarded.
"Why, to help you clear your name, of course. It occurred to me this morning, when I was being ambushed yet again by that pathetic Creed Dukker. He just doesn't give up, you know. He makes it rather difficult to walk down the street. Anyway, Creed was asking me to the church barbecue this Saturday—" She broke off abruptly. "You will be there, won't you, Shae? I know Preacher Jenkins is still counting on your maw-maw to be the fiddler at the hoedown. Oh, please do say you'll come."
Shae fidgeted. His expression clearly reflected his struggle between temptation and responsibility. "You know I can't leave Miss Aurora unprotected."
"Of course you can't. That's why you must convince her to come and bring all the children. Even Marshal Dukker wouldn't dare cause trouble at a church social, since the election's only three weeks away." Lorelei beamed at her perfect solution to Shae's dilemma. "Besides, I'm sure Ranger Rawlins would help you watch over the Sinclairs."
Shae half smiled at that. The boy was aware, even if Lorelei wasn't, that Wes was just itching for another opportunity to make peace with Rorie. Wes hadn't forgotten his vow to get his hands on her, but his night vigils weren't proving as conducive to kissing and making up as he'd hoped.
In fact, watching and waiting, stalking her shadow with his hungry eyes every evening while she undressed for bed, was making him more dangerous than Red Riding Hood's wolf. Rorie had to know he crouched under her window each night, hoping for an invitation. But true to her assertion that there could be no more between them, he never once caught her peeking past the curtains to give him a sign.
This time when Shae's eyes met his, Wes could see his own longing mirrored in the boy's gaze.
"I reckon if Miss Aurora's feeling up to it," Shae said, "she might like to dance. But she's been tired a lot lately. Mostly due to the heat, I think."
Lorelei nodded sympathetically. "I daresay our early summers must be hard on a Yankee. But I've strayed from my point!" She clasped her hands in girlish glee. "Since Creed has been shadowing me like some kind of Pinkerton, it gave me the perfect idea. I'll just turn the tables on him. I'll spy on Creed!"
Shae stiffened. "What do you mean?"
She gazed at him through her lashes. "Why, I'll ask him where his still is, of course. And what happened to Sheriff Boudreau's will. I'm sure he'll tell me anything."
"Miss Lorelei." Wes was careful to keep exasperation from his voice. The girl had been reading too many penny dreadfuls. "If Creed—or someone he knows—is involved in illegal activities, he won't want you to find out about them. And if you do somehow find out about them, then you're going to be in danger."
"That's right, Lorelei." Shae frowned. "I don't want you getting involved. You'll be hurt."
She laughed. "Oh, Shae. You're just jealous because I'll be spending time with Creed."
The boy's face darkened. Wes could see Shae and Lorelei had had this conversation, or one similar to it, before.
"Miss Lorelei," Wes said, "if you want to help me so I can help Shae, convince your father to come clean about the things he knows and the things he's seen."
Lorelei blinked at him, her mouth forming an O. "Papa? But what would Papa know about illegal activities?"
"That's what I'd like to find out," Wes said, careful to keep the accusation from his voice. "As Elodea's newspaper editor, I suspect he's done some detective work of his own to research his stories."
Lorelei's shoulders relaxed. "Oh. That. Well, Papa doesn't really have to research his stories. People tell him everything." She shrugged, smiling. "Anyway, I'm sure if Papa knew something important, he would already have printed it in the newspaper. He says telling folks the news is his duty and his Constitutional right."
Unless, of course, his own shady doings were the news, Wes thought grimly. Faraday was clearly waiting for a Ranger to eliminate the last witness to his election crime.
"All the same, ma'am," Wes said evenly, "I'd be much obliged if you would speak to your pa—for Shae's sake."
* * *
Rorie knew all about the church barbecue.
Every other month, Preacher Jenkins tried to throw a community social, claiming it was the best way to keep townsmen and farmers feeling neighborly. In fact, the children had talked of little else since Wes had left the farm. They hoped to see him at the party.
Rorie, however, was dreading the prospect of facing Wes again. She was dreading it so much, in fact, she made herself sick. Attributing her latest bout of nausea to cowardliness, she tried valiantly to ignore the rumblings in her stomach when the time came on Saturday afternoon to drive into town. After all, Nita had sewn a brand new dancing dress, and Topher had collected river stones to trade with the town boys for their marbles. Rorie didn't want to disappoint the children.
