by Texas Lover
"Ramble Creek?" she guessed after a minute or two of logical deduction.
He arched a teasing eyebrow. "Since when did you like that muddy, smelly old fishing hole?"
Blushing to the roots of her hair, she ran a shy hand over the broad, hard planes of his chest. "Since... blackberry night."
"Blackberry night?" His expression turned wolfish. "Woman, you have a one-track mind."
"Now there's the pot calling the kettle—"
His mouth swooped down, and her words were devoured by his toe-curling kiss.
A half hour or so later, weak from loving and laughing, she sank beneath him.
"Now where were we?" he drawled, his breathing a bit on the shallow side. "Oh yeah. Creed's still. That lizard-tailed sneak's got more hiding places for his homegrown saloon than a squirrel's got stashes of acorns. But this time he got careless."
Wes smirked. "Yep, he flapped his jaw to a friend of mine, and she told me about some white lightning that traded hands out by the boneyard. So I followed those fellas, see, back into town, and you know where they were headed?"
She shook her head uneasily. His reference to a female friend had not been lost on her.
"The schoolhouse," he said.
"What?" She propped herself on an elbow. "Are you serious?"
"As serious as a hanging judge."
Outrage surged through her. "So that's why the children of Elodea don't have a schoolmarm?"
"I reckon so. Too bad I didn't think of it sooner. The way that schoolhouse sits all by itself on that hill, with its fine new pump and its underground spring... Well, let's just say it's a moonshiner's paradise."
Rorie fumed. She had half a mind to tar and feather both Creed and his father.
"Don't worry, darlin'," Wes said, apparently reading her mind. "I shot up the kettle and twisted the tubing, and I smashed up an extra empty barrel just for you."
"Did you find Creed and Hannibal there?"
"No." He frowned, showing the first hint of his frustration. "And the two rowdies I arrested aren't likely to spill their guts as long as they're sitting in a jail as friendly as Pa Dukker's. But that's okay... for now. I want Hannibal Dukker on a hanging charge."
Rorie's stomach knotted. She didn't like the grim sound of his determination.
Touching tentative fingers to the damp swirl of hair that carpeted his chest, she chose her next words carefully. "But... is a murder charge really necessary? I mean, if you have the still, surely that's criminal enough to put Hannibal in a federal prison for a good, long time."
"You're right. Or you would be, if someone came forward with proof that moonshine earns him extra wages." His gaze, keen and assessing, locked with hers. "Besides, I thought you wanted Dukker tried for Gator's murder."
"I do... if he's responsible."
"Oh, he's responsible, all right."
"But Wes..." Her throat tightened, threatening to seal off the rest of her words. "Waiting to arrest that man for murder isn't worth risking your life."
He made an exasperated sound, sitting up and combing rough fingers through his hair. "Rorie, we've chewed the fat clean off that one. Try having a little faith in me as a man... and a lawman, okay?"
She flinched, mortified to realize just how much her worry sounded like doubt. "I do, Wes. I'm sorry."
Wes sighed. Spending the past two weeks loving Rorie hadn't made his job any easier, that's for sure. He'd known better than to care for her from the start, but he hadn't been able to rein in his feelings—or his hands.
Now she just kept getting scared for him, and he just kept getting angry, mostly at himself for breaking his cardinal rule: no steady sweetheart as long as he wore a badge.
Damn. How was he supposed to focus on Dukker when he had a woman and children nearby, vulnerable to kidnapping, brutality, or worse? And how was he supposed to stop Lorelei Faraday from playing detective for him when she was flushed with her first undercover success? The little fool had ignored his warnings, cozying up to Creed to smuggle information out of him. Because she hadn't gotten her fool head blown off this time, she was convinced she never would.
"Listen, Rorie. I didn't want to tell you this tonight, but since we're on the subject, I reckon now is as good a time as any. Remember when I told you I might have to ride off at a moment's notice?"
She nodded, biting her lip and sitting up beside him. The trepidation in her gaze was more than he could bear.
"It's not what you think," he snapped, then instantly regretted his harshness. "I'm coming back. I'm leaving only because I caught wind of a prizefight going on in Bandera Town. If Dukker has a lick of sense, he'll ride to the tournament to do some stumping and rustle up support. I'm going to tag along—at a distance, mind you—just to make sure campaigning is all he's doing. If I'm lucky, I'll catch him red-handed trying to extort or murder someone. Then I can throw him in the county jail and be back inside of a week—in planty of time for Elodea's Founder's Day celebration."
She fidgeted, tugging a corner of the blanket across her lap in a show of ladylike modesty that never failed to make him chuckle on the inside.
"That's good news." She glanced at him, then her gaze slid quickly away. "Do you suppose you'll meet up with Zack or Cord at the fight?"
He stiffened, his stirrings of amusement turning granite hard. He hadn't considered he might cross paths with Cord so close to home, and he bit his tongue on a particularly virulent oath.
"Not if I can help it."
He noticed how careful she was to keep her eyes averted as she reached for her blouse and chastely covered her breasts.
"If you see them there," she said, "it might be a good opportunity to buy them each a shot of whiskey and—"
"No!" His gut roiled with shame at the very idea. Seeing Cord would be hard enough. Drinking with him would be unforgivable.
"Wes." She slipped her free hand over his fist. "You miss them. You love them. They're your brothers. Whatever has happened between you and Cord, surely it can be put to rest."
"No, it cannot." Snatching his hand away, he grabbed his jeans and climbed to his feet.
Thankfully, she fell quiet while he buttoned his fly. In fact, he dared to hope she'd dropped the subject. She stood with his blanket wrapped around her from her breasts to her knees, her hair spilling in luminous, glimmering waves to her hips.
"You love Fancy, don't you?" she asked quietly.
He gaped at her, wondering where the hell that question had come from. "Of course I love Fancy. She's family."
Rorie's smile was thin and fleeting. He had the sneaking suspicion she knew something about his past feelings that he didn't want her to know. Although he had finally admitted to himself he loved Rorie, he hadn't told her yet. Words like that were as good as a marriage proposal to some women, and he wasn't ready for a white picket fence. Not yet.
He glared at her in warning, trying not to notice how breathtakingly beautiful or fragile she looked, standing there in her defiance.
"If you love Fancy, then why have you let her worry all these months over you?"
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"That day when I was trying to find out if you were a Ranger, I found her letters in your saddlebag, and... I read them."
His jaw twitched. "You had no right."
"Maybe not, but the fact remains I did. And I think you're being selfish, not to mention cruel, to let a woman you love go on wondering whether you're dead. I suppose it would be too much to hope that you might show me more consideration than you've shown her, after you grow tired of our dalliance."
He sucked in a whistling breath. "That's a helluva thing to say to me, woman. A helluva thing."
"I know." Her voice trembled, as if she was fighting tears. "But it had to be said."
"Rorie, for the love of God—"
She dropped her eyes, and he muttered another oath. She still thought he only wanted to bed her!
"Rorie, don't cry. I told you I'm coming back, dammit, and
I meant it."
She dashed away a tear, still looking miserable, which made him feel too low to look a snake in the eye.
"Come here," he ordered, pulling her into his arms. "Now you listen to me. The troubles between me and my family have nothing to do with us. You got that? Nothing. End of discussion."
He lowered his head to kiss her, but Rorie squeezed her eyes closed and turned her face into his shoulder.
Their discussion might have come to an end, but Wes was wrong about the rest.
The troubles between him and his family had everything to do with him and her.
* * *
During Wes's absence, Rorie spent part of every hour berating herself for losing her heart and her head over him. She'd foolishly allowed herself to dream of their life together, loving and laughing through the years, watching her children grow to adulthood. Somehow, she had forgotten Fancy.
Somehow she had forgotten, too, that Wes wanted redheaded children of his own. Clearly, a life with him would be impossible. Their affair was doomed.
As hard as Rorie tried to hide her misery from her family, everyone seemed to know something was wrong. Topher took special pains to do his chores and keep his reptile menagerie out of the house. Merrilee refrained from disappearing on her mysterious, woodland rambles and stayed close to home.
Nita volunteered to lead the children in their lessons, while Shae surprised Rorie by constructing the blackboard she'd been longing to have ever since her arrival in Elodea.
Even Po, with his limited understanding, knew enough to throw his arms around her knees and beam up at her, shouting, "Me loves you!"
Rorie's brittle facade of cheer crumbled completely, however, late one afternoon when Merrilee came to her bedroom with a bouquet of magnolia blossoms.
"Don't cry, Miss Rorie," the child said, hurrying across the room to sit with her on the bed. "Don't be sad."
Sniffling in embarrassment, Rorie did her watery best to smile at Merrilee, who was clutching her hand so worriedly. "I'm sorry. I... uh, was thinking of the magnolia tree."
Merrilee looked chagrined, glancing from the bouquet in Rorie's lap back to her tear-stained face. "But I didn't hurt the magnolia tree, Miss Rorie. It's doing much better now. Honest. Come see."
Holding fast to Rorie's hand, Merrilee dragged her to the window and pointed outside. True to the child's words, the tree had unaccountably flourished over the past few weeks, while every other plant in the yard looked beaten down by the sun.
"We need rain," Rorie said absently, staring in some wonder at the profusion of alabaster blossoms on the once semi-naked tree. Now even the tiniest twig bore a great oval leaf or a pear-sized bud that was pregnant with life. Rorie didn't know much about magnolias, but Mrs. Boudreau had told her enough to realize that there was something unusual about the way this tree withstood the Texas heat.
And surely for it to blossom so late in the season was another marvel of nature.
The sweetheart tree, Wes had called it. Maggie the magnolia. Rorie almost cried again.
A gentle rapping sounded on her door, and she spied Ginevee on the threshold. Girding herself against further displays of weakness, she invited her friend to come in.
"Miss Rorie's sad again," Merrilee blurted out in all her anxious innocence.
Rorie turned hotter than a branding iron, and Ginevee gave Rorie a curious glance.
"Again, huh?"
Merrilee nodded, then gazed up at Rorie one more. "If picking flowers makes you sad, ma'am, I'll just draw you pictures."
Her heart in her throat, Rorie knelt down and hugged the child to her breast. "I love your flowers, Merrilee, and your pictures too. But most of all, I love you, sweetheart."
Merrilee smiled shyly. "Thank you, Miss Rorie."
Ginevee came forward to pat the child's head. "Merrilee, honey, why don't you run on downstairs and help Nita set the table. I reckon we're going to have some company tonight."
Rorie started, rising, as Merrilee headed dutifully for the hall.
"Company?" Rorie's pulse quickened with the hope that Wes had returned. "Someone's coming to supper?"
Ginevee's cagey old eyes searched hers. "It looks that way. Shae spied a posse of riders heading this way across the north field."
"The north field?" Rorie repeated, still clinging to her ridiculous hope that Wes was among the horsemen, even though he had told her Rangers ride alone.
"A California sorrel is leading the way," Ginevee added.
Rorie's excitement abruptly fizzled. She should have known better. Hadn't she told Wes never to show his face on the farm before the children were in their beds?
"Ethan," she said.
"You were expecting someone else?"
Rorie sighed, turning back to the window. "No," she lied.
Since her bedroom faced south, she wasn't likely to see Ethan's approach until he and his men circled the yard to the front of the house. Ginevee moved quietly beside her, slipping an arm around her waist.
"I reckon they're on their way home from Dodge City," Ginevee mused aloud, breaking the gloomy silence. "Mr. Hawkins probably figured he'd stop by to visit Gator and grab some grub, maybe even bunk here for the night, since his spread's another day's ride south. Of course, he probably doesn't know about Gator's passing, since he's been in Kansas all this time. You're going to have to break it to him, honey."
Rorie nodded glumly. She'd been thinking that was only one of the things she would have to break to Ethan.
She could see him now. Heading a column of eight riders, he sat astride his red-gold palomino with a military poise that even twenty years of cattle ranching hadn't been able to ease. Gator once told her Ethan had served as a scout at the tender age of sixteen under General Zachary Taylor in the Mexican War, and he'd received the artillery commission of colonel by the age of thirty-five, when he fought again for Texas in the War of Secession. At fifty-three, he was still a striking figure of a man, with his silver shock of coarse, cropped hair and his piercing sapphire eyes.
She watched him dismount with a brisk, fluid motion, and call to one of his men to corral his horse. Rorie cringed at the command. Ethan always seemed to be shouting, probably because he'd lost the hearing in his left ear.
"I could tell him you're feeling puny," Ginevee offered sympathetically.
Rorie's smile was brief. Somehow Ethan didn't strike her as a man who had much patience for weakness. He and her father would have gotten along famously.
"Thank you, Ginevee, but no. It's time I faced up to my responsibilities. And the truth of my situation."
She started for the door.
"Aurora..."
Ginevee shifted uneasily as Rorie raised questioning eyes to hers.
"Your heart's in the right place, child, so try not to let your head get so much in the way. Give Wes the time he needs. I still think you can convince him to stay."
Rorie's eyes began to sting, and she blinked rapidly to dam the tears.
"That might be true, Ginevee. But Ethan doesn't need convincing to stay."
* * *
As Wes reached the fringe of the woods, the first thing he noticed in the long crimson rays of the fading afternoon were the half-dozen horses grazing in Daisy's corral. The next thing he noticed as he spurred Two-Step faster was the sun-baked, leather-hard roughrider shouting orders. Wes's first inclination was to grab his Winchester, circle the house, and try to get the drop on the handful of men he saw scrambling to do their leader's bidding.
Then he spied Merrilee leaning over the top rail of the corral, offering carrots to a high-strung California sorrel.
Releasing his breath in a rush, he shoved his rifle back into its saddle boot. Whoever he was, the loudmouth wasn't any threat to the children.
Wes was debating whether or not to abide by Rorie's wishes and wait for the cover of darkness to challenge the longrider, when he heard a shriek of excitement from the vicinity of the house.
"Uncle Wes!"
Before Gin
evee, Nita, or even Shae could collar him, Topher had dashed off the porch and bolted across the yard into the meadow. Wes's heart climbed to his throat. Turning Two-Step's head, he urged the gelding to intercept the boy.
"Uncle Wes!"
Topher was panting so hard, he could barely speak. Wes swept him up into the saddle, and the boy threw his arms around Wes's neck. For a moment, Wes could only hold the child as he battled a misty swell of feeling.
Topher began babbling between greedy gulps of air. "I told Merrilee you were coming back. I told Nita and Miss Rorie too. But they didn't believe me. Women.
"Say, you have to meet Elwood," Topher prattled on. "That's my bullfrog. And I got a brand new slingshot too. Well, it's almost brand new. I won it fair and square in a marble shoot-out with Abraham. He used to be champion."
Topher beamed, and Wes grinned, reining Two-Step to a slow walk.
"So I reckon that makes you marble champion now, eh?"
"That's right!" Topher bounced with glee. "You want to go fishing tomorrow? Mr. Ethan never wants to go fishing. He doesn't whittle or tell ghost stories neither. He just goes around barking orders all the time like, 'Stand up straight,' and 'Mind your tongue.' "
Wes's heart did a strange little skip before it quickened its beat. He phrased his next question as casually as he could. "Is that tall, rangy fellow there with Miss Rorie the Mr. Ethan you're talking about?"
Topher made a disgusted face. "Yeah. The one that was shouting orders. He's always going around shouting like that. Miss Rorie says it's because he's got an earache or something, but all that hollering scares the jeepers out of Merrilee. Most times, she tries to hide when he's around."
Wes's brow furrowed. He didn't like the sound of that.
"Boy, am I glad you're home!" Topher hugged him again. "Miss Rorie said Mr. Ethan might be staying for a few days, but now that we got a real Ranger around, I reckon we don't need him."
Topher frowned suddenly. "You ain't going to let her take us to live with him, are you? Nita says when a woman gets hitched, she has to go live in her husband's house."
Wes choked. "They're hitched?"
"Naw. Not yet. But Mr. Ethan asked her to marry him after dinner. Shoot. He shouts so loud, I didn't even have to listen at the door."
