by Texas Lover
"Wes!" It was Rorie's voice, shrill with panic. "We have to stop the fire!"
A tendril of smoke curled over Dukker's heaving chest. Wes ground his teeth, fighting the murderous urge to end the bastard's life and be done with it. He'd fought too long for justice, though, to resort to vigilante tactics.
His grip tightened on his Winchester. "You're a dead man, Dukker."
For the first time, Wes saw fear in those wild, curdog eyes. It was enough to make him sick.
"Unbuckle your gun belt. Now!"
Dukker's hand shook as he obeyed.
"On your feet."
He rose unsteadily, suspiciously.
"You've got one minute to get off this land. Then I start firing."
Dukker scrambled for his horse.
"Not so fast! The rifle stays here. Toss it!"
Dukker hesitated, and Wes raised his Winchester again. He had the satisfaction of watching Dukker's weapon fly out of the saddleboot to skitter across the drive.
"Now you'd best run, old man. And you'd best say your prayers," Wes said savagely, "because there's not a place on this earth where I won't find you."
Dukker's face darkened and his eyes narrowed. His gaze flickered to Rorie, frantically beating at the snaking flames with a rug, then to the children, fighting beside her with buckets and shovels. His lips curled in an ominous sneer.
"I'll be waiting for you, boy."
With that, he threw himself into the saddle and spurred his horse to vault the flames, scattering Nita and Topher and nearly running down Ginevee.
"Wes!" Rorie coughed on the smoke as Topher doused the nearest patch of fire with a bucket of well water. "Get the watering trough from the manger! We can't lift it!"
He hit the ground running. Topher magically appeared by his side, helping him hoist the heavy, sloshing trough. They carried it outside and dumped it on the nearest blaze, which threatened a stack of cedar fence posts against the barn's new east wall.
With Wes's help, they contained the fires against the gravel drive. Well water and a good deal of rug beating finally defeated the flames.
Soot-stained and grinning, Topher saluted Wes with a shovel. Nita caught Ginevee's arm and helped her hobble to the porch. Merrilee tried to hush Po, who'd been bawling ever since she'd grabbed him to keep him from charging into the fire.
Rorie dropped her rug. Turning as white as the magnolias in the tree behind her, she fainted dead away at Wes's feet.
Chapter 22
Rorie woke to a bright haze of light, the acrid smell of smoke, and two anxious emerald eyes set in a bronzed and chiseled face.
"Did I... faint?" She shifted gingerly and heard the creaking of her mattress. "I did, didn't I? Oh, dear. But I never faint! I just can't understand—"
Two hungry lips silenced her, slanting possessively across hers. She gasped, and Wes's tongue pushed inside her mouth, fierce and sweet, demanding a response. A tear spilled down her cheek. Raising a trembling hand, she wove her fingers through his wealth of autumn-colored hair. She felt the bed sag as he knelt beside her; she felt his arms hard and tight around her shoulders.
In that moment, as he kissed her, there was no Ethan, no Dukker, no Shae. There was only her urgent, aching need to hold him, and the flutter of phoenix wings in the ashes of her heart.
"Miss Rorie?" Nita's voice was followed by a timid knock on her door. "Are you all right now?"
Growling in frustration, Wes raised his head. His pounding heart jolted through every fiber of her body. When she dared to peek at him, she saw the glint in his eyes and suspected it didn't bode well for interrupting children.
"They're scared, Wes," she whispered, doing her best to sit up beneath his immovable chest. "Let them come in."
He cast her a narrowed I'm-not-finished-with-you look before he stalked to the door and threw it open. Four little bodies barreled past him, flinging themselves into Rorie's arms.
"I thought you were dead," Topher said shakily, burrowing into the curve of her hip.
"Me too," Nita whispered, clinging to her neck.
A moist cheek pushed against her throat. It had to belong to Po, since Merrilee's tear-stained face swam in the periphery of her vision. Despite her obvious distress, Merrilee nevertheless perched a respectful foot away on the edge of the bed. For a fleeting moment Rorie was disappointed by the child's physical and emotional distance, then Wes cleared his throat.
"I'm all right, children," she said quickly, glimpsing Wes's set jaw and folded arms above the heads of her sniffling cubs. "All that smoke made me light-headed. I fainted, that's all."
"But you never faint." Nita pressed a worried hand to Rorie's forehead.
The child's concern touched her deeply, since Nita's emerging womanhood often left her more interested in boys than her female caretaker.
Rorie mustered a smile for them all. "Yes, well, I'm sure it won't happen again."
"Good," Topher muttered.
"Where's Shae?"
Everyone started at Wes's question. He wasn't usually left out of the children's displays of affection, and it pained Rorie to her core to realize he could never be a part of them again.
"There was some, er... trouble in town." Rorie chose words that, she hoped, would be the least upsetting to him and the children. "Creed rode out to warn Shae that he was in danger from Marshal Dukker's posse."
Wes looked incredulous. "Creed warned Shae?" His gaze flickered to the children, and he seemed to think better of whatever other exclamation of disbelief poised on his tongue. "Then what happened?"
"Well, Creed said it wouldn't be safe to ride to Ethan's, since that's the first place the posse would look. So I, um..." She drew a bolstering breath. "I sent Shae to your brothers' ranch."
"You did what?"
Although she'd expected his explosion, she cringed anyway. Even Topher cowered a little at his hero's outburst.
"Wes, I'm sorry, but I had to think fast. Dukker was already on his way. We could see the torches in the distance. Besides, I knew your brother Cord was a lawman once, and I figured he could help you find the man who hurt Lorelei Faraday..."
Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, shaken by the blistering fury that crossed his features. With a scathing look that spoke volumes, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
Merrilee edged closer to Rorie. "Why is Uncle Wes so mad?"
Rorie managed a weak smile. "He's just worried about Shae."
She forestalled further questions by turning her attention to Nita. "Do you know where Ginevee is?"
The child's brow wrinkled. "Downstairs. I think she's having trouble climbing the steps. That's why she sent us to check on you."
Rorie shook her head. How typical that Ginevee should worry about everyone but herself.
"Well, you children tell Ginevee I'm just fine. And see if she needs anything before you go to bed. Tell her too that I'll be down shortly to help her upstairs. But first, I have to talk with Uncle—er, with Wes," she corrected herself.
She hated that she must strip him of that token endearment, but given the hostility between him and Ethan, she doubted her suitor would allow the children to continue calling Wes "uncle." She would have to speak with them about that on the morrow.
Rising gingerly as the children filed from her bedroom, Rorie glanced down at her shredded bodice and shuddered. Why Dukker had done such a thing was beyond her understanding, although the glint in his eye had not been entirely whiskey induced. Even if Dukker had been convinced by some misleading evidence that Shae was to blame for the heinous crime committed against Lorelei, there had been a frightening difference between the savagery Dukker displayed as a lawman and the ferocity had Wes displayed.
In fact, having watched Dukker in action, she wasn't entirely certain he was sane. And her uncertainty made her doubly glad she'd called in assistance for Wes, no matter how angry her initiative had made him.
Donning a smokeless, soot-free gown, she hastily buttoned the bodice and crept
downstairs. She wasn't looking forward to the coming confrontation with Wes, and when she saw him outside on the porch, his back rail-straight, she paused at the door, her hand on the frame. She wondered uneasily if it might not be wise to give him more time to calm down.
With that uncanny instinct of his, though, he must have sensed her presence. He turned his head, regarding her over his shoulder. When their gazes locked, her stomach did a strange little dance. Several heartbeats passed before she realized her pulse was racing.
Without a word, he turned his back on her again. Picking up his Winchester, he headed for the magnolia tree.
She fought off a searing disappointment. He was well within his rights not to speak to her, of course, yet surely he could stand to be a little more understanding! It wasn't as if she enjoyed tearing up his heart and tossing the pieces to the wind. She was hurting too—far more, in fact, than she dared to let him know.
Gathering the shreds of her courage, she stepped outside to follow him.
He wouldn't look at her.
"Wes?"
His profile hardened at her gentle entreaty, and his chin jutted the tiniest bit. She could almost imagine Topher standing before her—at six-foot-four and weighing two hundred-odd pounds.
"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I don't have any faith in you as a lawman. But that's not true. My sending Shae to your brother's ranch had nothing to do with your abilities to do your job. My only thought at the time was to find a safe place for Shae." She dragged a steadying breath into her lungs. "You have to know I did what I had to do. Just like you did... when you were working undercover."
She sensed rather than saw the tremor move through him, an electrically charged wave of heat that struck her flesh and left it smoking. She fidgeted in his stony silence.
"Wes," she tried again, "I know it cost you a lot to ride out here tonight after everything that passed between us. I don't know what made you come, but I'm grateful you did. When you did," she added, thinking of the tattered gingham on her bedroom floor.
"Did he hurt you?"
She started at the whiplike force of his words.
"No." She prayed he hadn't seen the knot on Topher's forehead. "None of us was hurt."
"What about Ginevee?"
His concern for an old black woman touched Rorie as much as it saddened her. As good a man as Ethan was, he still hadn't overcome his prejudice toward a people he'd once owned as slaves. "Ginevee twisted her ankle... er, earlier today."
He glanced at her sharply, and she blushed, not quite comfortable explaining the circumstances behind that event.
"Her injury had nothing to do with Dukker," she added firmly.
Wes pressed his lips together and went back to staring across the breeze-riffled meadow.
"And Lorelei?" he demanded.
"I'm sure Mayor Faraday must have let Dukker out of jail when Danny found..." Her voice faltered. Poor, sweet Lorelei. How did one speak of the unspeakable? "She... was violated, Wes."
He made a choking sound, growing pale before he darkened. "Who? Who was the bastard?"
"Creed said Lorelei hadn't regained consciousness to tell anyone yet and—and that she might not live. Without a doctor in Elodea..." Rorie twisted her fingers into a knot. She didn't even want to think about the inevitable.
"You can imagine the bloodlust that ensued once the news spread," she said bleakly. "Dukker raised a posse to hunt down her attacker, because for some reason, everyone in town assumed it was Shae."
"No doubt that was Dukker's idea," Wes ground out. "Dammit! If I hadn't left town..."
"Wes." She touched his sleeve. "You can't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."
"It was. I knew better than to go on a bender."
Her eyebrows knitted at this reasoning. "A bender? But what does your drinking—"
"It's a curse. Whenever I drink too much whiskey, someone I care about gets hurt."
"Wes," she chided in some concern.
"It's true! The first time I went on a bender, Zack and Aunt Lally were kidnapped by outlaws, and Fancy was nearly killed. The second time, my cousin Ginny miscarried her twins. Then there was the third time. And now this."
Rorie shifted uncomfortably. She had never put any stock in superstition, but Wes was clearly convinced he'd caused calamity by uncorking a bottle and draining its contents.
"You don't appear to be dangerous to me."
"That's because I only got three or four belts in me."
She sighed with relief. "Well, there, you see?" She used her most practical voice. "You didn't go on a bender tonight. So you can't blame yourself for what happened to Lorelei. Besides, Bandera County does have a new sheriff. One might question where the devil he was when all this happened."
Wes seemed reluctant to accept her perfectly legitimate rationale. He looked so miserable, in fact, that she suspected there must be some deeper reason for his guilt. Something he'd been punishing himself over for a long time. Perhaps she could make him see he wasn't to blame for that, either.
"Wes," she asked, "what happened the third time?"
He retreated closer to the tree trunk and folded his arms across his chest. Starlight cast him in pewter shadow, making him appear more Olympian than ever. But unlike the fire-forged god he'd so often resembled, he was mortally—humanly—vulnerable. Her heart broke to see him so tormented. Edging closer, she struggled against the temptation to soothe him by stroking his hair.
"I'm not here to judge you," she murmured, "only to help."
Wes squeezed his eyes closed. Maybe it was true that his kinfolk's kidnaping and Ginny's miscarriage had been coincidental to those other benders. And maybe it was true he couldn't be held responsible for the cruelty perpetrated on Lorelei. After all, Dukker had been her most likely threat, and Wes had searched the weasel thoroughly for weapons and keys before locking him in jail. But striking Cord—for that, Wes had no one but himself to blame.
He sighed. His shame had been weighing so heavily upon him for such a long time, it was hard to find the words to speak, even to Rorie. He struggled for a minute, thinking better of saying anything, but somehow, the story began to tumble from his lips.
"I fell in love with Fancy when I was sixteen," he admitted, "when she saved my life. I even asked her to marry me once." He felt a stab of poignancy at the memory. "But she said I was too young, and besides, she was head-over-heels in love with Cord.
"There was a part of me that was glad to see them so happy," he continued earnestly, "but there was a part of me that was jealous too. It was hard to watch them together, even though I loved the devil out of them, and I would never, ever have done anything to hurt them.
"Or so I thought. Cord had finally got it through that thick skull of his that raising his family was more important than chasing down outlaws, but sometimes he'd get a hankering for the old days. It was during one of those times that the Pinkerton agent came along, offering to hire Cord as a scout to track train robbers into Indian territory.
"Fancy was beside herself," Wes remembered gloomily, "worrying Cord would get his wooden head blown off, but he wasn't listening to reason so... I had a talk with him myself. Only at eight o'clock in the morning and fresh from the saloon, I wasn't much good at talking. The things I remember saying were pretty awful... like Cord wasn't good enough for Fancy. And it would serve him right if she left him for a man who really loved her."
He swallowed hard, and Rorie's comforting arms slid around his waist from behind.
"He said I was drunk and tried to push me out of his way. That's when... I hit him." His voice broke with the horror of that memory. "I knocked him out cold in front of his wife and children and Zack and all the ranch hands...
"At first, I thought I'd killed him."
"Oh, Wes."
He hung his head. "Cord raised me, you know," he said thickly. "He taught me how to fight and shoot, and... how to be a man. But I guess I wasn't much of a man that day. I rode off right after he came to.
I figured he'd never forgive me. I figured Fancy wouldn't, either."
"But she wrote to you," Rorie reminded him gently.
He nodded. "Yeah. The hell of it was, Cord decided not to chase any outlaws after all."
"You probably had something to do with that."
He shrugged, staring down at her soft arms wrapped so tenderly around his waist.
"And you might have even saved his life. Certainly you saved Fancy a lot of dread and worry."
"But at the cost of Cord's pride."
"Perhaps." She rested her cheek against his shoulder blade. "But if Cord taught you everything about being a man," she murmured, "he'll be the first to arrive on this farm in two days' time. And the first man to forgive you."
Wes sighed. If God—and Cord—were feeling generous, in two days he could have the camaraderie of his brothers again. He could frolic with his niece and nephews, and invent an outlandish enough tale to put the blush to cagey old Aunt Lally. Why, he could even go back to teasing the stuffing out of Zack until the man broke down and admitted he was lonely for a sweetheart.
The problem was, Wes couldn't be satisfied by just the Rawlins clan anymore. After facing the stark, harsh reality that Rorie had chosen a man she didn't love, that she was setting Wes free to find a wife who could make him redheaded babies, something inside of him had stood up and faced the facts. If Rorie could make such a sacrifice for his happiness, then by God, he could give up a few dreams to please her.
There was nothing on this earth he wanted more than Rorie and her orphans. His yearning for them was like a hole that needed filling to the bottom of his soul.
He plucked one of her long-fingered lady's hands from his work shirt and pressed a fervent kiss into the palm.
"I love you, Rorie."
He felt her tremor. Turning around, he seized the advantage and dropped to one knee. Holding her hand so firmly she couldn't possibly pull away, he gazed into her glistening eyes.
"Marry me, Rorie. Be my wife. I can't bear to live another day without you."
"Wes." Stunned, Rorie could only blink down into his hope-filled eyes. For a moment, her brain grew so numb, her heart took dangerous control of her tongue, feeding it the words, Yes! I will gladly become your wife!
