by Texas Lover
But logic had always been a powerful adversary to her heart, and when logic joined forces with guilt, her heart was doomed to lose. She couldn't blissfully plan a wedding, knowing she had cost her betrothed his most cherished dreams.
"Wes," she repeated hoarsely, trying to pull him to his feet. When he resisted, waiting for her response, she touched a shaking hand to his hair.
"I love you so much," she whispered brokenly, "but... I can't be your wife."
He stiffened, and she wanted to cry. She could tell by the battle gleam kindling in his eyes that he would not make this easy for her.
"If you're worried about being promised to Ethan—"
"No." She shook her head. "I haven't told him my decision yet."
"That's a relief." He pressed another kiss into her palm.
"Wes, please. Don't do this. It hurts too much to argue."
"Then say yes," he murmured, "and I'll never let you hurt again. I promise."
He locked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt the warm pressure of his mouth steam through the layers of her shirt and chemise to brand her navel. She swayed, squeezing her eyes closed as she clung to his shoulders for support.
"You've always been so impetuous."
"I know what I want, and it's you."
"No, you only think you want me because your feelings are running so high."
"Dammit, Rorie, I know my own mind." He freed her from his nuzzling and gazed up at her once more. "When you refused to allow my visits, I was miserable, crazy with loneliness. If those few weeks are any indication of what my life will be like without you, I'd rather be in hell. Nothing about Rangering is worth that kind of torment."
"But I can't have your sons—"
"Po and Topher are sons enough for me. Shae is, too, if he'll have me. And you know I can't live without Nita and Merrilee—or Ginevee and her pecan pie, either. I love your children, Rorie. I love them as much as I love you."
"But that's just it, don't you see?" He swam beneath her in a watery kaleidoscope. "They're not my children. There never can be children of my own."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." She struggled to steady her voice. "Someday you'll leave me, just like Jarrod did."
"Goddammit, woman!" He shot to his feet. "I am not like Jarrod Sinclair!"
She cringed. For a suspended moment in time, he loomed over her, his fists clenched and bloodless. Then he spun away, pacing beneath the magnolia tree.
"You're punishing me. You're punishing me because of Sinclair."
"No, Wes, I—"
"Don't deny it. He's your excuse. He has always been your excuse."
"What are you talking about?"
He halted, his chest heaving as he glared into her eyes.
"The problem isn't that I might run away, the problem is that you might. Or rather, you are. You're convinced your barrenness makes you unworthy to be a mother."
She gasped. If he had jabbed a fist into her gut, the air couldn't have fled her lungs faster.
"That's—that's not true."
"Isn't it?"
A chaotic rush of doubt rocked her to her core. She tore her gaze free.
"I love the hell out of you, Rorie, but I will not be the scapegoat for your conscience. Not when I love those children as much as I do."
He turned away, grabbing the rifle he'd propped against the tree.
"And another thing," he said in a low growl, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder at her. "Don't think I'm going to toddle after you 'til the end of your days, begging you to marry me."
Stalking toward the barn, he left her dazed and confused and incapable of coherent thought, while above her, a wistful soughing started in the branches of the sweetheart tree.
Chapter 23
Tension and uncertainty cast their pall over Rorie's next two days. She worried whether Shae had made it safely to the Rawlins' ranch and whether Wes's brothers would respond to her hastily penned plea. She worried about Ginevee, who could barely limp on her sprained ankle, and about Merrilee, who'd grown more solitary and elusive, often disappearing for hours on end, particularly after meals.
But her greatest uncertainty related to Wes. How could she make her heart do what her head knew was right?
Those two endless days contained some of the most poignant memories of her life: Wes acting as sentry with Topher and his slingshot by his side; Wes dozing on the settee with a napping Po cuddled in his arms; Wes carrying Ginevee up and down the stairs, flirting outrageously with her to stave off her protests; Wes suffering with good-natured gallantry through Nita's batch of scorched sugar cookies.
No matter where Rorie wandered in the house, she found some lingering reminder of his presence: the scent of leather and musk in the hall, a fresh spur mark outside Ginevee's door, the Stetson Topher proudly sported on his head, the guttered candle in the window where Wes had kept his vigil.
It was hard enough to keep from joining him each night, when every nerve in her body quivered for his touch. It was impossible to keep the children from falling more deeply in love with him. Topher had rebelled outright when she'd explained why they all must start calling Wes "mister" again, and the girls, observing Topher's mutiny, couldn't rally around him fast enough. Rorie had finally given up correcting their use of "Uncle Wes," mainly because she couldn't bear to see the hurt in Wes's eyes.
Thankfully, he didn't bring up the subject of Ethan or marriage again, although Rorie did happen to overhear Topher tell him, "I think you should get hitched to Miss Rorie. That way, I can have a real ma and a real pa."
And Merrilee gave Wes a detailed drawing of various farm animals and buildings. Beside each picture, she'd neatly written its name: cow, horse, barn, and so on. "Maybe if you study up on your reading," she said earnestly, "Miss Rorie will be so proud she'll have to marry you."
Overhearing that exchange, Rorie had felt like the lowest life-form on the planet. Her spirits weren't raised any when she spied a misty-eyed Wes slipping the folded diagram into his shirt pocket.
It seemed as if everyone was conspiring against her perfectly sound logic. What was worse, Wes had planted a seed of doubt in her mind, and now her rationalizations were sprouting like weeds.
Of course she felt worthy to be a good mother to children who weren't hers by birth, she would tell herself fiercely. Of course she wasn't letting her secret rage about her barrenness punish Wes. Of course, of course, of course.
So why did she keep hearing the tiny bell of discord in her heart?
* * *
On the third morning, Rorie crawled out of bed far earlier than usual. She'd had a restless night, knowing this day would prove whether Shae was alive and unharmed. Wes had told her not to look for the boy until at least midafternoon, since Cord had probably tied him to a bedpost so Shae and Daisy could rest.
Thinking to steal a private moment with Wes—perhaps her last one ever—she dressed and crept downstairs. As she descended the steps, though, she heard hushed voices in the sitting room. In spite of the balmy temperature of predawn, she could hear the crackle and hiss of a fire and see the dancing indigo silhouettes of a man and child on the hall wall. Edging around the corner, she spied Merrilee huddled on the floor before the hearth in Wes's arms.
"This is the monster from my nightmares. He tries to eat little children," Merrilee said in a small voice. She handed Wes an ink drawing she had made on the newsprint he'd brought her. "And this is the monster who hides in the cliff. He comes out when it rains to hurt Miss Rorie."
As Wes gravely regarded the sketches, Rorie tiptoed farther into the room, sidestepping the creaking floorboard to peer over his shoulder. Her chest constricted to see what terrible visions plagued Merrilee's dreams. The first monster had fearsome eyes, sharp fangs, devil's horns, and a flaming six-shooter. The second one had a bear's body, a misshapen man's head, and great buzzard wings with cougar claws. Both creatures bore more than a passing resemblance to Hannibal Dukker.
/>
Wes must have sensed her presence, because he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed when he spied her, but he'd been glaring at her a lot these last few days, especially whenever the children were gathered around him. His message was loud and clear: "Ethan can't love them the way I do. When are you going to make up your mind to marry me?"
He turned his attention back to the child, who was still focused on the drawings she had made.
"These are very scary monsters," he said. "I would be scared, too, if they were in my dreams."
"You would?"
"Uh-huh. Do you know why I had you draw them for me?"
Merrilee shook her head, her wide eyes glimmering like polished onyx as they caught the flickering reflection of the flames.
"Remember I was telling you that I know a secret about how to get rid of them?"
Merrilee nodded."Is that why you made the fire?"
"Yes, ma'am, it is. You see, you take the monster you drew and you tear him up into little tiny bits"—he demonstrated on a blank piece of newsprint—"then you crunch up all the pieces together in your fists just like this, see?"
Mystified, Merrilee followed his example, right down to the extra grimace he gave when he squeezed his fists.
"Then you throw the monster into the fire and watch him go up in smoke. That way he can't come into your dreams anymore."
Merrilee clasped her hands together, watching eagerly as her monster shriveled and blazed. Seeing the child's relief, Rorie silently blessed Wes and his homespun ingenuity. Lamps, dolls, adult roommates, even midnight searches under Merrilee's bed, had failed to convince the child she was safe from monsters.
Suddenly, Merrilee's forehead puckered. "Does your secret work with bad men, too, so they can't hurt little children?"
Wes wrapped the child tighter in his arms. "I wish it did, honey. But bad men have to be put in jail."
Digesting this information, Merrilee grew pensive. "But Marshal Dukker is a bad man. If he goes to jail, what will happen to Danny?"
Wes shifted, looking pained by the child's question, and Rorie stepped forward, placing a hand on Merrilee's shoulder.
"You mustn't worry about Danny, Merrilee. I'm sure Creed will take care of him."
Merrilee sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "That's what Mama said."
Wes raised his brows at Rorie, and she gave a small shake of her head.
"Merrilee, honey," she said, "Shae is coming home today with Uncle Wes's brothers. I'd like you to stay close so you can meet them. Please don't go into the woods."
Merrilee looked worried again. "But I have to feed my friend! I can't let him go hungry."
Rorie steeled herself against a display of exasperation. Merrilee referred to any injured woodland creature she found as a friend. God only knew what rodent or reptile was putting her at risk for rabies now. Although Rorie had tried to stop Merrilee countless times from this reckless behavior, warnings and punishments never deterred her. In this one regard, Merrilee could be as bull-headed as Topher.
"Merrilee," Wes interjected smoothly, "I have an idea. Why don't you draw pictures to welcome Shae home, and to say hello to Uncle Zack and Uncle Cord."
"Pictures?" Excitement tinged Merrilee's voice, and her face reflected the war that the healer in her was having with the artist.
"Sure." Wes winked at Rorie. "I'll even help you draw them."
"Well... okay."
Rorie breathed a sigh of relief, and Wes met her eyes again. This time, the challenge was unmistakable in those forest-green depths. He kissed Merrilee's hair, keeping his gaze locked with Rorie's. She knew what he wanted to hear. Her heart breaking, she swallowed and turned away.
* * *
"Riders coming!"
Topher's voice rang out above the creaking of the corral gate he'd been swinging on. Wes glanced up sharply. Against the backdrop of pewter and indigo thunderheads, he could make out four riders cantering across the sun-fried grasses of Gator's fallow north field. In spite of every strategy he'd planned for this confrontation, his ribs suddenly felt too tight for his lungs.
"Is it Shae? And Uncle Cord?" Topher scrambled up the gate as if it were a ladder and shaded his eyes for a better view.
"I can't tell yet," Wes said, stepping across the post hole he'd been digging and exchanging his shovel for his Winchester.
"I never met a real live U.S. marshal before!"
Topher, in all his exuberance, was in serious danger of somersaulting over the top rail. Wes grabbed him by the seat of his britches and pulled him to the ground.
"He's not a U.S. Marshal anymore, son. Go inside and tell Miss Rorie we've got company."
"But—"
"Go!"
Topher's jaw dropped. Even Wes winced at the firecracker force of his tone.
"Hurry along, son."
"Er... yes, sir."
Wes gripped his rifle hard, letting the metal gouge his flesh. He hoped the discomfort would distract him from the lily-livered churning in his gut. He almost wished the riders were Dukker and his posse again, or a band of ne'er-do-well cowpokes riding back from Dodge City. He'd feel a helluva lot more sure of himself then.
But the rider in the forefront was Cord. Wes would have recognized that stocky frame, square jaw, and slouching Carlsbad-style hat anywhere.
Zack sat taller in the saddle—at six foot one, he always had. His posture didn't radiate the don't-mess-with-me intensity of Cord's, though, since Zack tended to chase more dogies than outlaws. Still, Zack's easy manner was misleading. The middle Rawlins could be a surly, black-tempered, bullheaded cuss when he wanted to be. Sometimes it took Wes a whole day's worth of antics just to get Zack grinning again.
Between Zack and Shae rode a diminutive figure wearing a Renegade-style hat. Dusty boots clung to slender calves, and faded denim hugged rounded hips. Wes's eyes almost bugged out when he recognized Fancy's mare. Then he groaned. Fancy and Rorie on the same spread? God was hell-bent on punishing him.
Dread eating at his nerves, he held his breath as the foursome circled to the front of the house and reined in. Fancy practically flew out of her saddle. A pint-sized fury with flashing violet eyes and sable-colored hair, she stormed toward him before any of the men could touch a boot toe to the ground.
"Wescott Rawlins, your Aunt Lally says I'm supposed to tan your hide and tack it to the nearest outhouse," Fancy said in greeting, flinging herself into his arms. She made a sound suspiciously like a sob. "Damn you, Wes, you gave us a hell of a scare."
When she tipped her head back to gaze up at him, he swallowed hard, waiting for the old surge of feeling, the bittersweet rush of adoration and lust, that never failed to seize him whenever he laid eyes on her.
To his intense relief, he was merely glad to see her. He grinned weakly, his hands spanning her waist as he set her back on her feet. That's when he made a startling discovery.
"Another one?" He gazed wide-eyed at her normally flat belly, which had blossomed into a familiar, sweet roundness.
She blushed, which was an unusual practice for Fancy. "You didn't think I was going to stop at one daughter did you? There're too many of you headstrong Rawlins men running around. It's time some women came along to even the score."
He chuckled. "Just what we needed. Three of you."
Her lips twitched into what her husband secretly called her "wicked-little-hellcat smile."
Turning, she peered at the porch with its various-sized onlookers. "Is that woman there the Aurora Sinclair who wrote to me?"
Wes started at this news, and his nerves' reprieve was over.
"Now, Fancy, you be nice. Rorie's a lady. No spitting and clawing, you hear?"
"So it's Rorie, eh?"
She arched a devilish eyebrow, and he groaned on the inside. Fancy's lifelong distrust of other women tended to put her on the offensive in the company of females. He had hoped to have Rorie married and well briefed on his sister-in-law before allowing them to get within scratching distance of each other.
/>
As if sensing his unease, Fancy patted his arm. "Don't you worry, Wes. Your Rorie's safe with me. These days I save all my spitting and clawing for Cord."
Winking, she sauntered with her usual sauce toward the porch. Wes was just wondering whether he should help his prim-and-proper sweetheart manage his world-wise sister-in-law, when a lanky, broad-shouldered shadow rippled into view.
"Hello, match-head."
The old childhood taunt made Wes smile sheepishly.
"I hear there's been some trouble too hot even for you to handle," Zack drawled, sticking out his right hand.
Wes gripped his brother's hand hard, his usual wisecracks wedging as a salty lump inside his throat. God, but it was good to see Zack again.
"Well, you sure are a sight to behold, digging post-holes." Zack pressed his rare advantage, his brown eyes glowing with amusement. "I know of only two powers on earth that can move you to do an honest-day's work: Aunt Lally's pecan pie and calico fever." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "Son, you must have it bad for some woman."
A wave of heat rolled up Wes's neck. Zack had hit the bull's-eye and he knew it, which meant Wes would have to find a suitable comeuppance, or hear about it until his dying day.
Fortunately, Merrilee, who had been busy passing out the pictures she'd drawn, wriggled under Wes's arm to greet his cattle-ranching brother.
"Hello, Uncle Zack. I am Merrilee."
Zack's chestnut-colored eyebrows rose at her familiarity, and Wes, laying instinctive, paternal claim to the child, stroked her hair.
"Merrilee's quite an artist, you know," he said proudly, ignoring the bemused expression on his brother's face. "Go on, Merrilee. Show Uncle Zack the picture you made for him."
With a trace of shyness, she surrendered the last tube of paper she'd been clutching to her heart. Wes waited expectantly as his brother unrolled the ink pastoral.
"Woolies?" Zack's outraged gaze snapped back to Wes, and he couldn't repress his snicker.
"Uncle Wes said you like sheep," Merrilee said uncertainly.
