by Texas Lover
"Oh, he did, did he?"
Wes did a masterful job of looking innocent as Merrilee nodded.
"See?" She pointed to the picture. "I drew all these little lambs around the pretty ewe, and I named the mama sheep Miss Bailey, just like Uncle Wes told me."
Zack turned beet red, but he managed to recover with an aplomb that Wes was forced to admire. Lowering himself to one knee, he indulged the child by studying the drawing under her watchful, eager-to-please gaze.
"Well now, Miss Merrilee, this has to be about the finest woolie picture I ever did see. Is it for me to keep?"
She nodded again, beaming, and he smiled, slipping the artwork into his pocket.
As Wes watched Merrilee trot off hand-in-hand with Zack, his heart quickened to its earlier ramming speed. It gave him only small comfort to know that Zack and Fancy weren't out to tar and feather him. He didn't dare to hope the reigning patriarch of the Rawlins family would be so kind. Wes didn't deserve it.
Grim-faced, Shae stepped forward to shake his hand, as he asked for news of Lorelei. Wes had none to give, though, so Shae headed for the porch and Rorie.
Now there was no one else in the yard, no one left to help Wes forestall the inevitable confrontation with his eldest brother.
Since his arrival, Cord had stayed by the horses, watching Wes greet each of the others, waiting patiently for his turn. Now, Wes had a hard time meeting his brother's emerald stare. He tried to decide whether to make the first move, but Cord saved him the trouble, strolling toward him from the backdrop of lowering thunderclouds. Wes hastened to meet him halfway.
Wind rushed between them, grabbing at their neckerchiefs in the awkward silence.
"I... didn't think you'd come," Wes said finally.
"Well, knowing how good you handle your guns—and your fists," Cord added dryly, rubbing his jaw, "I didn't think you really needed some retired lawman getting mixed up in your Ranger business. But I figured I'd tag along anyway to meet this Aurora Sinclair, who's been writing to my wife. I hear she thinks right highly of you."
Wes felt his cheeks heat at this second reference to some mysterious letter, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking just what Rorie had penned. His burning curiosity didn't make him any less pleased by Cord's compliment, though. Far from it. Now, more than ever, Cord's opinion mattered to him.
"She's a good woman," Wes said, choosing his words carefully, "and I want to make her my wife. But she's a Yankee with a stubborn streak a mile wide."
Wes held his breath, waiting anxiously for the impact of his news to sink in. I found my own woman, Cord. Someone even more important to me than Fancy.
"You don't say?" Dimples peeked in Cord's rugged face. "I remember some advice a kid brother of mine once gave me. Seems like you have to tell a stubborn woman you love her if you ever hope to get anywhere."
"I did." Wes couldn't keep the misery from his voice.
Cord arched a nearly black eyebrow.
"It's complicated," Wes added quickly, unwilling to discuss Rorie's private burdens even with Cord.
"Does she love you?"
Wes shrugged. "I reckon. She says she does, anyway."
"Well..." A spark of humor lightened Cord's searching gaze. "You could always try my original plan. The one I had for Fancy."
Wes's ears pricked up. Cord had never shared this story with him.
"What plan was that?"
"Hog-tie her and carry her to a preacher." Cord grinned.
Wes grinned back.
No doubt they were both sharing the same vision: two strong-willed, out-spoken women each flailing over her man's shoulder.
After a moment, solemnity crept back into Cord's features. "I've missed the devil out of you, son."
The sincerity in his voice made Wes's chest ache.
"Cord, I'm sorry. I never meant any of the things I said, and—"
"I know."
Wes drew a shuddering breath. Cord was smiling. He was even holding out his hand. Battling a misty swell of feeling, Wes reached to shake hands with the man who'd always been more father than brother to him.
In the next instant—he wasn't sure how it happened—Wes found himself wrapped in a bear hug with Cord.
Watching from a distance as the two brothers reconciled, Rorie wasn't sure whose shoulders slumped more in relief: Fancy's, Zack's, or hers.
She hoped Wes would sit down with his family for a meal before charging off on his manhunt, but another rider had appeared on the horizon. He was riding out of town, and as he approached the farm, Rorie felt Shae stiffen by her side.
"Creed," he muttered.
Riding parallel to the approaching storm, Creed was driving his horse with the same frenzied shouting and spurring he'd employed three nights earlier. Today there was a marked difference in his voice, though. It sounded shaky, as if the boy was close to tears.
"Rawlins!" Creed sawed back hard on his reins, and his gelding stumbled, nearly throwing him. "I've come about Danny! You have to help me. You have to help me find him!"
Topher snorted at this announcement, and Merrilee shrank nervously into the shadows.
"I'm more interested in finding your pa," Wes retorted grimly, "and teaching him a helluva lesson."
"Listen to me!" Creed's panic was etched in every muscle of his body. "Danny's been missing ever since he found Lorelei. Dammit, Rawlins, that was three days ago! I've looked in every hiding place in town. It's not like him to be gone for so long!"
Rorie felt outrage that Creed considered it normal for Danny to be missing at all. What on earth was the matter with Hannibal Dukker? Didn't he bother to see whether his child ate dinner? Or slept each night in his bed?
"Now calm down, Creed." Wes caught the reins of the boy's restive mount. "Your pa's the one who should be helping you find Danny."
"You don't understand! It's Pa who ran him off, cursing him and beating him and—and threatening to kill him. I'm scared Pa might really do it!"
"Easy, Creed. I'm sure even Dukker wouldn't—"
"You don't know Pa! When he starts drinking and swinging, anything can happen. I think..." Creed's voice broke, and he struggled with a sob. "I think Danny saw what happened to Lorelei. And I think Pa tried to keep him quiet."
Wes and Cord exchanged tense looks. Shae and Zack stepped off the porch, hastily joining them.
"What are you saying?" Wes demanded. "Was your pa the one who hurt Lorelei?"
Creed seemed to realize he'd said too much. Fear flickered across his face. Then came fury, pain, and remorse. He glanced at Wes's badge and guns, then over at Shae, drawn so taut, he quivered.
"That's why you rode out to warn me, isn't it, Dukker?" Shae shook off Zack's restraining hand. "You knew your pa had done it all along!"
"No! I..." Something inside Creed seemed to crumble. He slumped. "I only suspected," he said brokenly. "When I saw the scratches on his neck."
Bile rushed so fast to Rorie's throat, she choked. Merciful God! She, too, had seen the scratches on Dukker's neck—and the half-crazed gleam in his eye.
"Danny must have let his father out of jail," she said shakily. "I saw him crouching under the window before I left town."
Creed nodded, his confession bleak. "Danny has a widdy. I gave it to him for his birthday. He could have jimmied the lock—"
"Or stolen the keys from my desk." Wes's brows lowered, making him look more dangerous. "Where's your pa now?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you! I'm scared he's out hunting Danny so he can kill him!"
"Mount up, men," Wes said. "Creed, you're riding with me. Shae, you know this backcountry; you ride with Zack and Cord. I want you men to circle back toward town, see if you can pick up a trail. Danny will be on foot, won't he?"
Creed nodded.
"Anything else they need to know?"
"Try the quarry," Creed said. "And Pearson's burned-out homestead. Pa used to hide his still there until Gator found it."
"What about the cliff a
t Ramble Creek?"
Creed shook his head. "Danny fell out of a tree once and he's been scared of heights ever since. He'd never climb way up there."
"All right. Then Creed and I will head first for the schoolhouse," Wes said. "If we have any chance at all of finding his trail, we'll do it before that storm hits. After that—" Wes's voice grew positively ominous, "you boys can hunt Danny. I'm having my showdown with Dukker."
"No!"
The protest popped out of Rorie's mouth before she could think better of it. Five narrowed pairs of male eyes drilled into her, and she heated hotter than the Fourth of July. Still, she thought it reckless of Wes not to take along a posse, now that he had one available.
"Wes, there's no need to take risks—"
"Dammit, Aurora, that's enough!"
Wes was cinching Two-Step's girth strap. If he hadn't been thus occupied, she sensed he would have tossed her in the house and locked the door on her. In desperation, she turned to Fancy.
"But it's madness! Say something to him, please."
Fancy's lips twisted in a mirthless smile. She glanced at her husband, whose grimly set features so closely resembled his youngest brother's.
"Aurora, I promise you, there's not a woman on this earth who can stop a Rawlins when he's wearing his showdown glare." Fancy's eyes darkened sympathetically. "But if it's any consolation, I know how you feel."
Rorie bit her lip to keep from saying anything more that might frighten the children. They were already whispering anxiously among themselves.
As the men turned their horses up the drive, Zack separated from the group to retrieve the hat that Topher had begged off of him. He nodded to Fancy and Rorie.
"Don't worry, ladies." He flashed a reassuring smile. "I won't let those two hotheads get into any trouble they can't handle alone."
With a tip of his brim, he spurred his horse after his eldest brother's, and Rorie was left wishing there were two Zacks—one to watch over Cord, and one to talk sense into Wes.
Chapter 24
Rorie spent the next half hour doing her best to be a perfect hostess to Fancy, although she could sense the woman wasn't entirely comfortable with pastry tarts and teacups. Perhaps it was just as well, Rorie mused, since she was too distracted by her worries to hold an intelligent conversation with anyone, much less the petite beauty who had held Wes's heart in the palm of her hand for so long.
"Fancy, forgive me," she finally said in exasperation. "I'm not very good company right now. Would you like to go upstairs and rest? Perhaps change into more comfortable clothes?"
Fancy looked amused as she set down her cup. "By that, I take it you mean skirts?"
Rorie fidgeted. She wasn't sure why, but she sensed she'd just made a grievous social error. She herself had never worn blue jeans, but she couldn't imagine how anything so tight could be comfortable, particularly since she'd had such trouble with her corset lately due to an inexplicable tenderness in her breasts.
"I just thought after all the hardships of your journey—camping all night and riding all day—that I was being insensitive to keep you talking."
"Wes hasn't told you much about me, has he?"
Rorie felt her face warm at this truth. "Well, I know he cares a great deal about you. And he told me you once saved his life."
"Hmm."
"He dotes on your children too," Rorie said quickly, sensing that she'd somehow floundered again. "He's always talking about"—her hands twisted in her lap—"how much he'd like to be a father."
"Well, that's news. Wes was dead set on being a bachelor Ranger the last time we talked, which was nearly a year ago. You must have been a good influence on him, Aurora. Most of the women he's known—other than Aunt Lally, of course—have been like me."
Rorie was stunned to hear Fancy say such a thing. Even if Fancy had inadvertently said or done something that triggered Wes's love for her, he'd made it clear she'd been staunchly devoted to Cord throughout their marriage.
"Fancy, I'm sure you can't be blamed for what must surely have been a youthful infatuation on Wes's part."
Fancy's lips twitched. "It's kind of you to say so, but you misunderstand me. I meant to say you and I have led very different lives. At least—" she glanced meaningfully at the teacups, then over at Rorie's buttoned collar, "it would seem that way."
Rorie really didn't know what to say. So taking refuge in her hostess role, she reached for the tea server Ginevee had set between them on a tray.
That's when the floorboards began to heave. Nausea hit her fast, and she clutched at the serving table, trying desperately to fight the sickness off. Unfortunately, the table wasn't made to support her weight, and it toppled. She heard the crash of the cups and the serving platter even as she sank, mortified, to her knees.
"Aurora!" She felt a small, strong hand grip her shoulder. "My God, are you all right? Ginevee! Come quickly!"
Rorie protested as her friend arrived and helped Fancy lift her into a chair.
"Miss Aurora," Ginevee chided in motherly concern, "don't tell me you've gotten those stomach butterflies again. Good heavens, child, this has been going on for much too long."
Fancy awkwardly patted Rorie's shoulder. "Don't worry, Aurora. It doesn't last."
"It doesn't?" she gasped, gulping air to settle her stomach.
"No. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in the privy when I was pregnant with my second son. But with this baby, I've never been sick. Not even with a headache. I do tend to get tired more than usual, though."
Rorie and Ginevee both gaped at her. Rorie couldn't possibly imagine how Fancy had leaped to such a conclusion except, perhaps, that her own baby must weigh heavily on her mind.
She managed a feeble shake of her head. "Oh, no, you don't understand. You see—"
Ginevee's hand tightened like a vise over Rorie's upper arm. "Wait a minute, Aurora. When was the last time you had your woman's courses?"
"Ginevee."
Face flaming, Rorie glanced at Fancy, but the other woman just laughed.
"Believe me, Aurora, I'm the last person who would judge you in a matter like this. Besides, I know Wes isn't any monk."
The tremor in Ginevee's hand was increasing in direct proportion to her excitement. She looked like a child on Christmas day. "You haven't bled for over a month now, have you, child?"
Rorie, still dazed by her receding nausea, couldn't believe Ginevee was asking her such personal questions before a guest. Besides, Ginevee knew full well the state of Rorie's womb.
"Ginevee, for heaven's sake. This is not the time or
place—"
"Miss Fancy, you say the sickness came on you too?" Ginevee asked with unabashed eagerness. "Perhaps as early as the second week?"
Gazing from the black woman back to Rorie, Fancy looked puzzled. "Well, as a matter of fact it did. I had all the symptoms with Billy—tenderness, nausea, swelling, swooning." She grimaced at this last symptom. "It was so humiliating. I never faint. Not for real, anyway."
Before Rorie could even comment on Fancy's observations, Ginevee clutched her hand and held it hard against her hammering heart.
"Aurora, don't you see? You've been suffering with the same ailments for nearly six weeks now."
Fancy frowned. "You mean you didn't know?"
Rorie's head was spinning—and not from sickness anymore.
"Well, no. I mean, you don't understand. My cycles have never been what you'd call regular, and... my husband was a doctor. He said I was barren. He said he was leaving me because I couldn't have his child—"
"The bastard."
Rorie's eyes locked with Fancy's, and something passed between them then. Something profoundly female. It transcended all barriers of experience and culture. In an instant, Rorie knew Fancy had also been brutally betrayed by a man.
"You know, Aurora—" Fancy squatted, the small protuberance in her belly brushing Rorie's knee, "not every man is up to siring a child. Did your husband have other children t
hat you know of?"
She shook her head, still too afraid to dream, to hope, to believe.
"Well, six weeks is a long time to go without a cycle."
"It's been longer," Rorie whispered breathlessly, elation starting to get the better of her.
Dear God, was it true? Had Jarrod been the one with the affliction?
She'd never been with another man, yet on that first night with Wes, she'd known somehow, deep in the core of her being, that something had changed, that something was new.
She clasped her trembling hands, and Fancy, who'd been watching her reaction with shrewd eyes, nodded as if to dispel the last of her doubts.
"It looks like we have something in common after all, Aurora."
"Miss Rorie!"
Rorie started. The shout had been Nita's, pitched high with annoyance. Her footsteps clattered on the stairs.
"I can't find Merrilee anywhere, and it's her turn to carry the wash inside before it rains. You know Topher won't do it."
Rorie struggled to rally her wits. She'd been so busy trying to keep Fancy occupied that she hadn't checked on the children for—she glanced at the mantel clock—at least forty-five minutes now. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, and Nita, her fists on her hips, materialized in the doorway.
"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, but Merrilee just keeps disappearing, and it's about to rain cats and dogs outside. I even looked inside the barn, where Topher put Aunt Fancy's horse. I figured Merrilee had taken all those apples and that cornbread in there."
"Cornbread?" Rorie repeated uneasily. "Horses don't eat cornbread."
"Well, that's what I told her, but she just said her friend was hungry, and he was getting tired of apples. That's the last time I saw her."
"When was that?"
"Oh, I don't know. Right after Creed rode up, I reckon."
A queasy feeling, not unlike her earlier nausea, coiled inside Rorie's stomach. She remembered Merrilee's questions about Danny that morning and her talk of a hungry friend.
"Nita, send Topher here. Quickly, please."
Nita turned to obey, and Rorie glanced anxiously at Ginevee. "Do you know where Merrilee is?"
