by Texas Lover
Wes sprinted back to Two-Step. He couldn't waste time feeling relief, pity, or anything else related to a Dukker. He had to get Rorie. He had to carry her up the cliff.
Dragging the rest of the rope from his saddlebag, he wrapped one end around the pommel. He worried the rawhide might not be long enough to tie Rorie to his back and haul her up the fifteen-foot slope. To make matters worse, Two-Step wasn't a cowpony; he'd never been trained to lean back on his haunches and keep a rope taut under a load. Wes prayed fervently. He needed help. Or a miracle.
Two-Step pranced, choosing one helluva time to live up to his name. Wes had to grab the brute's head, dragging him back toward the fizzling fire. Wes cursed, and Two-Step neighed, his eyes rolling in mutiny.
Suddenly, Merrilee appeared at Wes's side. She placed a hand on the gelding's neck.
"Nice pony."
The cantankerous beast instantly subdued. Wes gaped at the child. He couldn't imagine what she was doing on a cliff in the worst storm of the summer, but he didn't have time to ask. He squatted, grabbing her shoulders.
"Merrilee, honey, I need your help."
"Is Miss Rorie hurt?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. But you have to talk to Two-Step. You have to make him stand here, and keep this rope real tight while I go down the hill. Then you have to make him back up when I tell you, so he can pull me and Miss Rorie up the hill. Do you think you can do that?"
She nodded, water dripping from her nose and chin. Her immeasurable calm helped Wes get a grip on his own. He draped his slicker over her. Then, twisting the rawhide around his waist, he began the slippery descent.
* * *
Rorie was having the most amazing dream. She was sitting on a cloud, eating pastries and drinking tea with an angel. Only the angel wasn't the blue-eyed, golden-haired cherub variety. This angel was copper-skinned with great doelike eyes, raven-black braids, and a white buckskin dress. In fact, she looked very much like Merrilee, except that the angel was perhaps fifteen years older.
Rorie couldn't remember much of what she and the angel discussed, although she did recall something about heaven and magnolia trees, green-eyed lawmen with devilish smiles, and red-haired babies.
"A child's love is a sacred trust, and yet she gives it freely," the angel told her. "The true measure of motherhood is not whether you can bear a child, but rather, how selflessly you can love her."
Rorie smiled—until all the implications of the angel's words began to make her wonder. Why would a heavenly messenger tell her such a thing?
Something wasn't right. In fact, something was dreadfully wrong. She ached in every fiber of her body. She felt bruised and battered and cold and wet. Her back was being jabbed by a dozen rock-hard lumps.
Her eyes flew open with a start. Dear God, had she lost her baby?
"Rorie, don't move!"
She froze at the urgency in that voice.
"Wes?" She coughed on the rainwater that rolled down her throat.
"I'm coming, sweetheart. Hold on. Just don't move. You're right on the edge."
Her heart quickening, she dared to turn her head toward his voice. She could see him, soaking wet, lean and hard and straining as he descended the slippery limestone toward her. His boots scrabbled for a toehold. Pebbles dislodged, rolling down the hill to pelt her. He cursed.
"Rorie, I'm sorry. Can you see me? I'm almost there."
"I can see you," she said hoarsely.
She glanced to the other side. Blackness yawned as far as she dared look. She squeezed her eyes closed once more.
Thank you, God. Thank you for bringing Wes to find me. Please let me keep our baby.
"Rorie? Talk to me! Don't close your eyes!"
"I'm... all right," she lied feebly, wishing she dared move so she could truly assess her injuries. "Where's Merrilee? And Danny?"
"Up top. With Two-Step and Creed."
"And... Dukker?"
"I cuffed him."
Wes squatted, trying to reach her, but the rope wouldn't stretch that far. He muttered another oath, his fear for her warring with the love in his eyes. "Can you reach my hand?"
Gingerly she raised her left arm, straining for the fingers he offered as anchor. Several inches still separated them, and she shook her head, her temples throbbing with the effort. Panic began to seep into her veins. She fought it off desperately, clinging to the warm, caring depths of his gaze.
"I'm going to take the rope off. Can you reach it?"
She heard the rawhide slither closer, and she groped. Anxiously, she glanced upward to see where it led. Through the splashing raindrops, she saw the ceiling of the cliff's lip. Above that stood a stoic Merrilee, draped in a yellow slicker four times her size, and a disgruntled-looking Two-Step.
Rorie ran her gaze back down the brush-covered C shape of the slope. Merciful God. She had fallen down that?
"Wrap the rope around your wrist as many times as you can until it's tight."
Quaking, she obeyed, trying not to think about the void to her right, trying not to imagine what her tumble might have done to her baby....
Wes eased closer, his hand running down the rope.
"Wes, be careful," she whispered as his big body filled every available inch of the shelf.
"Don't worry about me. Can you pull yourself up?"
Tentatively, she tugged on the rope. It held firm, and she inched toward it, wrapping the slack around her wrist until she could roll to her side and finally sit.
Wes's arm closed around her waist, locking it in an iron grip. She buried her face in his wet shoulder, biting her tongue on the blubbering urge to tell him how scared she was—and not just for herself. How could she tell him about the baby if she wasn't certain she still had it?
His heart was as loud as the thunder. It sounded to her ears like galloping hooves. Or maybe those hooves were real...
She glanced hopefully into his pale, haggard face for confirmation, but apparently, he hadn't heard.
"I've got hold of you," he murmured. "Now I want you to wrap that rope around your waist—"
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine."
He smiled, but she wasn't deceived. In this rain, he needed the rope as much as she did to climb the summit of that hooked lip.
"It won't work," she said. "I won't leave you—"
"I'll be right behind you. Now. Can you stand?"
She clenched her teeth, knowing that arguing would only tax what little strength she had, and what remained of his. Gathering her courage, she tightened her hold on his shoulders, using them for balance as she swayed to her feet. Apparently nothing in her body was broken. That was a blessing. Maybe even a miracle.
"Miracles happen every day," he said, as if reading her mind.
She blinked back tears. If he only knew...
He straightened precariously, wrapping the slackened rope around his forearm. Edging behind her, he pressed her between the safety of the wall and his chest.
He was just bracing, preparing to lift her to the first toehold, when she heard a shout above the receding rumble of thunder. The hoofbeats she'd heard were real.
Suddenly there was a swish and a whisper, and a lasso fell neatly over her shoulders. She glanced up, stunned, and saw three horsemen peering over the ledge.
Wes let out a ragged breath, the first hint he'd given of his own unease. "Zack." He chuckled weakly, shaking his head. "That boy could rope the tail of a cyclone."
"Wes!" It was Cord's voice. "Don't move yet. We're tying the ropes to our cow ponies."
Wes grinned sheepishly, some of the color returning to his face. "Maybe you were right, darlin'." He cocked his head to glance back up the slope. "Maybe Rangers shouldn't always ride alone."
Another rope whispered down, this time over Wes. He wound it several times around his waist, and she followed his example. Soon his arms were around her again, and the horses were dragging both of them slowly, painstakingly up the curve of the hill. Several times her feet slid out fro
m under her. She banged a knee and scratched an elbow, but Wes's embrace kept her safe until Shae grabbed her wrists and pulled her—sodden skirts and all—over the lip to flat, blessed earth once more.
Zack, Cord, and Shae all started talking at once, it seemed, about how they'd ridden back to the farm and how Fancy had sent them out looking for her. Rorie barely heard them. She sank gratefully to her knees, and Wes sank beside her, drawing her hard against his chest for a hungry, celebratory kiss.
After a breathless moment, he drew back. Catching her face in his hands, he gazed into her eyes in a mixture of relief, joy, and mock despair.
"Woman, so help me God," he groaned. "Your swooning is going to be the death of me."
Chapter 25
Shae McFadden's life was still in dire danger. That fact was made blatantly clear the minute the Rawlins brothers rode into town with Creed and a wounded, half-conscious Dukker. A mob was congregating in Calaboose Alley, in spite of Preacher Jenkins's best attempts to send them home.
"We want justice!" the citizens cried, waving rifles and torches and swinging ready-made nooses. "We want McFadden!"
"Now hold on just a goddamned minute," Wes bit out, grateful he'd convinced Shae to stay with Rorie, Merrilee, and a shell-shocked Danny back at the house. While Ginevee had tended Rorie's bruises, Fancy had agreed to doctor Dukker. Otherwise, there might not have been a prisoner to charge with Lorelei's rape. "If you're so all-fired up about justice, you can start looking at the facts instead of color."
"It don't take no blind man to see the facts, Rawlins!"
"Yeah! Danny Dukker saw it all. You tell him, Hannibal. Tell him how that half-breed nigger murdered Lorelei!"
Creed choked, turning sickly white at the news of Lorelei's death, but Wes didn't have the luxury to grieve for the girl he'd tried to protect. Striking with his rifle stock, he knocked back an overzealous gun waver. Cord and Zack snapped their rifle levers; Dukker cowered in his saddle.
"Now you listen to me!" Wes shouted, standing tall in his stirrups and making sure the loudest of the rabble stared down the barrel of his Winchester. "There's still a law in this town, and I'm here to enforce it! If someone has a problem with that, he can cozy up to my bullet."
That lowered the noise level to a hush.
"Shae McFadden did not, I repeat, not rape Lorelei Faraday. And he's got at least six witnesses to prove it. As for Danny Dukker—" Wes glared contemptuously at the boy's father. "He'd say just about anything to please his old man. And we all know how much Hannibal Dukker would like to see Shae McFadden pay for being born. Now I suggest you folks go to the church and say a prayer for Lorelei Faraday. Say one for Gator Boudreau and Doc Warren too. Maybe folks wouldn't be dying in this town if you started showing each other a little kindness and respect."
Wes turned his most menacing glare on the men standing between him and the jail door. "You boys forget where the church is?"
Four or five merchants slinked out of his path; another half dozen scattered before the threats of Zack's and Cord's rifles.
Peering out of the jail a few minutes later, Wes was relieved to see the street was empty again—for now. He sent his brothers back to the farm to protect Shae and the women and to tell them he was escorting Dukker to the Bandera County Jail at first light. Wes figured once the truth got out about Dukker, the man wouldn't be safe in his own calaboose.
God, it was going to be a long night.
Ever baleful, ever defiant, Elodea's marshal sneered at him from his cell.
"You ain't got nothing on me, boy."
Wes didn't bother to point out that three attempted murders in one afternoon made for a weighty court sentence.
"There ain't no one in this town who will speak out against me."
"You're wrong about that, Pa," Creed said quietly. "I saw you kill Gator. And I saw you kill Doc Warren so you could destroy Gator's will—"
"Shut up, you jackass!" Dukker's face grew white and red by turns. "What the hell's the matter with you?"
"—And now I know you killed Lorelei," Creed finished numbly, as if he'd never heard. "You're a hateful, crooked sonuvabitch, and you tried to make me one too. But I won't let you turn Danny into the kind of man you made me."
Wes's heart twisted. "Creed, you're not like your father."
The boy hung his head, and a tear slid down his cheek.
"Christ, you make me sick." Dukker's lip curled as he scowled at his son. "But you're still my flesh and blood, so you ain't gonna be testifying at my trial. And McFadden can spout off all he wants. You don't have proof of anything." Dukker cackled, sounding mightily pleased with himself. "Yeah, that's right. You ain't got a thing on me, Rawlins."
A heavy footstep rattled the floorboards outside. Wes tensed, pulling a gun as the doorknob turned. He imagined some rabid Negro hater had returned. But when the door was thrown wide, a red-eyed, pale-faced Phineas Faraday stalked into the room.
"Hold it right there, Faraday."
The man's pudgy hand quaked as it hovered above the pocket of his black mourning coat.
"I've got something for you," he said hoarsely.
Wes eyed him narrowly, trying to decide if a derringer might be hidden inside that pocket. The man was strung tighter than a fiddle.
"What is it?"
"No doubt you heard..." Faraday's voice cracked. Hardening his features, he continued, "My daughter died tonight."
Wes nodded. "I'm sorry," he said more gently.
"She named her killer." Faraday pulled a sheet of paper from his coat and laid it on the desk.
The cell door clattered as Dukker suddenly grabbed hold of the bars. "What's that, Faraday? What do you think you're doing?"
"Something I should have done long ago." He turned dull, lifeless eyes on Wes. "I've signed an affidavit. Everything I know about Dukker's extortions, the still, the murders... Oh. And I mustn't forget this."
He pulled a second sheet from his pocket. The stationery was pale blue with a pair of engraved doves at the top. In the bottom right-hand corner, a tearstain marred the shaky signature.
"Lorelei signed an affidavit too."
* * *
The ride to Bandera Town and the county jail was only a day's journey, but Cord advised Rorie that Wes would likely ride more slowly with a wounded prisoner. Cord further predicted that Wes would spend several days at the county seat, filing charges, writing reports, and answering the questions of the prosecutor and the county judge.
"It wouldn't be unusual," Cord told her, "for Wes to be gone for two weeks. But don't you worry about Shae, Aurora. Zack and I aren't going anywhere, and Fancy isn't, either. Aunt Lally's back home watching our children, so we can stay here just as long as you need us."
Rorie appreciated the Rawlinses' kindness, but she couldn't help worrying about Shae. The boy had insisted on attending Lorelei's burial, and even the threat of Zack's and Cord's firearms couldn't stave off the townsmen's hostility. Faraday and Creed had publicly defended Shae, but hatred and prejudice had deep roots in Elodea. Grim-faced and grieving, Shae finally conceded he could never live peacefully near that town.
The day after the burial, he announced that he would sell the farm and put the money toward his schooling at Prairie View Negro College.
Creed, too, was anxious to leave behind Elodea and its heartbreaking memories. Although he planned to return for his father's trial, Creed confided when he retrieved his brother from Rorie's care that he still had an aunt and a couple of cousins in Louisiana. He planned to see that Danny got a proper upbringing—and a couple more years in a schoolhouse.
Danny hadn't been too happy with that plan, but he had gotten excited when Creed mentioned the prospect of hunting alligators to earn a living.
As for Merrilee, she seemed a little sad to see Danny go, even though he still pulled her braids, called her feather duster, and goaded Topher into a brawling fit at least once every hour.
"Mama," she'd said, and it warmed Rorie's insides whenever Merrilee cal
led her that, "do you think Danny and Topher will ever be friends?"
Rorie hid her smile from the child, who snuggled beside her on the bed with her drawing papers and pen.
"Well, sweetheart, stranger things have happened."
Merrilee seemed to consider this for a moment, then sighed and shook her head.
"Danny should stay away from alligators. They have too many teeth."
She proceeded to draw a ferocious, reptilian jaw beneath small, beady eyes. Rorie was a little surprised by the accuracy of the child's drawing. To her knowledge, Merrilee had never seen a live alligator, and Rorie was certain none of her books had pictures of one.
Before she could ask the child from where she'd gotten her inspiration, Merrilee turned the page over and began drawing something new. A likeness of the magnolia in Rorie's vase began to appear beneath the child's pen.
"I'm glad you talked to Mama before she went away," Merrilee said solemnly.
Rorie started. Merrilee's mama had gone away? The poor child, she must have finally accepted her parents' deaths. No doubt Ethan's browbeating had weighed more heavily on Merrilee's thoughts than Rorie had first imagined.
She brushed a stray hair from the child's brow, which was furrowed in deep concentration as she sketched the flower.
"Do you... miss your mama, Merrilee?"
She shook her head, her expression turning wistful as she drew. "Mama—I mean, my old mama"—she smiled shyly up at Rorie—"says I don't need her anymore. She says I have you now to teach me things, and Uncle Wes too. But Mama says she'll come back to help me, if I ever need her again."
A lump filled Rorie's throat. She didn't want to replace the child's mother, and yet, was it wrong of her to be pleased that Merrilee had finally accepted her as something more than a caretaker?
"I'm sure your mama will always stay close so she can watch over you, Merrilee. That's what angels do."
Merrilee nodded happily. "I know. I like angels. Does your baby have an angel to watch over him too?"
Rorie's jaw dropped. If the child had asked her about the birds and the bees, Rorie couldn't have been more stunned. No one knew about her baby except Fancy and Ginevee, and she'd sworn them to secrecy. They'd seemed to understand her need for circumspection, her reluctance to celebrate a miracle that might have been lost, so she couldn't imagine that either woman had discussed her condition in front of the men or the children.
