Adrienne deWolfe (20 page)

Once more she turned to the tree, running a loving hand along its spine. Watching her caress the planes of that trunk, he felt a strange tingle in the pit of his belly. He wondered wistfully what her fingers would feel like some morning, stroking the stubble on his chin.

"She really loved this tree," Rorie said so quietly, he wasn't sure she'd meant for him to hear.

"You mean Mrs. Boudreau?"

She nodded. "She told me its story once, how she and Gator met as children when she went out to her father's yard to water the sapling he'd just planted there. She said there'd never been another man for her from that moment on. When she got old enough, Gator courted her formally and he asked her to marry him right under that tree. A few years later, he decided to try his hand at ranching in Texas. Mrs. Boudreau was so sad to leave her Louisiana home that Gator rode back to her papa's place and made arrangements for the tree to be shipped to his farm."

Rorie smiled at the thought. "I suppose he must have had the devil of a time hauling a twenty-foot tree all the way from New Orleans to Bandera County without the benefit of a train, but Mrs. Boudreau said Gator had a way with green things, even if he'd never had one with steers.

"I always thought that was such a beautiful story," she added, turning the warmth of her smile on Wes. "To meet Gator, you would never have thought the man had a romantic bone in his body. Yet he went to all that trouble to make his bayou bride feel at home in Texas."

Wes smiled too. He'd always liked a good story. "Well, that explains it. About the tree, I mean. It's doing poorly 'cause there aren't any sweethearts around."

She looked bemused. "I beg your pardon?"

"This here's a sweetheart tree." He could tell by her face, she didn't have the vaguest idea what he meant. "You mean you never heard the legend of the sweetheart tree?"

She shook her head. He did, too, in mock despair.

"Just what do you Yankee schoolmarms teach your younguns up there?"

She opened her mouth as if to defend herself, but he held up both hands, staving off an earful.

"Never mind. That's what you book-learned folks like to call a rhetorical question."

Amusement flickered across her features.

"Now then, the sweetheart tree is a big ol' tree that's been around fifty or sixty years." Wes patted the trunk. "I'd say this one's just about old enough to be wise in the ways of folks like you and me."

Nodding gravely to emphasize his point, he took an oh-so casual step toward her.

"Being a sweetheart tree is a mighty big honor among the plant kingdom," he continued. "As I hear it told, those big fellas don't let just any old twig or bush sign up. You see, a sweetheart tree has got to know the difference between true love and... well, let's just call it unchaperoned sparking."

He watched her furtively for some sign of priggish outrage, and was encouraged by her peeking dimples. He took another step closer.

"Some folks will try to tell you that a sweetheart tree is a crabapple or a dogwood 'cause, come spring time, white flowers bust out all over them. But I beg to differ."

"You do, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

They were standing nearly toe to toe now, and he congratulated himself on his progress. "Oh, I'm sure that a crabapple or a dogwood could do in a pinch," he said with a lofty wave of his hand. "But a
magnolia
tree's got those Yankee pretenders beat hands down."

She crossed her arms, but her show of offense was belied by the glow in her eyes. "And why is that, pray tell?"

He gazed at her in mock surprise. " 'Cause magnolia trees have been around for ages and ages. Some book-learned fellas—you know, the kind that cut up fruits and stare at them through a magnifying glass—say magnolias are the granddaddies of all flowering plants."

He made one last strategic move, cutting her off from the most likely avenue of escape.

"Besides, magnolias are evergreens," he added. "They don't go to sleep all winter long, making sweethearts wait months on end to see if they've found their one and only love."

"Hmm." She sounded thoughtful. "And how does the magnolia achieve its grandiose mission in life?"

He decided to back her against the trunk. To his surprise, though, his graceful doe stood her ground. He almost frowned. It took all the fun out of being a predator if the prey didn't know she was being stalked.

Then again, maybe she did know, he thought in sudden wolfish triumph. Maybe all her ladylike airs were just a pretense, and deep down, she really wanted to be pursued.

"Well," he drawled in his best sparking voice, "the magnolia tree keeps a watch out for sweethearts. When a couple comes along, it takes stock of the way they hold hands, the way they look into each other's eyes..." He lowered his voice to a throbbing whisper. "The way they kiss."

He leaned closer, and still she didn't retreat. It was an exhilarating feeling, having her gaze up at him so sweetly. He couldn't remember her looking at him like that before, and he kind of liked it. But just as he drew close enough to kiss her, she threw a question between them like a gauntlet.

"So then what does the sweetheart tree do?"

His brows rose. So she'd played this game before, had she? The notion brought him a smug sense of satisfaction—until he realized she must have played it with Jarrod Sinclair.

"Let's see..." He could feel her skirt, whipped up by the wind, wrapping his calves like the long, silken limbs of a lover. The image brought a surge of heat to his groin, and he had to remind himself that he was kissing her for one reason and one reason only: To get her off his mind.

"The tree gives a sign, since it's so wise in the ways of true love. If a couple is meant to stay together for the rest of their lives, great white flowers start to bloom instantly, no matter what the time of year."

"How interesting," she said huskily.

She had leaned back ever so slightly from his advance. Now her eyelids drooped, as if she were staring at his mouth, and he imagined he could see the hunger behind her veil of lashes. A thrill of expectancy coursed through him, and he pressed forward once more, close enough for their thighs to brush. This time when he lowered his head, he reached for her waist too. That's when her tender smile stopped his heart.

"So what you're saying is, I should let Ethan kiss me under this tree."

If she had slapped his face, she couldn't have made him recoil faster.

"Ethan?
Who's Ethan?"

She shot him a sly, coquettish look, one that he would have sworn her incapable of ten minutes ago.

"Why," she said in a honeyed voice, "Ethan Hawkins is one of my gentleman callers. He owns fifteen thousand acres and a modest herd of Hereford cattle on a range that starts about a dozen miles south of here."

Shock washed over Wes, then disbelief. Both were followed by a confused jumble of emotions that he couldn't entirely sort out, but which left him feeling as if he'd just been punched in the gut.

"Why would you want to kiss this Ethan Hawkins?" he asked, unaccountably irritated by the whole idea.

Rorie kept her eyes lowered. She used the ploy less to convey demureness than to stall for time to gather her wits. When she'd thrown out Ethan's name, she'd been a four-star general playing a game of battlefield chess. Now she felt like a raw recruit who had just watched her bullet claim her first enemy casualty. She told herself remorse was ridiculous, not to mention lily-livered. After all, she'd been under attack all day long, and she had every right to strike a defense. The problem was, she hadn't expected Wes to look so... hurt.

"It's like you said," she answered lamely. "The sweetheart tree could tell me whether to let Ethan make his offer to me."

She dared to look at him then—which proved to be a mistake. His eyes were like shards of glass in the moonlight. She felt cut by their touch.

"Is that why you turned down Dukker? Because of Hawkins?"

She laughed weakly. More than twenty years her senior and hard of hearing, Ethan wasn't exactly her idea of a knight in shining armor. She had to admit, though, he'd never caused her to fear for the children's safety the way Hannibal Dukker had.

"Ethan is one of the reasons," she answered with well-rehearsed circumspection.

Wes frowned. "Do you love him?"

The conversation was taking a decided turn for the worse. By mentioning Ethan, she had hoped to put Wes in his place, to make him keep his distance out of respect for her serious beau. She hadn't intended to get into a discussion of her feelings for the man.

"Wes, really. That is hardly a matter for your concern." She started to turn away only to find her path blocked by a ramrod-straight arm that extended from his shoulder to the tree. She retreated—her next mistake. Her spine struck bark, and she became trapped between the magnolia's unyielding trunk and the imposing expanse of Wes's chest.

"What about the children? Is this Hawkins good to them?"

She caught her breath. She should have been outraged by his impertinence; instead, his show of concern brought a rush of warmth to her heart.

"Yes," she said quietly. "He's good to them."

He nodded, but he didn't look satisfied. There was an intensity about his hardened jaw and the taut line of his arm. If she didn't know better, she would have thought she'd made him jealous. But she was a realist, so she attributed his tenseness to youthful anger because she'd thwarted his kiss. Besides, she reminded herself, the man was pining away for his sister-in-law.

"I reckon there's only one other thing to ask then," he said less gruffly. "Is he good to you too?"

She swallowed. She hadn't expected this line of questioning. In truth, she hadn't expected him to care. As much as she would have liked to discount his concern, to attribute it to a wily philanderer's ace in the hole, she needed only to search his eyes to see that his regard for her and her family was not contrived. It was a painful revelation: this wild, young scoundrel, who'd known her less than four days, was showing more kindness toward her than her husband of seven years ever had.

Tearing her gaze away, she cast about frantically in her mind for some suitable answer. "He treats me well enough," she said, failing, in spite of her best efforts, to keep the defensiveness from her voice. "He's had a wife, and I've had a husband. Love only comes once in a lifetime, and we've already had our turns."

Wes looked incredulous. "So you're saying Jarrod Sinclair was the love of your life?" Snorting in derision, he shook his head. "Darlin', it sounds to me like you just haven't lived."

Her throat tightened. He'd come uncomfortably close to the truth, a truth that had smoldered in her soul ever since she'd realized that she'd traded the oppression of her father's household for the degradation of her husband's.

Forcibly squaring her shoulders, she tried valiantly to disguise her hurt with anger. "You are in no position to judge me, or Jarrod, or..." Her vision blurred, and Wes swam out of focus. "Or anything that may have passed between us," she finished hoarsely.

"Rorie." His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and strong and gentle. "I didn't mean any offense. You have to know I'm on your side. It's just that... Well, shoot. Jarrod Sinclair should have the stuffing beat out of him for running out on you. I'd hate to see your feelings get all tangled over some other fella who might not treat you any better.

"You deserve a world of good things, Rorie," he said with surprising sincerity. "Don't marry some man who doesn't love you because you're afraid someone better won't come along."

She shook her head, trying to convey how wrong his insight was, but for all her hard-won stubbornness, she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. She wanted to believe his impudence was what made her so distraught, but the part of her that abhorred deceit refused to dole out blame. Wes had spoken to her secret fear.

Although a life with Ethan wasn't her fondest desire, she had witnessed his tolerance when he'd sat with his grandchildren at church. He might not be the kind of man she wanted holding her through the night, but at least she had no worries that he might leave her and the children behind for some mythical greener pasture.

For an infinite moment, the spell of silence wrapped around her. She became acutely aware of the young, vital man who held her, the kind of man whose embrace she secretly longed for in the night. She knew she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety by letting Wes touch her for so long, but try as she might, she couldn't relinquish that sweet, seldom-felt comfort.

For just one heartbeat longer, she told herself. For just one fraction more of her lonely, predictable life, she would allow this tantalizing breach of social conduct. Then she would summon a respectable show of outrage and storm inside to her empty bed.

Wes's hands shifted, though. She caught her breath as his fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear. The featherlight gesture was so intimate in its innocence, that she stood frozen, uncertain whether to flee, to protest, or simply to frown. She could do nothing so decorous.

Instead, she found herself peeking up at him, past the shimmer of teardrops on her lashes, to gaze with girlish fascination at the dance of storm and shadow on his face. The sun god of two days earlier had been transformed by lancets of lightning. He'd become Thor, the fiery-haired king of the storm.