Adrienne deWolfe (25 page)

He hurried Two-Step into the barn, thinking to delay Shae's and Rorie's questions just long enough for him to strip off his shirt. Unfortunately, he hadn't quite slipped his last button, when a lantern flared behind him, and he heard the shuffle of feet through the door.

"Wes! Good heavens! What happened to you?" Rorie sounded more anxious than angry. "When you didn't come home in time for dinner we didn't know what to think..."

For a fleeting moment Wes felt a warm confusion at her use of the word "home." Sentimentality quickly gave way to annoyance, however. He couldn't very well ignore her, and yet, to turn around would clearly reveal the slash in his sleeve. His only remaining option would be to strip to his waist and throw the shirt into a corner. He rather fancied that option, since his perverse side hadn't yet gotten over the idea that they had been as intimate as they were ever going to be.

"And then, trying to explain to the children that—"

Her breath caught when he shrugged from his shirt. As he turned to face her, he had the satisfaction of watching her blush. He could almost feel her gaze slide down every rib as she searched his torso for... what? Old times's sake? He couldn't help but feel vindicated, knowing she wasn't as immune to him as she pretended to be.

"Did you see Dukker?"

He started, swinging around at the sound of Shae's voice, and found the boy standing with his hand on Two-Step's sweaty neck. Wes stifled another oath. Shae was standing at an angle that must have afforded him a clear view of the rended sleeve before he'd gotten the shirt off.

"Yeah. I saw him."

Shae was looking him up and down. "Any trouble?"

"Nope."

"You sure?"

He met Shae's gaze evenly. "Do I look like a man who's unsure?"

From the corner of his eye, Wes saw Rorie fidget.

"Then what took you so long, Wes?" she asked.

It was her turn to receive a bold, searching appraisal. "Well now, ma'am," he drawled in a tone designed to trigger another blush and send her huffing in moral outrage to the safety of the house, "a man like me isn't accustomed to going hungry for long. But I reckon you don't want to hear all about that kind of meal."

That shut her up. She actually pressed her lips together. But she didn't run away.

"You ate in town, eh?" Shae asked.

"That's right."

"You don't smell like smoke or rotgut. In fact you look damned sober. You want to tell me why your horse is so lathered?"

Caught in his lies, Wes could only heap on more. "Me and the boys had a little bet. Ran a race down the center of town. 'Course, wind is Two-Step's middle name, so he left that old bay grazing on his dust. You need to see the purse I won to prove it?"

Shae glared at him. "No."

"Good. Then hand me those saddlebags, and I'll give you your nails."

Shae obliged, and Wes, grateful for an end to the questions, slung the bags over the nearest stall door and rummaged inside. When his fingers closed over a length of satin, he remembered with a twinge of embarrassment the other items that he hadn't been able to resist buying at the general store.

"Oh, and here," he said gruffly, thrusting a bag and a tightly folded wad of paper at Rorie. "I got some candy for the boys, and some hair ribbons for the girls, and Mayor Faraday sent along some newsprint so Merrilee could practice drawing Two-Step."

Taken aback by the gifts, Rorie gazed in amazement at the colorful array of peppermints and satins inside the bag. A warm, sweet jumble of emotions washed over her, leaving her disarmed and chagrined and completely bereft of the sensible use of her tongue. She stammered a thank-you as he shrugged and backed away.

"The children will be delighted, Wes, but you shouldn't have spent—"

"I told you I won a chunk of change betting on Two-Step," he said in a rough voice. "So in a way, I didn't spend anything."

She swallowed, glancing at Shae. He just shook his head. She could see he didn't believe Wes's tale about the expense any more than she had believed the farce about the horse race. Wes was too tense, too wary and defensive, for a man who had supposedly gambled his wages and won.

No, something had happened in town, something disturbing or unpleasant, judging by his rigid shoulders and squared jaw. She suspected Dukker was behind Wes's upset, and while it touched her deeply to know he was trying to protect her and Shae from the problem, the truth was, she felt responsible.

She never should have allowed Wes to face Dukker alone over a matter that concerned one of her children. She was certain Dukker had been spoiling for revenge ever since she'd rejected his suit, and she'd had no right to send Wes into the proverbial lion's den, armed with only a few circumspect warnings. Dukker might very well be a murderer, and she should have prepared Wes for the worst before involving him in her and Shae's business.

"Er, Shae, would you mind taking these gifts inside to the children?" she asked, striving for discretion.

He seemed to understand her need to talk to Wes alone, and nodded. "Not at all, ma'am."

Hesitating as he turned to go, Shae cocked his head at Wes. "I could rub down your horse for you, if you like."

His offer was the next-best thing to an olive branch, and the tension in Wes's shoulders eased a notch.

"That would be right kind of you, Shae."

She waited for Shae to lead the gelding outside into the moonlight, all the while wondering how to approach a particularly touchy subject. When the door banged closed behind Shae, however, she was completely unprepared for the thick, weighty silence that fell around her and Wes.

He folded his arms across his chest. The gesture, she was sure, was meant to convey impatience, yet the rippling contraction of all those manly muscles had to be the most unconsciously sensual display she'd ever seen.

She cleared her throat.

His eyebrows rose in question.

Her mouth went dry all over again. There was something in his eyes, something dark and primal—even dangerous—that she'd never seen before. Whatever quality or essence that had always made him seem so boyishly charming was gone. Before her stood a man of shadowy motives and unforeseeable intent, a man whose very presence made her pulse fire and her skin heat, melting away the iron core of her resolve not to touch him.

Or want him.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything," he said, his voice deep, "but if you keep staring at me like that, I'm going to get ideas in my head just like the ones I got last night."

She tore her gaze free. "That, of course, would be a mistake."

"How can you be sure? There you go again, not giving a fella a chance."

It was the old banter with a new edge. Swallowing, she moistened her lips. "Wes"—she was mortified to hear how husky her own voice had become—"please. I know you're upset about what happened in town."

"I'm not upset."

She caught her breath, then slowly released it to the count of ten. The tactic still left her feeling shaky inside, as if every fiber of her being were resisting some magnetic pull. She kept her eyes trained on his ear, knowing that to brave his stare again would dissolve the last of her defenses.

"I know something's bothering you," she tried again, "and I want to be able to help you, if I can."

"Now that's music to my ears."

Her cheeks burned at his provocative tone.

"You deliberately misunderstand me." She glanced uncertainly at his face. "I was talking about Dukker."

"Ah..."

Her palms grew moist beneath the tangible intensity of his stare. "He's, er..." She shifted uncomfortably. "He's not someone you should provoke."

"Oh? And why's that?"

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Because the law is just a convenience to him, and his badge is a means to an end. Gator was the only man in this county who wasn't afraid of him, and now he's dead."

Wes's head tilted slightly as he continued to regard her. "Are you saying Dukker had something to do with Gator's murder?"

"I..." Her eyelids began to sting, and she blinked back tears. "I don't know. There's no proof, no evidence. It's just this feeling I have, and..." She swallowed again, fighting to control the quaver in her voice. "And Gator swore before he died that the man who gunned him down was white. I don't want to see you get shot in the back, Wes. Or anywhere else," she whispered tremulously.

One corner of his mouth quirked up at that. "Come here," he said quietly.

She bit her lip, unable to move.

"Come here."

His tone was gentler this time, yet there was an enticing enigma about its quality, one that lured her feet closer in spite of her better sense. He cupped her chin in one rough hand, and a gust of tingles breezed down her spine.

"I'm not one of your cubs, darlin'. I'm all grown up. And I've got some experience in these matters, probably even more than Gator had. So don't you worry yourself silly over me."

"I don't want you to get hurt," she murmured, her knees quivering shamefully.

"You know what I want?" His eyelids drooped, and he released her chin only to stroll a predatory step closer. "I want to know what you find so consarned interesting about this Ethan fellow."

She stumbled backward, and her spine struck the stall door. He reached a hand above her, bracing his weight on the wooden support beam, and leaned tantalizingly closer. Every muscle, every sinew was etched in ruddy lamplight, like a smoldering ember ready to burst into flame. Her heart hammered so loudly, she felt certain he must hear it, yet she couldn't make the rush of blood give life to her leaden feet.

"E-Ethan?"

"That's right. Ethan."

He was so close, so exhilaratingly, dangerously close, that she could touch him. She could map every plane and valley of his rock-ribbed frame, glide her fingertips along the satiny skin of his chest, or trail them through the red-gold hair that blazed a forbidden trail toward his jeans. The temptation was too much to bear. She knew she should run, but her feet remained as rooted as before. All she could do was sink helplessly against the door and ball her itching fingers into fists.

"Well? Don't tell me that fine mind of yours can't think of a single thing."

"Ethan's a good man," she said desperately.

"Yeah? And just what is he good at?"

He hadn't touched her yet. No part of their bodies was connected, yet she'd never felt so intimately bound to a man in her life. She breathed in rhythm to the mesmerizing rise and fall of his chest; her heart tripped in time to the pulsing cadence of the vein in his throat. Even that elusive quality, that energy she called her own, seemed to have merged with his, so that her skin was as sensitized to his flesh as if she had melded every pore into his own. She wondered if their connection was more than physical, if he could read her thoughts, if he knew how much she longed to touch him. Then she wondered how many other weak-willed spinsters he had seduced.

"You have a disturbing habit of—of twisting my words out of context." She forced the words past her trembling lips. "I came here to express my concern for you, not to—to repeat last night. I have tried my very best to be honest with you about that, Wes."

"Maybe." He bent his elbow, leaning infinitesimally closer, the warmth of his breath caressing her lips. "But if you're so all-fired fond of Ethan's courtship, then how come you chased away your chaperone? How come you're standing around in this barn with your half-naked hired hand?"

Her cheeks felt scalded at the truth of his words. She choked down a sob as he swam before her, and tears threatened to steal the last shreds of her composure. How could she answer without compromising herself further? How could she admit she felt lonely, that his laughter had reminded her of everything she'd ever wanted and his kisses had fanned the embers of her need?
I don't want to live my life alone,
she wanted to shout.
I want a man to hold me and love me and fill my emptiness with joy. Is that such a crime?

She shoved her way past him, stumbling for the door, and he threw out a hand to stop her.

"Rorie, wait."

She tugged her sleeve free, hurrying onward, and she heard his muffled oath. A steely forearm wrapped her waist, dragging her back against the granite hardness of his chest. She was so stunned by their contact that for a moment, all she could do was sag against him.

"Rorie, I'm sorry," he murmured against her hair. "Don't run away mad. I didn't mean to sound like such a cur dog. It's just that I wanted—"

He gave a short, bitter laugh, and she could feel his heart hammering against her back.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter what I wanted."

He released her, turning her to face him. Maybe it was just her tears, or the shock of being cradled for one heartbreakingly brief moment in his arms, but when she gazed up into his eyes, she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of melancholy much like her own in those misty-green depths.

"Thank you for worrying about me," he said with a faint smile. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before releasing her. "It's nice to have somebody care about me again. It makes me feel kind of like I'm back home."