Adrienne deWolfe (27 page)

She knew it was wrong to enjoy the half circle of his arm, so audaciously possessive and yet strangely comforting as he anchored her waist to his; or the devilishly casual way his thighs brushed hers, making her pulse skitter each time he pressed her back in a straight line. She couldn't remember the last time she'd danced and looked up into an attentive, laughing face—rather than down into a glazed and distant stare.

A delicious shiver tiptoed down her spine. The glow in his gaze was intoxicating; she imagined she was valued and admired, even pretty, in his eyes. His smile dazzled her enough to believe it. She hadn't felt so exhilarated, so lighthearted or joyful in years.

She knew she was dangerously close to surrender, that all her high ideals and righteous principles couldn't save her from this man. As much as she tried to convince herself that latent desire was to blame, deep down she knew her loneliness had little to do with her attraction to Wes. Clever and winsome, sensitive and sensual, he'd razed the final barrier to her heart when he combined compassion and ingenuity for Merrilee's sake. Rorie tried to tell herself it was too soon to have such feelings, that she'd known him for only six short days, and yet, the same giddy question kept racing through her brain: Could she be falling in love with him?

It was her last thought before a shot rang out, smashing the window and showering glass all around her.

Chapter 12

"Everybody down!" Wes shouted.

Rorie barely had time to react before his hard body toppled hers, shielding her from the spray of glass. She dimly heard the whoops of mounted gunmen and the frightened cries of the children, and she fought the rush of her own panic as Wes scrambled to his feet. He drew his .45 and doused the lamps.

"Miss Rorie?" Merrilee's shaky whisper followed fast on the heels of a sob. As her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, Rorie spied the child huddled with her doll under the table. Crawling hastily to her side, she pulled Merrilee into her arms. Topher, his face ashen, scampered into her lap.

"McFadden!" It was Creed's voice, slurred from drink. "We got a score to settle, you nigger bastard. Come on out! I know you're hiding in there behind all those skirts!"

Amidst the cacophony of laughter, jeers, and revolver reports, she heard flames whoosh to life outside. In the light of the blaze, she glimpsed Ginevee clutching Po and Nita to her breasts.

Suddenly Wes's shadow leaped across the wall. Protective, fearless, and larger than life, it loomed over them all, much as Wes loomed in the window. His face was a mask of stark, raw fury. When he raised his Peacemaker she held her breath.

Once, twice, three times, the muzzle spat fire. Each shot was followed by a howl, a yelp, or a curse.

"My leg!"

"My arm!"

"You didn't tell us the nigger could shoot. Let's get the hell out of here!"

A trio of centaur shadows rolled across the wall. Just as quickly as it had begun, the shooting was over. Creed and his band of bullies rode off to lick their wounds, and Rorie was left with a roomful of cowering, whimpering children. Her own limbs were shaking so badly, she wasn't sure she could stand.

"Wes!" Her voice cracked, and he hesitated in his rush for the door. "The children," she said hoarsely, too stunned and too awed by his ferocious skill to utter a single word more.

She watched his jaw twitch. His gaze flitted to the straw effigy, most likely Gator's scarecrow, burning in the dirt drive outside. Then his eyes met hers, and his features softened.

"Is anyone hurt?" He scanned the children's trembling bodies and tearstained faces in the effigy's eerie light.

Four little heads shook, but no one spoke. No one hardly dared to breathe, in fact, as everyone looked up at Wes, so authoritative and commanding, and so startlingly different from the flirt who'd danced with them only minutes before.

"It's over now." His voice was gruff, allowing no room for argument. "They're gone now, and they won't be coming back."

Rorie bit her tongue on her doubts, but Merrilee shifted under her arm, peeking up at Wes through her fingers.

"Was it the bad men?" she whispered tremulously.

Outrage vied with the tender concern spreading across Wes's face. "No, sweetheart." Holstering his gun, he squatted down before the child. "It was Creed Dukker and some of his friends. They were out for a little sport, that's all. They weren't firing at anybody on purpose."

Rorie wasn't entirely convinced. Creed had come to make trouble with Shae. No doubt he'd intended to finish the fistfight over Lorelei Faraday that Rorie had interrupted on Monday.

Nita must have suspected the same thing, for she glanced anxiously up at Ginevee before turning her troubled gaze to Wes.

"But what about Shae?" she asked. "I mean, ever since that Lorelei Faraday made it clear she'd rather court anyone—even a colored boy—over the likes of Creed Dukker, the whole town has been mean to Shae. It isn't even Shae that's causing the trouble!"

Rorie knew Nita's version of the truth was based on her jealousy. In reality, Shae had always been ambitious, which some Elodeans liked to term uppity. He hadn't discouraged Lorelei's calf-eyed glances, particularly after the Dukkers accused him of trying to rise above his so-called station.

Rorie knew Lorelei's attention flattered Shae, but she also knew the boy had no real interest in courtship and marriage at this time. College was his heart's desire.

"You needn't worry about Shae, Nita," Rorie said as firmly as her constricted throat would allow. "He's safe at the Garcias'. Besides, he's got one of Wes's revolvers and Gator's shotgun to protect him."

"Yeah, but Shae can't shoot like Uncle Wes can," Topher said, scrambling to his feet as Wes reached to help Merrilee. "Even Sheriff Gator never shot as good as you," Topher added, this time to Wes. Admiration replaced the dread on his still-pale face. "Three shots and three hits all on moving targets. And in the dark too! Can you teach me to shoot like that, Uncle Wes? Can you?"

The eagerness in Topher's voice made Rorie's gut knot. She met Wes's eyes uneasily.

"A man doesn't fire on another man unless he's ready to take a bullet himself," he answered firmly, offering Rorie his hand. "If I had my druthers, I wouldn't have hit anyone at all. Creed Dukker had to be taught he can't go around shooting up houses full of women and children. That was a low-down, cowardly stunt he pulled, son, and damned irresponsible too."

Rorie silently blessed him. Then his warm, strong fingers closed around hers, and she came dangerously close to tears. What if he hadn't been here to chase off Creed and his hooligans? What if Wes had ridden into town for Saturday-night recreation like any other red-blooded, unmarried man? What would she and Ginevee have done then?

"Are you hurt?" he murmured, his gaze anxious and questioning as he helped her rise.

Shaking her head, she stumbled on the glass. His arm wrapped her waist, pulling her against him. She squeezed her eyes closed, hating the moisture that lurked there. She wished she dared let him hold her to his heart forever, so she could absorb his comforting warmth and fill herself with his strength, but she had the children to think about. She couldn't let them see her grow weepy.

"It's going to be all right," he said huskily in her ear. "I won't let anyone hurt you or the children."

She nodded, pasting on a brave smile as she dragged herself from his embrace. "Of course not. You... are very kind. And we owe you a great debt, Wes. One, I'm afraid, which we can't fully repay."

His brows knitted. "Rorie—"

She looked away. She couldn't bear for him to gaze at her with such tender concern. Not now, when she was struggling not to fling herself back into his arms.

"Ginevee, please help me put the children to bed."

"Rorie." He was more insistent this time, his hand closing over her sleeve. "I need to talk with you—"

"Not now, Wes, please." She glanced meaningfully at the children. "I need for you to put out that fire before the wind spreads it to the house."

His jaw grew harder at her rebuff. "All right."

She released a shuddering breath, relieved, yet disappointed as well, when he dropped his hand. Drawing herself up taller, she took refuge from the tumult in her breast by turning to the only haven she'd ever had.

"Come along, children. I'll read you a bedtime story before we douse the lights. Something with a happy ending. Would you like that?"

* * *

Wes paced the porch like a caged puma. He kept one eye on the door, hoping Rorie would come outside so he could finally confess he was a Ranger. He kept his other eye on the drive, wondering where the hell Shae was and if the boy might not be in trouble after all.

Riding after Creed and beating the stuffing out of him would have gone a long way to restoring Wes's humor. He didn't dare leave Rorie alone to fend for herself, though. When the window had shattered around her, he'd feared she'd been pierced by the shards of glass or the bullet that had launched them, and terror had ripped through his soul.

In that frozen moment in time, when he'd been helpless to do anything more than wrap himself around her, a mindless rage had seized him. He would have walked into a hail of gunfire naked and unarmed, just to tear Creed Dukker limb from limb. That sonuvabitch had been lucky. If four impressionable children hadn't been watching, Wes might not have been so careful to inflict mere flesh wounds on Creed's gang.

He scowled first at the sitting-room window, which he'd had to board, and then at the charred remains of Gator's scarecrow. He'd seen similar debris a hundred or more times after some drunken cowboys hurrahed a town, but after seeing Rorie so pale and shaking, he would never be able to forgive Creed's mischief.

Rorie's expression had nearly done him in. With her eyes so misty pleading, he'd been certain she'd wanted him—needed him—to console her. The minute he tried to comfort her, though, she'd turned coltish on him again. The woman ran so hot and cold, it made his head spin. If she were a born coquette or an accomplished schemer, he might have thought she was indulging in some elaborate tease.

Instead, she'd taken great pains to be honest with him about her intentions and Ethan. At least, that's what she'd claimed two nights ago.

He scowled at the memory.

Maybe she didn't know her own mind. Or maybe she did, but what she secretly wanted, a man like him, frightened the living daylights out of her. Maybe that was why she kept trying to convince him her wanting didn't exist.

She wasn't fooling him, though. Not after their kiss. A river of passion ran through Aurora Sinclair, and the harder she tried to dam it, the more he wanted her. God help him. He wanted a proper lady with four children, more principled notions than he could count, and a hurting streak so wide, it made the Rio Grande look like a crack full of water. Had he lost his ever-loving mind?

The sound of a galloping horse pricked his ears and jerked his attention back to his surroundings. Grabbing his Winchester, he dropped behind the corner of the house where the shadows were dark and concealing. He didn't have to wait long for the rider to come into view. Recognizing Daisy's pale flanks and flattened ears, he marveled that Shae had left the wagon behind to spur the nag out of her habitually lazy gait.

The boy reined in hard when he saw the ashes and the window. Drawing Wes's .45, he jumped to the ground. He knelt for a moment, rubbing his fingers over dark splotches on the drive. Wes stepped forward in time to see the boy sniff what he'd found. Shae stiffened.

They regarded each other with long measured stares for what seemed like an uncommonly long time. Finally, reluctantly, Shae turned the borrowed revolver butt-forward and handed it back to Wes.

"So it's you," he said flatly.

"Heard the gunshots?"

Shae's smile was grim and wary. "Half the county heard. There's blood here. Whose is it?"

"Creed's... and some other fellas who came looking for you."

Shae started, his gaze rising to the lighted second-story of the house.

"The children are scared, but they're not hurt," Wes said, answering the boy's unspoken question. "Do you want to tell me what the hell I've been protecting them from?"