Adrienne deWolfe (34 page)

She had some mighty strong feelings for him, all right, Wes thought. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stared at the wrinkles he'd made in Shae's linen Sunday shirt. "I need to make her understand that... I'm not like Bill Malone."

"Well, there'll be plenty of time for that, after she calms down. In the meantime, I just don't see any way around it. You're going to have to ride out of here."

Wes's head shot up. "The hell I do. Even if you could be alert every minute of the day, a time will come when you have to leave the farm, and Creed and his rough-riders will be waiting for you."

Shae met his gaze steadily. "I've already thought of that. There are a couple fellows I know, friends of mine around the county, who are tired of watching the Dukkers push their daddies around. I think Tom Parker and Jasper Wilson will be only too happy to bring their guns and lend a hand around the farm."

"Whoa. Slow down, son. Bringing in a couple of colored boys with guns is just the excuse Dukker needs to wage a full-scale race war."

Shae's eyebrows rose. "Who said they were colored boys?"

Wes grew even warmer under the boy's challenging stare. He decided to change the subject. "So Dukker's been causing trouble all over?"

"Let's just say he and his so-called deputies tend to take long rides out of town. Folks have learned to mind their own business. If they don't see anything, they can't talk; and if they don't talk, none of their women or children gets hurt.

"You may be the law around here until folks elect a county sheriff," Shae continued, "but that badge of yours isn't likely to loosen any tongues. Dukker's got folks too scared to trust the law. You're going to have your work cut out for you, when you go door to door recruiting witnesses. The way I see it, you're going to have to catch Dukker in the act."

"In the act of what?"

"Selling moonshine to the Injuns."

Wes's jaw began to twitch. So that's why the bastard had killed Gator. Gator apparently had found out about the smuggling, but since Dukker was his kin, Gator had probably just given the man a warning. Wes was willing to bet it was the last mistake Gator made.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you, of course," Shae added.

Wes gave the boy a narrowed, appraising stare. It wasn't any secret that Shae had an ax to grind with his cousins. Wes didn't think much of the Dukkers, either, but he had no license to take away their freedom without evidence of a crime. He wondered how far he could trust Shae not to shade the truth.

"No offense, son, but I need you here with your scattergun. You just concentrate on taking care of your family. I'll concentrate on the Dukkers."

Shae's lips twisted. "Fair enough. I reckon this means we'll be seeing a lot of you around the county, then. If I were you, I wouldn't show my face back here for another week, though. Miss Aurora will need at least that much time to think things through."

"A week? Dammit, Shae, I can't leave here now the way things are between us!"

"And I'm telling you, you'll have to. If you go in there right now, you'll be making a bigger mistake than you made last night."

Wes stiffened. Shae had known Rorie longer than he had, so it stood to reason the boy would know better than he how she would react.

Still, the thought of letting her believe the worst—that he'd used her and had no intention of coming back—didn't set right with him.

But you have no intention of coming back,
his conscience reminded him.
Or rather, you have no intention of staying. All you'll be doing is giving her false hopes, making promises you can't keep, whether you go in there now or a week from now. Are you really such a bastard as that?

Making a strangled sound, he turned and headed for Two-Step. His pulse was pounding so hard in his ears, he didn't at first hear the anxious cries behind him.

"Uncle Wes! Uncle Wes! Wait, don't go!"

His heart sickened when he saw Topher and Merrilee struggling to push past Shae. The boy's resolve weakened, and he let them pass with Nita, who ran with them across the yard.

Topher was the first to reach his side, and he grabbed hold of Wes's hand. "Where are you going?"

The child's panicked voice and desperate grip were nearly Wes's undoing. Then Merrilee reached him, throwing her arms around his hips, and he choked.

"Children," he said gruffly, squatting to bring himself to their level. "I have to go."

"But why?" Topher asked plaintively.

Wes drew a ragged breath. Shae had followed the others with Po in his arms. Now he stood beside Nita's quaking shoulders. Wes couldn't bear to look higher than that. He heard the sniffles the girl was trying so valiantly to repress.

"Because..." He hung his head. "Because I did a very bad thing. I lied about who I was. I thought it was more of a secret at first, a secret I had no choice but to keep, but now I see how wrong I was. I hurt Miss Rorie when I lied. I hurt her real bad, even though I didn't mean to. That's why it's so important always to tell the truth, children."

"Are you sorry you lied, Uncle Wes?" Merrilee's great eyes raised to his in concern.

"Yes. Very sorry."

She pressed her palm to his cheek. "Then I forgive you."

"Me too," Topher said fiercely.

Wes blinked hard. Glancing up, he cleared his vision in time to see a tear roll down Nita's cheek. Even Shae looked glassy-eyed.

"Thank you, children."

"We'll talk to Miss Rorie." Nita's smile was tremulous, pleading. "Don't go, Uncle Wes. We'll tell her how sorry you are. She won't be mad anymore, and then she'll let you stay."

He shook his head, wishing to God it might be that easy. "I have to go. I have to find the man who shot Sheriff Gator."

Merrilee caught her breath. "The bad man?"

The fear in her voice was more than he could bear. Nodding, he started to rise, but Topher and Merrilee clung to his shoulders, and Nita hugged his neck. He held them to his aching breast until he heard Po's giggle and the shuffle of escaping baby feet.

"Me play! Me too!" Po's gleaming black head poked its way inside the huddle. "Pick me up, Unca Wes!"

A tear slipped past all his defenses. He wrenched free, and stumbled blindly to Two-Step, throwing himself into the saddle.

"You're coming back, aren't you, Uncle Wes?"

He gritted his teeth against a lie, a false promise, and spurred the gelding down the drive.

"Uncle Wes?" Topher's voice rose again until it cracked. "Uncle Wes, come back!"

Urging the gelding faster, he closed his eyes and ears to their cries as best he could.

But there was no defense he could raise to keep them from his heart.

Chapter 16

Wes never did put the events of that Sunday morning behind him. Fourteen days passed, fifteen nights dragged by, and still he could not shake his melancholy. Loneliness had sunk into his bones, leaving him lost and empty. It was a feeling not unlike the one he'd experienced eleven months earlier, when he'd ridden away from Cord and Fancy for the last time.

Even the prospect of a rigorous chase after Dukker beneath the boundless Texas sky couldn't spark the kind of blood-tingling excitement he used to feel when tracking an outlaw. He felt as if he'd lost another home, another family, the third one in his lifetime.

Common sense told him he was being absurdly maudlin, that six days were hardly enough time to forge an attachment to anything, much less a woman and four children. But for a man who had always prided himself on carefree living, his daily routine had become extraordinarily dull.

He tried to fill his daylight hours with interrogating, since his nights belonged to vigils in the cornfields within rifle distance of Rorie's front door. Steering clear of Elodea for the time being, he introduced himself to the small farmers and ranchers who were struggling to eke out a livelihood within a thirty-mile radius of town.

True to Shae's prediction, though, he found county residents suspicious of his badge and fearful of his guns. No one had seen hide nor hair of Dukkers, Injuns, Doc Warren, or stills, or so they claimed.

As for Gator Boudreau, only a handful of people knew their sheriff had been gunned down. Apparently, gossip didn't spread quickly across the rolling hills and fertile woodlands of central Bandera County.

After a fruitless week of combing the county, looking for witnesses to testify to Dukker's moonshine smuggling, Wes returned to town. He figured he would find more dirt on Dukker closer to the man's home. Dukker might have silenced the Negro and Mexican farmers with his bullying and his riflemen, but someone, somewhere was bound to have a loose tongue—especially if whiskey was flowing. Wes started spending a good deal of time at Sultan's saloon.

"Yeah, sure," one old-timer told him as he helped himself to the bottle of rotgut Wes had bought to woo informants. "Everybody knows Hannibal and that boy of his got a couple irons in the fire. But you ain't likely to catch Hannibal doing something shady. He ain't fool enough to misbehave while a Ranger's nosing around."

Another saloon patron, a fidgety greenhorn who clerked for lawyer Callahan, confided there'd been rumors of misconduct during the latest election, when Doc Warren was officiating the balloting process. "Phineas Faraday was voted in as mayor, which split town council down the middle," the clerk confided. "Three fellows wanted to take Dukker's badge; Faraday sided with the two who feared for their families. Last I heard, that motion got tabled for good."

Wes found this piece of information interesting, and he decided to pay another call on Phineas Faraday.

His luck was on a roll that Monday afternoon. He'd no sooner stepped up to the porch of the
Enquirer,
when angry voices drifted out to him through the open window. Two men were arguing behind the printing press. Moving stealthily away from the glass, Wes stood beside the door and listened.

"That's another favor you owe me, you lick-finger. Don't think I'm not counting." Dukker's guttural voice wasn't hard to recognize.

"Now you hold on one damned minute! I never asked for any favors."

"Yeah?" Wes could hear the sneer in Dukker's voice. "Well, you got them anyway, Faraday. Your life got a whole lot easier when a certain election official went away."

"Your crimes have nothing to do with me."

"Think again, ink-slinger. If I go down, you go down with me. So you'd best ride a close herd on that highfalutin' daughter of yours—"

"Why, hello, Ranger Rawlins. Did you come to see Papa?"

Wes jumped, biting back an oath as Lorelei Faraday, dressed in lemon-colored silks and lace, approached her father's doorstep with a picnic basket over one arm and a parasol over the other.

Nodding irritably to Lorelei, Wes strained to hear more of Dukker's threat, but the argument inside had ended.

"I brought lunch for Papa." She smiled brightly at him, apparently unaware of her untimely distraction. "There's enough for two, though, if you'd care to join him. Fried chicken, cornbread biscuits, fresh peach cobbler—"

Suddenly the door was wrenched open, and Hannibal Dukker stood on the threshold. Lorelei gasped, edging a step closer to Wes, and Dukker curled his lip in the vague resemblance of a smile.

"What, no lunch for me, Miss Lorelei?"

She glanced uncertainly at Wes. He was just about to come to her defense when she raised her chin and squared her shoulders.

"I should think not, sir. The very idea is enough to rob one of one's appetite. Fortunately, I already broke my fast with your cousin—Shae McFadden."

Dukker's face turned an ominous shade of red, and Wes caught Lorelei's arm, pulling her safely behind him.

"You have something on your mind, Dukker? Because I sure would love to hear it," Wes said, his hand straying toward his holster.

Dukker's eyes glittered like an ice-covered stream. He freed Lorelei from his glare and slowly, deliberately, raised his gaze to Wes.

"Cute little filly, ain't she? Sassy and wild. Not like that nag you've been riding, eh, boy?"

Wes tensed, and Dukker sneered.

"You folks have a nice day." Dukker turned, lumbering like a bear down the sidewalk toward the saloon.