Adrienne deWolfe (46 page)

In desperation, she leaned back and struck his face full force.

He staggered back. His hand flew to the crimson stain on his cheek, and the hurt in his eyes nearly killed her.

"Let me go." Her voice cracked as she backed for the door. "Accept what cannot be."

Then she stumbled out onto the sidewalk, blinded by a sun that was setting on her hopes and dreams, and turning her heart to ashes.

Wes reeled, his vision too blurred to see as he groped for support.

"Aurora..."

His hand struck the desk, and he sank heavily, perching on the scarred wood top.

She was gone. This time he had lost her forever.

"Rorie..."

His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, shaking with the helpless rage and grief that ripped up his insides. Not until she'd thrown sons in his face had he fully realized what her barrenness would mean if he pursued a future with her. And yet, how could he let her walk out of his life? How could he let her become some other man's wife? He loved her. He loved her orphas too. But she'd made up her mind for them both. She expected his heart to live with her choice.

Accept what cannot be.

The memory of her words was a private hell that burned through all the fibers of his body. Everything inside of him shriveled and crumbled, like the charcoal remains of a tree after the onslaught of a forest fire. It hurt too much to think, to breathe, to be.

He raised his head. Staring glassily out the open door, he tried to catch some last, fleeting glimpse of her. But it was a faded red-and-black sign that swam into focus.

He heaved himself to his feet. He reached for his hat and the Winchester Shae had returned. The crowd had largely dispersed, and the womenfolk were dragging their drunken men home. Now it was his turn to ride the bottle to damnation.

With a self-deprecating sneer, he headed for Sultan's saloon, never noticing the boy-sized shadow that cowered behind the potbellied stove in his office.

He never heard the scraping of a widdy in the desk drawer's lock, or the rattle of the key ring he'd thought was safe from theft.

* * *

Danny had never seen a man cry before. He'd seen women cry—mostly his ma, after his pa was finished beating her—and he'd even cried himself a few times, when his pa had given him a blackened eye or broken tooth.

But he'd never seen Creed cry. He'd never seen his pa cry, either. Danny should have known that sarsaparilla-chugging Ranger was nothing but a sissy.

Slinking through the alleys, heedless of their refuse, Danny crouched beneath the window of the jail and waited for some whooping, six-shooting cowboys to stagger out of sight. His heart raced with the excitement and the danger. The drunkards, not the Ranger, worried him. After all, Danny had seen what his pa did when he got roostered, and the memories scared Danny down to his bones.

Everything about his pa scared him sometimes, like the time Pa had threatened to kill him just for stealing a five-cent piece from the dresser to buy a couple of candies. Luckily, Creed had come home, and he'd sobered up right quick to find Pa's hands squeezing Danny's throat.

It bothered Danny that Pa and Creed fought like wild Injuns, mostly over Miss Lorelei. Still, it was nice not to be hit, and when Creed was around, he would take the blows himself before he'd let Pa strike Danny.

But Creed wasn't around much anymore, now that he was chasing that little cockteaser—that's what Pa called Miss Lorelei. Pa didn't like the way Miss Lorelei put on airs, and when Pa didn't like something, he drank, which never boded well for Danny.

But Danny figured Pa wouldn't try to hit him for a whole week, maybe even longer, if Danny was the one who got Pa out of jail.

Tiptoeing around the corner of the building, Danny fumbled with the lock and finally pushed inside. In the shaft of moonlight that spilled from the window into the holding cell, he could see two beady eyes, as red and wild as a javalina's, glaring at him from the lump of whiskey-stale flesh on the floor. Yellowed teeth glinted dully as Pa drew back his lips, and Danny edged uneasily forward. He knew that look. It meant trouble.

"What took you so long, boy?"

Danny winced as Pa's breath washed over him.

"Rawlins was fighting with that old schoolmarm."

"Yeah?" Pa lumbered to his feet, snatching the keys from Danny's inexpert hands and unlocking the cell door himself. "What were them two fighting about?"

Danny frowned, trying to remember. All that jawing and boo-hooing hadn't made much sense to him.

"Babies. And getting hitched, I think."

Pa's lips twisted in his I-got-a-rabbit-in-my-gunsights grin. "You don't say?"

He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers, and Danny carefully pulled from his boot the Remington he'd stolen from the Ranger's desk. Unhooking the safety, Pa spun the wheel and gave a satisfied grunt.

"I got your badge too," Danny said eagerly, plucking the tin star from his shirt.

Pa holstered his gun. "Good work, boy."

Danny beamed. Pa must love him again.

"Where the hell's that no-account, Nancy-boy brother of yours?"

Danny jumped up to sit on the desk, watching curiously as Pa heaved and cursed, pushing a stack of firewood away from the stove.

"Sultan's, I reckon. The Ranger went there, too, but now he's gone."

Pa looked up sharply. "Gone?"

Danny nodded. "Yeah. I saw him ride off with a whiskey bottle a little while ago, after his fight with the schoolmarm."

Pa snorted and knelt. He jimmied up a couple of loose floorboards, then pulled a cedar box from the cobwebs underneath the floor.

"Light the lamp, boy."

Danny scrambled to obey, then watched as Pa grabbed the crowbar he always used to "rattle the cage" when he was bored and his prisoners weren't much fun. Soon he'd pried the nails off the lid and was pulling a gunnysack, robe, and black cloth gloves from the box.

"What about McFadden?" Pa's lip curled over the name.

"Well, after Miss Lorelei gave him his kiss and his prize, he made a beeline for the bank. I saw him drive off a little later with the rest of that half-breed trash."

"Little bitch," Pa muttered. "She ain't half as smart as she thinks she is, cozying up with her questions and her tits."

Pa was inspecting the gunnysack now. It had four holes on one side, kind of like an All Hallow's Eve mask. His grin came back, the one that always made Danny's skin goose-pimply.

"I got a job for you, boy."

"Yeah, Pa?" Danny sat up with excitement. It wasn't often that Pa chose him for a job over Creed.

"Go over to the hoedown. Find the cockteaser and get her outside, away from all the lights. But don't let her know it's me who's waiting for her. Be real secretive like. Say it's... McFadden. Yeah, McFadden. Think you can do that, boy?"

Danny nodded, a little disappointed by such an easy task. "Sure, Pa. But then what'll I do?"

Pa smirked, pulling on his gloves and flexing one hand into a black fist.

"Well, son, then you can watch me give Miss Lorelei just what she's been asking for."

* * *

At ten o'clock, Rorie wearily blew out the sitting room lamp. Founder's Day had been the longest, most brutal experience of her life, and she was glad it was finally over. Not that she actually thought she might sleep when she climbed the stairs to her bed. Far from it. The look on Wes's face as she'd run out the door that afternoon would haunt her the rest of her life. No amount of justification could erase the grief she'd caused him.

She'd tried her best to make the choice that would serve the highest good of all. Yet even though she'd made the most logical, fact-based decision possible, everyone involved was bitterly unhappy. How could something so sensible feel so wrong?

She felt as if she was being punished. To make matters worse, her misery had upset her stomach again. Ginevee had helped her out of the wagon during one of several retching-stops along the way home, and the dear woman had stumbled over a gopher hole. Now Ginevee's ankle was swollen twice its normal size. She was an even poorer patient than Rorie, and Rorie didn't know how she was going to keep her friend off her feet for the next couple of days.

A distant shout and the muffled pounding of hooves distracted her from her worries. Glancing out the window, she saw Shae emerge from the barn, where he'd been filling the animals' watering troughs for the night. He set down his bucket, squinting at the moonlit silhouette of horse and rider. She went out the front door to join him.

"Do you think it's Jasper?" she asked hopefully. He and Tom had been too indisposed for Shae to drag them down from Sultan's second-story "Tea Room" when the time came to leave. Rorie just hoped the boys wouldn't catch any diseases from their "hostesses."

Shae frowned. "Not likely. I've never seen Jasper ride like that."

Crouched high on his mount's neck, the rider was pushing his horse hard, shouting encouragements mixed with curses. An uneasy feeling slithered through Rorie's innards. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

"McFadden!" It was Creed's voice, high and wavering. His pitch was too shrill for belligerence; it sounded urgent, even scared.

A muscle in Shae's jaw twitched. "Get inside," he told her.

Running to the well, he grabbed his shotgun and crouched down as Creed galloped up the drive.

"McFadden, don't shoot!"

Rorie hesitated, one foot on the porch stairs, one foot in the yard.

"I've come to warn you!"

"That's far enough, Dukker," Shae shouted back, raising his Whitney.

Creed swore, and his horse neighed, pawing the air as Creed wrestled it to a halt.

"I don't have time to argue with you, boy! Lorelei's been hurt. She's been hurt bad. She... might not make it."

Shae's shoulders tensed. "What do you mean, she's been hurt?"

"Raped
, dammit, all right? Some bastard raped her!" Creed's voice broke, and his chest heaved. "Listen to me! Pa's deputizing a posse. They're headed this way."

Rorie's heart stalled. Dukker was leading a posse? But surely Wes hadn't let him out of jail, even to avenge Lorelei.

In the distance, she could see flickering lights. Those pinpoints must be a half-dozen or more torches. Dear Lord, what had happened to Wes?

Shae rose shakily to his feet. "But who—"

"I don't know! No one knows. She hasn't woken up since Danny found her. Now the whole town's out for blood—your blood, McFadden. Pa's got everyone convinced she kissed you, and you wanted more."

"That's a lie!" Shae's face looked unnaturally pale in the wash of the moon.

Rorie hurried to his side. She could feel him trembling.

"Shae's been here with me all evening, Creed."

"Hell, don't you think I know that? I saw you Sinclairs leave three hours ago, before the hoedown. But no one's going to believe you—or me either. I already tried. Your only chance is to ride out of here, McFadden. And don't go south to Hawkins's spread. That's the first place Pa will look once he leaves here."

The front door slammed, and an anxious Ginevee stood on the porch, surrounded by four pajama-clad children.

"What's going on?" Topher mumbled, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

"Everyone inside," Rorie snapped, her brain whirring into action in her otherwise frozen body. "Ginevee, grab a canteen. Food. Ammo. Nita, get me a pen and paper."

"But—"

"Now,
Topher. Everyone inside."

Shae, meanwhile, had spotted the torches. "Where's Rawlins?" he demanded uneasily.

"Don't know. I ain't seen hide nor hair of your Ranger friend since he cozied up to a whiskey bottle. That was nearly two hours ago." Creed started to shorten his reins. "Look, boy, I've done all I can do for you. Now I got to go find my brother."

"Why aren't you riding with the posse?"

Creed looked over his shoulder at Shae as he wheeled his skittering mount. "Because Pa's gone too far this time. Too damned far."

As Creed spurred his horse back down the drive toward town, Rorie grabbed Shae's arm.

"Hurry, Shae. Saddle Daisy."

Shae's grip tightened on his shotgun, and his gaze shifted from the torches to her. "I can't leave you and the children—"

"Don't argue!" She pushed him toward the barn. "It's not us they want, it's you. Hurry! You can go to the Rawlins ranch. It's not more than a day's ride north of here."

Oh God, Wes, where are you?

In record time, Ginevee had returned, hobbling outside with a bulging satchel and Gator's Smith & Wesson revolver. Heedless of the pain it must have caused her, she limped down the stairs toward Shae, who was dragging a recalcitrant Daisy from her stall. Ginevee glanced from the torches, which were growing ever larger on the horizon, back to her grandson, and her eyes brimmed.

"Shae?" she whispered hoarsely.

The boy swallowed. "Maw-Maw."

He held open his arms, and she rushed to him, clinging to his shirt front for a moment.