Adrienne deWolfe (6 page)

"Well, I think Shae McFadden and his kind should take their blessed rights someplace else!"

Lorelei made an exasperated sound. Wes was hard-pressed not to do the same. The taste of sweet potatoes had turned bitter on his tongue, and he pushed back his plate.

"Oh, dear." For a moment, Mrs. Faraday looked positively stricken to see a large portion of his pie go uneaten. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Rawlins?"

Wes forced a smile. "Not at all, ma'am." In truth, he preferred his aunt Lally's pie recipe, not to mention her company. The Rawlins matriarch never judged a man by his skin color, and she'd taught Wes to do the same. "It's just that this belt of mine needs a little loosening." He winked, leaning back and patting his belly.

Mrs. Faraday tittered. Lorelei's face fell. Standing abruptly, she pressed her lips together and began to gather serving platters.

The mayor looked up, his brow wrinkling in concern. "Lorelei? Is something wrong, child?"

"Of course not, Papa. Don't mind me. I'm sure you and Mr. Rawlins have a great many things to discuss."

"Nonsense, Lorelei." Mrs. Faraday's smile was tight with annoyance. "Mr. Rawlins has called to talk with you. The dishes can wait."

Mrs. Faraday practically forced Lorelei and Wes to sit on the porch swing together, and the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty perched nervously on its edge. As the silence grew more awkward, Wes wondered how to remove himself so he could wire headquarters.

Finally Lorelei stopped worrying her bottom lip long enough to speak.

"I... hope you won't judge Mrs. Sinclair too harshly, Mr. Rawlins," she said, tossing an irritated glance toward the parlor window, where they could see her mother's stout silhouette. "In spite of the things Mama says, I can't help but feel sorry for Mrs. Sinclair. At her age, and with those children, she'd be uncommonly fortunate to do better than a Dukker."

Lorelei's shudder was almost imperceptible. Wes was quick to notice it, though, and he couldn't stave off a protective instinct toward the seventeen-year-old girl. Lorelei was the first Elodean he had met who displayed genuine sympathy for Aurora Sinclair... and who talked openly of her distrust of the Dukkers.

"Am I to understand, Miss Faraday," he teased gently, "that you've had some experience entertaining gentlemen callers named Dukker?"

She drew a quick breath, and her color rose rapidly. "You might as well know, Mr. Rawlins. Elodea is a very small town. There aren't that many young men who are eligible to come calling."

Wes bit his tongue on, "That's a shame." He might feel empathy for Lorelei, but he didn't want to be shotgunned into marrying her. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Lorelei raised troubled, doelike eyes to his. "Papa says you won't be staying here for long. He says you're a Ranger and you've come to drive Shae off the land. Is that true?"

"Well..." Wes considered the silent plea in her gaze. He wondered if she was asking him to stay and court her, or if she was begging him to leave Shae in peace.

"I'll be here until I can figure out who's got the legal claim to Sheriff Boudreau's spread, if that's what you mean. 'Course, if there's a will like young Shae says, I won't need to hang my hat here for long."

Lorelei shook her head and sighed. "Honestly, Mr.Rawlins, Shae isn't one to stir up trouble. I daresay he has more honor than the whole clan of Dukkers combined."

"Sounds like you know a lot about Shae."

He waited expectantly, noting the wistfulness that flickered across her features. She cast another wary glance at the window.

"We're... of a same age."

"I see."

She blushed once more. "You mustn't get the wrong idea," she said quickly. "It's just that... Well..." The pink ruffles on her bodice trembled in her agitation. "People in this town won't give Shae a chance, and I don't think it's fair. Did you know he wants to go to that new Negro college when it opens in Prairie View next year? And someday read the law? Why, all that Creed Dukker wants to do is distill lightning whiskey!"

Wes found this piece of news interesting, to say the least. It occurred to him that Lorelei's uncommon friendship with Shae probably accounted for her parents' determination to pair her up with another male caller. Even a wild and woolly one like him.

But if Wes found the intrigue in Lorelei's young life interesting, he found the mystery in Aurora's more mature world fascinating. Had she really become Boudreau's mistress—and under the nose of his wife yet? Was there truth to the rumor that she'd conspired with Shae to keep Boudreau's homestead for herself?

Was she really as scarlet as the town wanted to paint her?

Bidding good night to Lorelei and her parents, Wes rode to the telegraph office and pounded on the door until the operator roused himself from the bedroom upstairs. The man was nervous and uncooperative, no doubt due to his interrupted sleep, so Wes paid him extra to send a wire to the county seat, asking for information about the sheriff's death and a verification of his will.

Next, Wes wired Ranger headquarters in Austin for news of any outlaw gangs that might be operating in and around Bandera County.

Then, his skin prickling with thoughts of Dukker, he decided against dropping his guard long enough to sleep in Elodea's hotel—or worse, at Sultan's Dance Hall. Riding several miles out of town, he pitched camp beneath the pecan trees, chokecherries, and cedars, and tried to catch some sleep.

* * *

A gunshot exploded to the west.

Wes sat bolt upright, nearly blinded by the rising sun. The report had come from the direction of Boudreau's homestead. For a moment, his vision swam with the image of frightened little faces, of trembling bodies racing for the storm cellar.

The children.

He was on his feet, grabbing for his gun belt and his cartridge case even as the second report rolled down ominously from the hills. Grabbing the leads of Two-Step's halter, he vaulted onto the gelding's back and spurred him to a gallop. Wes left behind his saddle, bedroll, and even his hat. He would have time to retrieve them later. All he cared about now was the children.

And getting his sights on any bastard who might have ridden out to hurt them.

* * *

"Sons of thunder."

Rorie stomped her foot. She rarely resorted to such unladylike outbursts, but the strain of her predicament was beginning to wear. She had privately conceded she could not face Hannibal Dukker with the same laughable lack of shooting skill she had displayed before Wes Rawlins. So, swallowing her great distaste for guns, and the people who solved their problems with them, she had forced herself to ride out to the woods early, before the children arrived for their lessons, to practice her marksmanship yet again.

It was a good thing she had.

She had just fired her sixth round—her
sixth round—
and that abominable whiskey bottle still sat untouched on the top of her barrel. If she had been a fanciful woman—which she most assuredly was not—she might have imagined that impudent vessel was taking great pains to provoke her. Why, it hadn't rattled once when her bullets had whizzed by. And the long rays of morning had fired it a bright and frolicsome green.

If there was one thing she couldn't abide, it was a frolicsome whiskey bottle.

She snapped open her cylinder and fished in the pocket of her pinafore for more bullets.

Thus occupied, Rorie didn't notice the tremor of the earth beneath her boots. She didn't ascribe anything unusual to her horse's snorting or the way the mare stomped and tossed her head. Daisy was chronically fractious.

Soon, though, Rorie detected the sounds of thrashing, as if a powerful animal were breaking through the brush toward the clearing. Her heart quickened, but she tried to remain calm. After all, bears were hardly as brutish as their hunters liked to tell. And any other wild animal with sense would turn tail and run once it got wind of her human scent, not to mention a whiff of her gunpowder.

Still, it might be wise to start reloading....

A blood-curdling whoop shook her hands. She couldn't line up a single bullet with its chamber. She thought to run, but there was nowhere to hide, and Daisy was snapping too viciously to mount.

Suddenly the sun winked out of sight. A horse—a mammoth horse with fiery eyes and steaming nostrils—sailed toward her over the barrel. She tried to scream, but the sound lodged in her throat as an "eek." All she could do was stand there, jaw hanging, knees knocking, and remember the unfortunate schoolmaster Ichabod Crane.

Only her horseman had a head.

An auburn head, to be exact. And he carried it above his shoulders, rather than tucked in a macabre fashion under his arm.

"God A'mighty! Miss Aurora!"

The rider reined in so hard, his gelding reared, shrilling in indignation. Her revolver slid from her fingers to the ground. She saw a Peacemaker in the rider's fist, and she thought again about running.

"It's me, ma'am. Wes Rawlins," he called as his horse wheeled and pawed.

She blinked uncertainly, still poised to flee. He didn't much look like the dusty long rider who'd drunk from her well the day before. His hair was sleek and short, and his clefted chin was bare of all but morning stubble. Although he did still wear the mustache, it was his gun belt that gave him away. She recognized the double holsters before she recognized his strong, sculpted features.

He managed to subdue his horse before it could bolt back through the trees. "Are you all right, ma'am?" He hastily dismounted, releasing the reins to ground-hitch the gelding. "Uh-oh." He peered anxiously into her face. "You aren't going to faint, are you?"

She snapped erect, mortified by the suggestion.

"Certainly not. I've never been sick a day in my life. And swooning is for invalids."

"Sissies too," he agreed solemnly.

He ran an appreciative gaze over her hastily piled hair and down her crisply pressed pinafore to her mud-spattered boots. She felt the blood surge to her cheeks. Masking her discomfort, she planted both fists on her hips.

"Mr. Rawlins, what on earth is the matter with you, tearing around the countryside like that? You frightened the devil out of my horse."

He had the decency to blush. "I'm real sorry, ma'am. I never meant to give your, er,
horse
such a fright. But you see, I heard gunshots. And since there's nothing out this way except the Boudreau homestead, I thought you might be having trouble."

"Trouble?" She felt her heart flutter. Had he heard something of Dukker's intentions?

"Well, sure," he said. "The way you had those children running for cover yesterday, I thought you might be expecting some." He folded his arms across his chest. "Are you?"

The directness of his question—and his gaze—was unsettling. He no longer reminded her of a lion. Today, he was a fox, slick and clever, with a dash of sly charm thrown in to confuse her. She hastily bolstered her defenses.

"Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Rawlins, that Shae might be out here shooting rabbits?"

"Nope. Never thought I'd find you here, either. Not that I mind, ma'am. Not one bit. You see, I'm the type who likes surprises. Especially pleasant ones."

She felt her face grow warmer. She wasn't used to flattery. Jarrod had been too preoccupied with self-pity to spare many kind words in the last two years of their marriage. And Dukker... Well, the things that had come out of Dukker's mouth had always made her feel vaguely threatened, as if being a woman was somehow a crime.

"I never expected to see you out here either, Mr. Rawlins."

"Call me Wes."

She forced herself to ignore his winsome smile. "In truth, sir, I never thought to see you again."

"Why's that?"

"Let's be honest, Mr. Rawlins. You are no carpenter."

He chuckled. She found herself wondering which amused him more: her accusation or her refusal to use his Christian name.

"You have to give a fella a chance, Miss Aurora. You haven't even seen my handiwork yet."

"I take it you've worked on barns before?"

"Sure. Fences too. My older brothers have a ranch up near Bandera Pass. Zack raises cattle. Cord raises kids. I try to raise a little thunder now and then, but they won't let me." He winked. "That's why I had to ride south."

She felt the tug of a smile on her lips. She was inclined to believe a part of his story, the part about him rebelling against authority.

"I see," she said.

"You aren't going to make me bed down again in these woods, are you, ma'am? 'Cause Two-Step is awful fond of hay. "

He managed to look woeful, in spite of the impish humor lighting his eyes. She realized then just how practiced his roguery was.

Wary once more, she searched his gaze, trying to find some hint of the truth. Why hadn't he stayed at the hotel? Or worse, at the dance hall? She felt better knowing he hadn't spent his free time exploiting an unfortunate young prostitute. Still, she worried that his reasons for sleeping alone had more to do with empty pockets than any nobility of character. What would Rawlins do if Dukker offered to hire his guns?

What would she do if Rawlins agreed?