Adrienne deWolfe (36 page)

"Ranger Rawlins," Mrs. Milner cooed, "how good to see you again." Smoothing back her hair, the shopkeeper smiled in a way that left no doubt in Rorie's mind that Wes had indulged in a flirtation with her. He probably had with every woman in town, she thought uncharitably.

"Ma'am." The shadow on the canned goods tipped its hat.

Rorie managed to recover her wits, if not her equilibrium. She couldn't stand there quaking beneath his shadow all day.

"No, thank you, Mr. Rawlins," she said briskly, grabbing the last of her brown-papered bundles. "I can manage quite well without you."

A moment passed as she mustered the extra valor to face him, to bottle up her hurt and longing and keep it inside her chest. She forced herself to think of the children, and all the tears they'd shed in their grief at losing "Uncle Wes." She could not—
would
not—let her weakness for this man bring him back into their lives so he could hurt them again.

Drawing herself up stiffly, she hiked her chin and turned.

For an instant, Wes held his breath, hope of reconciliation quickening his pulse.

Then Rorie's eyes, as cool and clear as glass, met his, and his insides crumbled. Her face was a mask of ivory marble beneath her gingham bonnet. If not for the two bright spots of color staining her cheeks, he might have thought his presence had no effect on her at all.

"Excuse me, Mr. Rawlins."

She nodded as she sidestepped him, trying to squeeze her way past his thighs and a column of pickle barrels. He'd be damned, though, if she brushed him off like some no-account horsefly. Plucking the two packages from her white-knuckled grasp, he smiled pleasantly to stave off the worst of Mrs. Milner's speculations.

"Why, it's no trouble at all, ma'am. I assure you."

Rorie's lips pressed together in defiance, so he held the door open, leaving her little choice but to keep her peace and step outside.

She sailed past him with a disdainful swish of her well-starched petticoats, her nose waving in the air. Her posture annoyed him even more than it hurt. For the last three weeks he'd been hoping for an opportunity just like this one, but she'd been avoiding town, as best as he could figure, and she had no inkling he and his Winchester held lonely vigils each night in her fields.

At least, that's what Shae claimed. Shae had been keeping him company each night, and had said that Rorie changed the subject whenever his name was mentioned.

This news had made Wes even more despondent than before. Telling himself his guilt was to blame, and that he would never have peace unless he made Rorie listen to reason, he'd reconsidered his earlier decision to keep his distance and his silence. In fact, the need to see her, to speak with her, had him chomping at the bit. He'd practically camped out on the porch front across the street from Milner's that day, hoping the Sinclairs would make their traditional Monday visit for supplies.

He'd been certain he could convince Rorie to forgive him—until now. As if the hounds of hell dogged her heels, she crossed the sun-warped porch to the wheel-rutted street below, making a beeline for the wagon and Shae. The boy stood on the bed, watching their race with visible discomfort. Wes knew Shae's budding friendship with him couldn't hold a candle to his loyalty to Rorie, so he caught her arm and pulled her back to his side before she could call Shae to her rescue.

"Not so fast, ma'am," he said through clenched teeth. "You're not running away from me again. It's time we had another talk."

"I have nothing more to say to you."

"That's just dandy. You can listen, then." Halting by the wagon's rear axle, he tossed Rorie's packages to Tom, who'd been passing flour sacks up to Shae. "Miss Rorie and I are going to take a stroll, boys."

She twisted, trying to break his grasp, but he ignored her struggles.

"You just holler if you need me," he added to Shae.

"How dare you—"

"You want to make a scene right here in the street?" he interrupted her, noticing that Shae had his hand on the sideboard, as if he intended to jump down and challenge him. "That's fine with me."

When her gaze flickered to Shae, she seemed to change her mind about calling in a champion.

"Very well. Let's get this over with," she said tersely.

She turned as if to march into the grocer's alley, an act of sheer orneriness. He'd never intended to have a side-street brawl with her. Frowning, he redirected her footsteps a block farther up the street to Gator's office. She maintained her seething silence all the way to the door, not even so much as glancing his way, until he released her into the cramped space that Gator had rented from the stagecoach master.

When he slammed the door shut, she rounded on him, looking as if her hand was on a hair trigger, ready to slap. He decided he would be wise to draw the shade on curious passersby.

"Not by any stretch of the imagination," she said, "would I consider your manhandling acceptable behavior."

"If you want to be treated like a lady, quit acting like a whampus cat."

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. You might get your kicks pretending to be a cold slab of marble, but I know the truth. You've got a lot of spit and claw inside you, girl, and I've got the scratch marks to prove it."

"You are no gentleman!"

"I never claimed to be," he flung back. "Now settle yourself down and quit flapping that jaw of yours long enough to listen to what I have to say."

Her mouth snapped closed, and she folded her arms beneath her breasts.

"That's better. Would you like to sit down?" he asked, striving for a more reasonable tone.

"No, thank you."

Was it his imagination, or had a blue norther just blown into the room?

"I heard you were sick."

She said nothing, just as he'd told her to. Faced with her silence, he wasn't sure it was the better option.

"I came by last Monday to talk with you, but Shae said you weren't up to receiving visitors. I wanted you to know that... you're never far from my mind. I worry about you and the children."

If he had thought this confession would move her in some way, he was sadly mistaken.

"Rorie, three beardless boys aren't going to be enough to stop Dukker and his roughriders if they come to the farm."

Still, she said nothing. She simply regarded him with that same unblinking stare. He supposed he'd asked for it, but her deliberate silence was driving him crazy.

"I've talked it over with Shae, and he agrees with me. Until I can find the evidence to throw Dukker in jail, I want to camp nights on your farm to protect you."

"Absolutely not."

Wes scowled. "Maybe you need to think on it a spell," he said. He wanted to camp nearer to the house in case of trouble, but his deeper desire was to close the painful distance that yawned between them.

"I've quite made up my mind, thank you."

"For God's sake, Rorie, will you be reasonable?"

Her smile was brittle. "Very well." She adjusted her arms and drew herself up taller. "If in your
professional
opinion you believe we are unsafe living on Gator's farm, then wire Ranger headquarters and request a replacement—maybe someone a bit older—who knows how to separate his personal affairs from his investigation."

Wes stiffened. That had cut. That had cut deep.

"I am perfectly capable of handling your protection and Dukker's arrest too."

"Perhaps." Her voice thawed the tiniest bit. "But since you have an entire law-fighting force at your disposal, I see no reason for you not to request support."

He ground his teeth. "Rangers ride alone."

"Then Rangers are fools," she said with a quiet, grim finality.

His patience snapped. For her to attack the force again was simply the last straw.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "I suppose I was foolish to worry enough about your sensibilities to ask for your permission. I'm the law in this county until they elect a sheriff, and if I choose to camp in front of your house to keep your ornery hide from a beating, rape, or worse, then I sure as hell have the legal authority to do it."

As he bluntly named her dangers, the color drained from her face. "You—you would be wasting your time."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"I see." She drew a long and shuddering breath. "It seems I have no choice then." She dropped her arms to her sides. "If that is all, I would like to go."

Without waiting for his answer, she headed for the door, her heels making a sharp, staccato sound. Her race to leave him tore up his insides. He moved quickly to block her way.

"Rorie, wait." He struggled to keep the hurt from his voice. "Do you really hate me that much?"

Her feet faltered only inches from his. When he searched her frozen facade for some hint of feeling, she blushed, tearing her gaze from his.

"What happened between us," she said flatly, "was a lapse in judgment on my part. You cannot be held responsible for that."

His heart quickened. He couldn't decide if her response boded well for him or not. "Rorie—"

He reached to touch her hand, but she recoiled so fast, the flash of heat and ice between them stalled his heart.

"However," she continued, "I shall not allow my poor judgment to jeopardize my children's happiness. I must insist you wait until after dark, when they are in bed, before you show yourself on the grounds. And I further insist that you ride off again long before they wake."

He hadn't expected these terms. In truth, he'd been looking forward to spending time with the orphans. In the past three weeks, he'd found himself worrying about Merrilee's nightmares, Topher's arithmetic problems, Nita's boy hunger, and Po's fondness for eating dirt. Not seeing them, not playing with them or talking to them, would be a bitter pill indeed.

"I don't want to cause trouble," he said in a strained voice.

"Good." She nodded, reaching past him for the doorknob.

"What about... us?"

She stiffened. He could have sworn he saw her hand tremble, but she controlled herself so quickly, he couldn't be certain.

"There is no 'us,' Wes." She met his gaze evenly, although her voice quavered a bit. "As I said, I made a mistake. I will not make it again."

"It was
not
a mistake, dammit." His jaw hardened. "You wanted me then and you want me now."

She yanked the door open so hard, the window shade flew up, sounding like gunfire in the room. When she smiled again, it was a mirthless, disillusioned expression that spoke volumes.

"I'm afraid we can't always have what we want, Wes. I suggest you learn that lesson now, before a more painful one comes your way. Good afternoon."

As he watched her walk stiffly down the sidewalk, a lump rose to his throat. Loneliness, desire, outrage, caring—they all coiled in on themselves, forming that painful knot. When he swallowed, it plummeted to his gut like a burning rock.

I'll melt you from that frozen fortress yet, Aurora Sinclair,
he vowed.
When I get my hands on you—and I will—I'll fire up your blood so high, you'll beg me to lay you down. This isn't the end, I promise you.

It's just the beginning.

Chapter 17

The next ten days were the most frustrating ones Wes had ever known. Dukker was keeping his nose out of trouble, playing his lawman's role in an effort to woo voters. Faced with such a well-behaved suspect, one who didn't set foot out of town unless a political rally was involved, Wes found himself with plenty of time on his hands.

He'd never been much good at sitting idle; hence, he'd developed the fondness for whittling, fishing, and dancing girls.

But now his favorite pastimes seemed to inspire forbidden memories. He couldn't hold a knife in his hands without dreaming up some toy to carve or a new improvement for Merrilee's shoes.

He couldn't cast a line without concocting new stories to tell Topher about ghosts and Indians.

As for dancing girls, they all bored Wes to tears. He'd lost interest in their jaded propositions weeks ago, wanting only the class and sass of Rorie's clever tongue.