Adrienne deWolfe (49 page)

"Wes," she asked, "what happened the third time?"

He retreated closer to the tree trunk and folded his arms across his chest. Starlight cast him in pewter shadow, making him appear more Olympian than ever. But unlike the fire-forged god he'd so often resembled, he was mortally—humanly—vulnerable. Her heart broke to see him so tormented. Edging closer, she struggled against the temptation to soothe him by stroking his hair.

"I'm not here to judge you," she murmured, "only to help."

Wes squeezed his eyes closed. Maybe it was true that his kinfolk's kidnaping and Ginny's miscarriage had been coincidental to those other benders. And maybe it was true he couldn't be held responsible for the cruelty perpetrated on Lorelei. After all, Dukker had been her most likely threat, and Wes had searched the weasel thoroughly for weapons and keys before locking him in jail. But striking Cord—for that, Wes had no one but himself to blame.

He sighed. His shame had been weighing so heavily upon him for such a long time, it was hard to find the words to speak, even to Rorie. He struggled for a minute, thinking better of saying anything, but somehow, the story began to tumble from his lips.

"I fell in love with Fancy when I was sixteen," he admitted, "when she saved my life. I even asked her to marry me once." He felt a stab of poignancy at the memory. "But she said I was too young, and besides, she was head-over-heels in love with Cord.

"There was a part of me that was glad to see them so happy," he continued earnestly, "but there was a part of me that was jealous too. It was hard to watch them together, even though I loved the devil out of them, and I would never, ever have done anything to hurt them.

"Or so I thought. Cord had finally got it through that thick skull of his that raising his family was more important than chasing down outlaws, but sometimes he'd get a hankering for the old days. It was during one of those times that the Pinkerton agent came along, offering to hire Cord as a scout to track train robbers into Indian territory.

"Fancy was beside herself," Wes remembered gloomily, "worrying Cord would get his wooden head blown off, but he wasn't listening to reason so... I had a talk with him myself. Only at eight o'clock in the morning and fresh from the saloon, I wasn't much good at talking. The things I remember saying were pretty awful... like Cord wasn't good enough for Fancy. And it would serve him right if she left him for a man who really loved her."

He swallowed hard, and Rorie's comforting arms slid around his waist from behind.

"He said I was drunk and tried to push me out of his way. That's when... I hit him." His voice broke with the horror of that memory. "I knocked him out cold in front of his wife and children and Zack and all the ranch hands...

"At first, I thought I'd killed him."

"Oh, Wes."

He hung his head. "Cord raised me, you know," he said thickly. "He taught me how to fight and shoot, and... how to be a man. But I guess I wasn't much of a man that day. I rode off right after he came to. I figured he'd never forgive me. I figured Fancy wouldn't, either."

"But she wrote to you," Rorie reminded him gently.

He nodded. "Yeah. The hell of it was, Cord decided not to chase any outlaws after all."

"You probably had something to do with that."

He shrugged, staring down at her soft arms wrapped so tenderly around his waist.

"And you might have even saved his life. Certainly you saved Fancy a lot of dread and worry."

"But at the cost of Cord's pride."

"Perhaps." She rested her cheek against his shoulder blade. "But if Cord taught you everything about being a man," she murmured, "he'll be the first to arrive on this farm in two days' time. And the first man to forgive you."

Wes sighed. If God—and Cord—were feeling generous, in two days he could have the camaraderie of his brothers again. He could frolic with his niece and nephews, and invent an outlandish enough tale to put the blush to cagey old Aunt Lally. Why, he could even go back to teasing the stuffing out of Zack until the man broke down and admitted he was lonely for a sweetheart.

The problem was, Wes couldn't be satisfied by just the Rawlins clan anymore. After facing the stark, harsh reality that Rorie had chosen a man she didn't love, that she was setting Wes free to find a wife who could make him redheaded babies, something inside of him had stood up and faced the facts. If Rorie could make such a sacrifice for his happiness, then by God, he could give up a few dreams to please her.

There was nothing on this earth he wanted more than Rorie and her orphans. His yearning for them was like a hole that needed filling to the bottom of his soul.

He plucked one of her long-fingered lady's hands from his work shirt and pressed a fervent kiss into the palm.

"I love you, Rorie."

He felt her tremor. Turning around, he seized the advantage and dropped to one knee. Holding her hand so firmly she couldn't possibly pull away, he gazed into her glistening eyes.

"Marry me, Rorie. Be my wife. I can't bear to live another day without you."

"Wes." Stunned, Rorie could only blink down into his hope-filled eyes. For a moment, her brain grew so numb, her heart took dangerous control of her tongue, feeding it the words,
Yes! I will gladly become your wife!

But logic had always been a powerful adversary to her heart, and when logic joined forces with guilt, her heart was doomed to lose. She couldn't blissfully plan a wedding, knowing she had cost her betrothed his most cherished dreams.

"Wes," she repeated hoarsely, trying to pull him to his feet. When he resisted, waiting for her response, she touched a shaking hand to his hair.

"I love you so much," she whispered brokenly, "but... I can't be your wife."

He stiffened, and she wanted to cry. She could tell by the battle gleam kindling in his eyes that he would not make this easy for her.

"If you're worried about being promised to Ethan—"

"No." She shook her head. "I haven't told him my decision yet."

"That's a relief." He pressed another kiss into her palm.

"Wes, please. Don't do this. It hurts too much to argue."

"Then say yes," he murmured, "and I'll never let you hurt again. I promise."

He locked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt the warm pressure of his mouth steam through the layers of her shirt and chemise to brand her navel. She swayed, squeezing her eyes closed as she clung to his shoulders for support.

"You've always been so impetuous."

"I know what I want, and it's you."

"No, you only think you want me because your feelings are running so high."

"Dammit, Rorie, I know my own mind." He freed her from his nuzzling and gazed up at her once more. "When you refused to allow my visits, I was miserable, crazy with loneliness. If those few weeks are any indication of what my life will be like without you, I'd rather be in hell. Nothing about Rangering is worth that kind of torment."

"But I can't have your sons—"

"Po and Topher are sons enough for me. Shae is, too, if he'll have me. And you know I can't live without Nita and Merrilee—or Ginevee and her pecan pie, either. I love your children, Rorie. I love them as much as I love you."

"But that's just it, don't you see?" He swam beneath her in a watery kaleidoscope. "They're not my children. There never can be children of my own."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." She struggled to steady her voice. "Someday you'll leave me, just like Jarrod did."

"Goddammit, woman!" He shot to his feet. "I am
not
like Jarrod Sinclair!"

She cringed. For a suspended moment in time, he loomed over her, his fists clenched and bloodless. Then he spun away, pacing beneath the magnolia tree.

"You're punishing me. You're punishing me because of Sinclair."

"No, Wes, I—"

"Don't deny it. He's your excuse. He has always been your excuse."

"What are you talking about?"

He halted, his chest heaving as he glared into her eyes.

"The problem isn't that I might run away, the problem is that you might. Or rather, you are. You're convinced your barrenness makes you unworthy to be a mother."

She gasped. If he had jabbed a fist into her gut, the air couldn't have fled her lungs faster.

"That's—that's not true."

"Isn't it?"

A chaotic rush of doubt rocked her to her core. She tore her gaze free.

"I love the hell out of you, Rorie, but I will not be the scapegoat for your conscience. Not when I love those children as much as I do."

He turned away, grabbing the rifle he'd propped against the tree.

"And another thing," he said in a low growl, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder at her. "Don't think I'm going to toddle after you 'til the end of your days, begging you to marry me."

Stalking toward the barn, he left her dazed and confused and incapable of coherent thought, while above her, a wistful soughing started in the branches of the sweetheart tree.

Chapter 23

Tension and uncertainty cast their pall over Rorie's next two days. She worried whether Shae had made it safely to the Rawlins' ranch and whether Wes's brothers would respond to her hastily penned plea. She worried about Ginevee, who could barely limp on her sprained ankle, and about Merrilee, who'd grown more solitary and elusive, often disappearing for hours on end, particularly after meals.

But her greatest uncertainty related to Wes. How could she make her heart do what her head knew was right?

Those two endless days contained some of the most poignant memories of her life: Wes acting as sentry with Topher and his slingshot by his side; Wes dozing on the settee with a napping Po cuddled in his arms; Wes carrying Ginevee up and down the stairs, flirting outrageously with her to stave off her protests; Wes suffering with good-natured gallantry through Nita's batch of scorched sugar cookies.

No matter where Rorie wandered in the house, she found some lingering reminder of his presence: the scent of leather and musk in the hall, a fresh spur mark outside Ginevee's door, the Stetson Topher proudly sported on his head, the guttered candle in the window where Wes had kept his vigil.

It was hard enough to keep from joining him each night, when every nerve in her body quivered for his touch. It was impossible to keep the children from falling more deeply in love with him. Topher had rebelled outright when she'd explained why they all must start calling Wes "mister" again, and the girls, observing Topher's mutiny, couldn't rally around him fast enough. Rorie had finally given up correcting their use of "Uncle Wes," mainly because she couldn't bear to see the hurt in Wes's eyes.

Thankfully, he didn't bring up the subject of Ethan or marriage again, although Rorie did happen to overhear Topher tell him, "I think you should get hitched to Miss Rorie. That way, I can have a real ma and a real pa."

And Merrilee gave Wes a detailed drawing of various farm animals and buildings. Beside each picture, she'd neatly written its name: cow, horse, barn, and so on. "Maybe if you study up on your reading," she said earnestly, "Miss Rorie will be so proud she'll
have
to marry you."

Overhearing that exchange, Rorie had felt like the lowest life-form on the planet. Her spirits weren't raised any when she spied a misty-eyed Wes slipping the folded diagram into his shirt pocket.

It seemed as if everyone was conspiring against her perfectly sound logic. What was worse, Wes had planted a seed of doubt in her mind, and now her rationalizations were sprouting like weeds.

Of course she felt worthy to be a good mother to children who weren't hers by birth, she would tell herself fiercely. Of course she wasn't letting her secret rage about her barrenness punish Wes.
Of course, of course, of course.

So why did she keep hearing the tiny bell of discord in her heart?

* * *

On the third morning, Rorie crawled out of bed far earlier than usual. She'd had a restless night, knowing this day would prove whether Shae was alive and unharmed. Wes had told her not to look for the boy until at least midafternoon, since Cord had probably tied him to a bedpost so Shae and Daisy could rest.