Adrienne deWolfe (7 page)

Maybe feeding and housing Rawlins would be more prudent than driving him off. After all, boarding him could steer him away from Dukker's dangerous influence—at least until the day when Rawlins got restless enough to ride off in search of adventure.

Besides, Shae could genuinely use help on the barn. And there was always the possibility that Rawlins was more swagger than threat.

"Very well, Mr. Rawlins. I shall withhold judgment on your carpentry skills until you've had a chance to prove yourself."

"Why, that's right kind of you, ma'am."

She felt her cheeks grow warm again. His drawl had the all-too-disturbing tendency to make her feel uncertain and girlish.

"I suppose you'll want to ride to the house now, " she continued. "It's a half-mile farther east. Shae is undoubtedly awake and can show you what to do." She inclined her head. "Good morning."

Except for a cannily raised eyebrow, he didn't budge.

Rorie fidgeted. She was unused to her dismissals going unheeded. She was especially unused to a young man regarding her as if she had just made the most delightful quip of the season.

Hoping he would go away if she ignored him, she stooped to retrieve her gun. He reached quickly to help She was so stunned when he crouched before her his corded thighs straining beneath the fabric of his dungarees that she leaped up, nearly butting her head against his. He chuckled.

"Do I make you nervous, ma'am?"

"Certainly not." She felt her ears burn at the lie. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"Well..." Still squatting, he scooped bullets out of the bluebonnets that rose like sapphire spears around the hem of her skirt. "I was worried you might be trying to get rid of me again."

"I—I only thought Shae was expecting you," she stammered, beating a hasty retreat. There was something disconcerting, not to mention titillating, about a man's bronzed fingers snaking through the grass and darting so near to the unmentionables one wore beneath one's skirt.

"Shae's not expecting me yet, ma'am. The sun's too low in the sky." Rawlins straightened leisurely. "I figure I've got a half hour; maybe more, before I report to the barn. Just think, Miss Aurora. That gives us plenty of time to get acquainted."

His grin was positively wicked. He stretched out his hand, offering her the bullets. She realized that if she wanted her bullets back, she would have to pluck every single one from his palm. And that meant touching him.

She glared up into his laughing eyes. Fortunately, she was no longer a green girl, and she'd learned a good deal over the years about diverting young men from their less-than-wholesome urges.

"I don't have time to get acquainted," she said tartly, fishing for new bullets inside her apron pocket. "I must finish my practice before my students arrive."

"Let's see what you've got, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Show me what you can do."

He pocketed her cartridges, and she gaped at him.

"You can't mean to stay and watch!"

"Well, sure. Why not? I figure with all the gunpowder you've been burning, that's got to be—what?—the fifth bottle you're about to blow to kingdom come?" He smirked, rocking back on his heels and hooking his thumbs over his gun belt. "I reckon I might even learn something."

Oh, he really was a cutup.

"Watching me would not be a good idea...."

"Why's that? You said I don't make you nervous."

Rorie bit her tongue. She'd never been good at the polite little falsehoods nice people told.

"The truth is, Mr. Rawlins, I'm not very accurate—"

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll stay out of harm's way."

"—and Shae is the teacher I prefer," she finished defensively. She couldn't think of a single better excuse.

"Shae, huh?"

"Yes. He's a crack shot."

"Well, even I've been known to hit a bottle once or twice at fifty paces. Go ahead. Draw your bead."

Rorie scowled. She would have much rather called him a name and marched into the sunrise. However, she couldn't resign herself to the guilt she'd feel afterward. Her father, a German immigrant who'd divided his time equally between his bank and his political aspirations, had drilled her rigorously in the essentials of discipline. Her mother, a timid, sickly creature who had passed on after her third miscarriage, had taught Rorie about dignity in the face of long suffering.

Thus, feeling outfoxed and outmaneuvered, she walked to her marker. Rawlins whistled for his horse. She had hoped to use the gelding as another excuse, but when it trotted obediently out of the line of fire, she could only bite her tongue on an uncharitable epithet and pump bullets into her revolver's cylinder. She took her time, checking and rechecking the chambers, adjusting and readjusting her stance.

If she had hoped her delay would irritate Rawlins enough to drive him away, she was disappointed. He folded his arms across his chest and observed her ritual without comment. She suspected he was highly entertained by the whole procedure—a fact that irritated her to no end.

Since divine intervention was not likely to rescue her, and since she'd exhausted every other plausible reason for delay, she resigned herself to the inevitable. Clamping her left fist over her right, she raised her gun and took aim. The .45 exploded; she jolted; and a ripping, cracking sound came from the canopy of leaves above the barrel.

Rawlins held his tongue. She admitted grudgingly that he was showing inordinate restraint.

She waited for the smoke to clear, then ground her teeth and tried again. This time, nothing ripped, nothing cracked, and the bottle stood as staunchly as a soldier. She longed to vent her frustration with an unladylike oath.

No doubt valuing his hide, Rawlins refrained from his usual smirk.

By the time she was drawing her fifth bead, her palms had grown sticky and her muscles were quivering so badly, she could scarcely hold her arms straight. Feeling somewhat vengeful, she tried locking her elbows.

"Er... Miss Aurora?"

She tossed him a withering look.

"Would you mind if I gave you a piece of advice?"

I most assuredly would!
she longed to shout, but the side of her that esteemed self-control subdued her tongue.

"Very well. What do you suggest?"

"First of all, you have to loosen up."

She blew out her breath. Shae had told her the same thing, several times.

"And second?"

"Well..." Rubbing his chin, he seemed to consider. "I reckon you might try some dry firing next. You know, without any beans in your wheel. That way, you can get used to squeezing the trigger rather than jerking it."

"But how can I ever learn to aim straight if I don't fire bullets?"

The plaintive note in her voice made her wince. She wished she could contain her feelings as well as Papa had. Every morning since Gator's death, she had dragged herself out here for the dreaded practice. She felt obligated to put the children's safety before her own principles.

The problem was, her aim wasn't improving.

Shae had tried to help. He accompanied her every few days to give her suggestions, but his patience would inevitably wear thin, and she wound up feeling clumsy, foolish, and a trifle stung by his exasperation. As fond as she was of the boy, she had to concede that Shae was no teacher.

Rawlins, on the other hand, was smiling at her. Smiling kindly, in fact. The expression was in such contrast to his recent roguery that she wondered what he could possibly be thinking. After all, she was a woman with a gun. In Cincinnati, females with firearms were considered no better than floozies.

"Aiming isn't so hard," he said affably. "It just takes practice. You don't want to rush a shot. That's the secret. Right now, you're anticipating the recoil. And that makes you jolt before your bullet clears the muzzle."

She considered this analysis. It sounded reasonable.

"If what you say is true, then... how do I correct the problem?"

"Here. I'll show you."

Two strides brought him to her side. He seemed even taller standing scant inches from her shoulder. She felt her pulse leap, and it was all she could do not to flinch when he drew his gun and dumped out the bullets.

"See?" Turning, he extended his right arm on a line with her target. Now his broad chest faced her own. "Nice and relaxed, an easy pull." He demonstrated a few more times, clicking empty chambers.

It was amazing what one noticed when one was under duress, Rorie decided. She could scarcely keep her eyes on his trigger. Her gaze kept stealing toward the unfastened button at his neck, where red gold hairs peeked out. She noticed the way his shirt, a faded cornflower blue, hugged his ribs and accentuated the leanness of his waist. She indulged in a shy glance at his gun belt and the way it wrapped his hips like the arms of a lover.

The indecency of such a thought made her insides flame, so she hastily raised her eyes. His arm should have been safe to observe, except that all its rippling musculature bore testimony to a supple strength, one that no doubt stemmed from long hours of cattle-roping and log-splitting. Or whatever else young men did on ranches near Bandera Pass.

She found herself wondering more about him. Studying his profile, she decided he was handsome. Not in the classical, almost beautiful way that Shae was, but in a rugged, robust manner. His attraction went far deeper than physical good looks. There was a magnetic energy about Wes Rawlins, something that emanated from the core of his being and twinkled like starshine in his eyes. That something reminded her of laughter. And youth.

And all the other things she secretly missed in her life.

"...the slow and steady way. You try it this time, ma'am."

She started. He'd been speaking, and she hadn't heard a word. Not a
word!
What was the matter with her, letting a young man disturb her concentration so?

"Go on," he said. "Give it a whirl."

His tone was encouraging, but his gaze was all business. The contrast between his manner and her thoughts made her feel ridiculous, and a bit deflated.

"Thank you," she said primly.
Rorie, for shame. You're acting like a randy old woman!

Determined to nip her inappropriate behavior in the bud, she moved away and took her stance. Her arms were more rested now, and when she fired, she managed to strike the barrel. Splinters flew into the air. The bottle trembled.

"Better," he said. "But try not to grip the gun butt so tight."

She nodded. Shae had given her the same advice.

Focusing all her concentration, she fired her last shot. The bottle actually jumped. She had come no closer to shattering it, though.

"Foot." She grimaced and started to pull out more bullets.

"Never mind that. Come back over here."

She eyed him uncertainly, but he waved her forward, still clearly bent on his lesson.

"Are you locking your knees?" he asked. "I can't tell."

A new warmth crept up her neck. He'd been staring at her skirts!

She hastily shook her head.

"Good girl. Now all we've got to do is get you to stand still. Let's try something. Hold out your arms, like you were taking aim."

She bit her lip and obeyed.

"Good." He stepped behind her. "Your bead's on target. Now go ahead and pull the trigger."

The barrel clicked.

"See how your muzzle's jumping up?"

No, she hadn't. She was too worried about what he was doing—or going to do—behind her.

"But the gun's lighter without the bullets," she protested weakly, glancing over her shoulder.

"Doesn't matter. You're still trying to compensate for the kick. Here. I'll show you."

Before she could stop him, before she could even think to protest, his arms circled her shoulders and his chest fused to her back. She was so stunned by this intimacy—this
audacity,
she corrected herself sternly—that she was rendered speechless when he clamped his hands over hers, holding them prisoner around the butt of her gun.

"See this?" He pushed her arms up, out of alignment with the bottle. "This is what you've been doing."

"Mister
Rawlins—"

"Now this," he continued, fitting his finger over hers and squeezing the trigger, "is what you want to do. Feel the difference? See how your elbow takes the shock after you fire?"

Her heart, which had nearly catapulted out of her chest when he'd all but embraced her, was now slamming painfully against her ribcage. He held her so firmly, so steadily, she couldn't have broken free if she'd tried.

Her perverse side resurfaced then, noticing curious things. There was the warm, off-key rumble of his baritone in her ear, and the way his breaths teased an errant strand of hair, spreading shivers from her neck to her toes. She couldn't help but note how snugly his arms wrapped her shoulders, and the pleasant, if scandalous, heat that pooled between her buttocks and his thighs.

A woman with a less hardy constitution might have fainted dead away at such a trial, but Rorie had always disdained displays of weakness.