Adrienne deWolfe (12 page)

She nearly choked. She
bad
started the whole thing, and there was no canyon on earth that was deep enough to hide her from the light of knowing in those foxy eyes.

"Do you, or do you not, want salve for that bee sting?"

"Hmm. As I recollect, my aunt Lally used to suck the stinger out when I was a boy. Me being so young and all, you might want to try that first."

"I think not!"

"Then I guess I'll settle for the salve."

He looked inordinately amused and much too smug for her peace of mind.

"Here." She shoved the jar into his hand. "You can salve the sting yourself."

"But from way up here, I can't tell if there's a stinger," he pointed out affably. "You aren't going to leave me with a stinger in my belly, are you?"

She ground her teeth. He did have a point. If he got some kind of infection, then she'd be nursing him back to health for days. Maybe even weeks. She didn't think she could bear his wickedness that long... much less resist it.

"Very well," she said. "I'll look for a stinger."

"You won't have to look far."

Heat coiled through her insides at his innuendo. "Kindly behave yourself."

"I'm trying, ma'am, but you make it so consarned hard for a man."

With a wariness she usually reserved for loaded six-guns, Rorie dragged her gaze to the flesh in question. Red and swollen, the bee sting lay well below her line of vision, and she realized that glancing at him simply would not be enough. She would have to move closer, stoop, or worse,
kneel
between his thighs, to bring her eyes close enough for her inspection. There was no way that she could accomplish her task and keep her face a respectable distance from his crotch.

She bit her lip to keep from groaning. Why did she have the sneaking suspicion that she was the only one having palpitations at the thought?

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She didn't have to see his face to know that he was smirking.

"No." She silently vowed if she found more than one stinger thrusting out of his nether region, she'd make him wish that honeybee had sent him to the graveyard.

Knotting her hands in her skirt, she mustered her courage and did the unthinkable: she lowered her head between his thighs. As hard as she tried, at such proximity, it was impossible to keep his fly out of her field of vision. An unsettling mixture of relief and disappointment washed over her when she spied no evidence of a straining, robust bulge.

"See anything?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied, turning scarlet when she realized where her eyes and thoughts had been trained.

"Maybe it would help if I loosen this—"

He was reaching for his buckle, and she grabbed his hand, straightening so fast, she nearly butted her head against his chest.

"Don't you dare!"

His deep, rich laughter was intoxicating. "Aw, Rorie, I don't bite."

"You... take far too many liberties, sir."

"Me?" His voice lowered to an intimate murmur. "But you're the one touching me."

She glanced down and realized, to her utter mortification, that he was right. How or why her left hand had found a resting place on his thigh was a thorough mystery to her.

She jerked it away. You're enjoying this entirely too much," she accused.

"Aren't you?"

"No, I most certainly am not!"

"Oh. My mistake."

His thumb was stroking her palm. It was the barest whisper of flesh against flesh, yet his touch shot confused signals through her body. Her insides shivered while her skin burned.

"You are no gentleman," she said hoarsely. "If you were, you wouldn't be touching me so."

"You mean a gentleman wouldn't hold a lady's hand?" His eyelids drooped, hooding the stare that she felt like a hunger on her lips. "Or give it a little kiss?"

"Y-yes."

"Being a gentleman doesn't sound like very much fun."

She gulped a breath. He'd finally freed her—which was precisely what she'd wanted, she told herself.

Mustering her wits, she prepared to make a hasty but dignified retreat. Unfortunately, her feet had tangled in his discarded vest and shirt lying on the floor.

It all happened so fast: one moment she was making a beeline for safety; the next, she was flailing, grasping at anything to keep from falling. His neck proved the handiest anchor. Her breasts collided with his chest, and the air whooshed out of her.

In that heartbeat, with her face so close to his, she could see surprise flare in his eyes. Then something very different, something primal and male, blazed to life in the depths of his gaze. She sank a fraction lower as his arms and legs cradled her, leaving little doubt in her mind that she'd had a stirring effect on him too. The gentle ridge of his manhood pressed against her woman's flesh, leaving her hot and shaken, scandalized and exhilarated.

His lashes swept down to hide the appetite lurking in his eyes. She had little time to form a coherent thought other than the nerve-jangling, pulse-firing realization that her lips were just inches from his....

"Oh, geez." The voice, which had come from the doorway, was filled with boyish disgust. "You two aren't going to smooch, are you?"

In that instant Rorie would have preferred facing a thousand raging honeybees than watching her four orphan children swarm into the room with their bright, curious eyes.

"Not now, I reckon," Wes said dryly.

She wrestled herself from his embrace, barely avoiding another tumble over his clothes, before she hurried to intercept the children.

"Is Mr. Wes's bee sting all better?" Merrilee asked, halting dutifully before her.

Topher, on the other hand, hardly glanced her way as he cut a swath around her, his fishing pole and catfish dripping water over his shoulder. "You got a bee sting, Mr. Wes? Where?"

"Topher, for heaven's sake." Rorie clasped her hands to keep from pressing them to her burning cheeks.

"Were you really kissing, Miss Rorie?" Nita asked, her avid gaze shifting from Wes's face to his torso.

"Of course not," she said sharply, wishing the earth would rise up to swallow her whole. "Topher," she added irritably, watching the boy bend over and peer at the welt above Wes's buckle, "what have I told you about bringing your fish in through the dining room?"

Topher didn't hear her. Either that, or he was ignoring her. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and rolled back on his heels—something she had never seen him do before.

"I did what you said, Mr. Wes. I spit on my bait, and I got four of the biggest catfish this county's ever seen."

Wes chuckled and dutifully inspected Topher's catch before shrugging into his shirt and vest. "Well, you see? I told you spitting on the line wasn't any old superstition."

"Topher!"

The boy cringed, glancing guiltily over his shoulder at Rorie. "Yes, ma'am," he said, then he turned his shining eyes back to Wes.

"Could you show me some more tricks, huh? Could you come fishing with me tomorrow, please?"

"Topher," Rorie said ominously, not sure what vexed her more: the boy's disobedience or his consultation with Wes over a matter she had absolutely no head for. "It is time to wash for dinner.

"All of you," she added sternly, glimpsing the not-so-childish admiration in Nita's eyes as she continued staring at Wes. "Nita, take Po to the washbasin."

But Po, Topher's constant shadow, abandoned the boy's side in favor of a taller champion.

"Me not want to go!" he said in his demanding, baby voice.

Caked with dirt from head to toe, he reached up a grubby hand and tugged on Wes's untucked shirt. "Pick me up!"

Rorie nearly died with embarrassment to see her child smear river mud all over Wes, but when she would have apologized, he surprised her yet again by lifting the filthy toddler into his arms.

"Is that better?"

"Yes!" Po shouted happily.

Rorie realized she was gaping and quickly hinged her jaw closed. Wes winked at her.

"Po and I will just mosey on down to the springhouse," he said, "and see what kind of mischief we can stir up in the shower bath. What do you say to that, pardner?"

"Yea!" Po said.

"I, er... Oh, very well," Rorie said. Getting that child washed without a fuss could well be an entry for the record books.

Nita looked disappointed—her new infatuation was leaving her behind. "You'll be back for dinner, won't you, Mr. Wes?"

He smiled at her as he walked past, then paused to pat Merrilee's head. The child blushed at this uncustomary male attention.

"Wild mustangs couldn't drive me away," he said.

Then his gaze slid to Rorie. She watched the light of a primitive hunger rekindle there.

"Especially from dessert."

Chapter 6

Dinner didn't quite lend itself to the master sleuthing that Wes had planned.

But then, all of his plans seemed to have gone haywire that day. Merrilee had thwarted his search of the house; Rorie's shy, lingering touches had distracted him from the perfect opportunity to interrogate her; and the other children hadn't yielded a single useful piece of information during his various conversations with them.

The only thing worse than having his investigation drag on, going absolutely nowhere after two days, was saying grace as a fraud at a family dinner.

Shae settled at the foot of the table, and Rorie began the prayers. Wes dutifully bowed his head, but he couldn't stop himself from peeking at the children's solemn faces as they recited the words. It had been a long time since he's talked to God, and Wes wasn't sure he still knew how. In fact, he wasn't so sure God would listen to a Ranger who was lying about his badge, although he liked to think he had a damned good reason.

Other things he'd done weren't quite as easy to defend, though, like the way he'd been secretly lusting after his brother's wife for the last eight years. The devil had a mortgage on his soul, that was certain. He could pray until his tongue fell out, but what good would it do?

As the sweet reverence in Rorie's voice wrapped around him, he fidgeted, growing more uncomfortable. He felt the sting of longing for the family he'd left behind. Although he tried to convince himself it was a momentary lapse, a passing weakness, a heaviness weighed his chest when he recalled what he missed: baiting catfish with his nephew Seth; giving shoulder rides to his niece Megan; spinning yarns for Cord's youngest boy, Bill. Wes had lost count of the days since he'd last helped Zack brand a steer or since he'd split a rail with Cord.

The realization that he would never again enjoy his brothers' camaraderie knifed through him. Until that moment, he had believed nothing could be more painful than denying himself the pleasure of seeing Fancy again.

"Mr. Wes?"

He was startled to hear Nita's hesitant voice at his left side.

"Don't you like fried okra?"

She was offering him a serving bowl. Judging by the other children's curious stares, he suspected she had been trying to attract his attention for several moments.

"Sure I do," he said, rallying his wits.

"So, how are you progressing on the barn?" Rorie asked, directing her question at Shae.

"There's a lot more wood rot than we expected," he said grimly. "Looks like we're going to have to tear up the loft and maybe even the north side of the barn."

Her face fell. "So much?"

Shae nodded, and she glanced uneasily at Wes.

"How long will that take?"

"A week," Shae said. "Maybe more."

Wes guessed she was really trying to gauge how much longer she would have to put up with him. The thought amused him. Although she could deny until she was blue in the face that she hadn't liked him kissing her hand, he'd felt the pulse leap in her wrist—and he'd seen the hunger in her love-starved eyes. A lady like her might not want to admit it, but he'd had a rousing effect on her. And damn if she hadn't had one on him too.