Adrienne deWolfe (33 page)

You're family and we love you. Please don't go on this way. All this bitterness, all this anger, it's not worth the pain. It's never too late to make amends, Wes. Please come home....

Rorie blinked back tears, tears that she wasn't sure were for her, for Wes, or for Fancy. The woman clearly had deep feelings for Wes. Just as clearly, those feelings were torn between him and her husband. How sad that Wes called himself an orphan when he had more loving blood-relations than Rorie, Shae, or any of her orphans combined.

Folding the pages with trembling fingers, she slipped them carefully back into a pocket of his duster. Her doubts were eased, but not entirely relieved. She hadn't found a pair of handcuffs or the so-called black book, which Gator said Rangers read more often than the Bible, because it contained their list of fugitives.

"Why look further?"
Fear whispered to her heart.
"You found nothing to implicate him."

"Nothing except a letter referencing a Captain McQuade,"
Reason reminded her grimly.

Wes was clearly no army regular. The only other kind of captains she could think of in Texas were the kinds that commanded the loose military divisions known as Rangers.

She fought back another attack of dread. He could have hidden the manacles.

She remembered him the night before, shoving something beneath the straw when she'd surprised him at the door. A knife twisted in her chest. With numbing fingers, she forced herself to push the bags aside, to drop to her hands and search the stall floor where they'd made love two tender, blissful times.

It didn't take long to uncover the dingy white corner of newspaper. When she shook the
Enquirer
free of straw and spread its rumpled pages before her, it didn't take long to learn the full extent of his duplicity.

She crumpled the paper between her fists.

The bastard.

Chapter 15

Standing beneath the shower bath sluice in the three-walled compartment Shae had rigged for privacy, Wes nearly jumped ten feet when he heard the springhouse door slam. Tossing the sodden hair from his eyes, he turned to find Rorie approaching him. A grin tugged at his lips. He thought about asking her to join him, until he noticed her pinched face and heaving chest. Hastily he turned off the rushing stream of water.

"Rorie, what is it? What's wrong? Has Dukker come—"

His words choked off when she halted, tossing his badge on his pile of discarded clothes.

"A Ranger, I hear," she said acidly, "isn't fully dressed without his star."

Wes's heart stalled. Then it lurched painfully back to life. "Rorie—"

"No doubt it was just an oversight," she continued in that same acerbic tone, "your forgetting to pin it on every day since Monday."

The wall of the stall only came up to his waist. He gripped it hard for support. "I can explain—"

"There's no need."

Producing the
Enquirer
in the fist she'd held behind her back, she tossed it contemptuously on top of the star.

"You went through my bags?" he asked weakly, stalling for enough time to gather his wits for a defense.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did, feeling guilty every moment of the shameful chore. Ironic, isn't it? There I was, trying to deny all the evidence, trying to believe every damned lie you'd ever told me. I was worried my behavior might seem like a betrayal, even though you'd as much as admitted you've been plotting to bed me from the moment we first met."

Wes flinched at her words. Things were bad—worse than he'd originally thought—if she was using profanities.

"Rorie, those things Faraday printed aren't true—"

"So you claim to know the difference? Isn't the development of a conscience rather convenient right now?"

His earlier sense of doom returned to squeeze his throat, making his breath wheeze. He didn't know where she'd found the star or how she'd put two and two together. He didn't know what he could say or do to make her understand him. All he knew was he had to try. The ice in her voice and the venom in her eyes were killing him.

"Rorie, listen to me. There were extenuating circumstances. I couldn't tell you who I was right at first because I had to go undercover to investigate Gator's murder. And I never had any intention of driving you off your land without an inquiry. In fact, I'm working now to get a court order to keep Dukker from harassing you until this land dispute can be settled by a judge."

She looked dubious, so he added defensively, "Shae understands why I had to go undercover."

He could see by the shock on her face that she'd thought she was the first one to discover him. He groaned inwardly at his blunder.

"And do undercover Rangers make a habit of seducing their murder suspects?" she bit out, the higher pitch of her voice betraying the first hint of white-hot fury that seethed under her glacial calm. "Or do Rangers limit their rutting to schoolgirls and spinsters more trusting than babes?"

He stiffened. Her accusation cut him like a lash. "I know what you're thinking. But I'm not like Bill Malone."

"Forgive me if I don't take you at your word."

"Dammit Rorie, I made love to you last night! What we did wasn't screwing. It wasn't anything
like
screwing," he added, his tone made harsh by his own hurt.

She swallowed convulsively. The sheen of tears darkened her eyes. For the first time since she'd stormed across the threshold, her wintry facade cracked, exposing the raw torment underneath.

"Yes, well..." Her chin quivered as she hiked it. "I hear you young people have a dozen or more colorful ways of describing how you mate with wanton women. You mentioned last night you'd never had a lady before. I'm afraid you'll have to search a little further. Apparently, you haven't had one yet."

"Rorie, don't."

Her smile was grim, lifeless, as barren as a snow-swept prairie. "Pray don't trouble yourself to feel sorry for me. I've been used before, and I've survived.

"Now, unless you have some other undercover"—her lip curled faintly at the term—"work to do for your investigation, I suggest you quit stalling and track down Gator's killer. I want you dressed and off this farm in fifteen minutes."

He muttered an oath as she turned on her heel. Grabbing his shirt, he tied it around his naked hips and bolted after her. He managed to intercept her, slamming the door closed before she could leave him choking on her trail of dust.

"Hold on a damned minute," he growled. "If Dukker really is the killer, you're in danger up to your eyeballs, and I'm not leaving you unprotected."

Standing her ground, she arched a haughty eyebrow. "I should think it not very glamorous to play sentry to a household of orphans when the lure of a manhunt lies before you."

He winced. "You don't think very much of me, do you?"

Her smile was brittle. "Do us both a favor, Ranger. Find the evidence needed to hang Dukker and leave me and my family in peace."

"And in the meantime? Shae's got Creed gunning for him, so you can't count on him for your protection. The fact of the matter is, he's the one attracting all this trouble to your door."

"That may be true, but I trust Shae, and I know he has the good of the children at heart."

"Rorie." He made a concerted effort to gentle his voice. "Shae's in as much danger as you are, as you well know."

"Then... I'll go to Ethan, and I'll ask
him
for protection."

Her solution, which he secretly had to admit was a good one, ripped like a bullet through his heart.

"That won't do you much good, either. The last I heard, your suitor was still on his cattle drive."

Her head shot up, and he could see teardrops clinging to her lashes.

"Then I'll find someone! Someone I can trust!" Her voice broke, and she clenched her fists. "Damn you. Did you ever once stop to think what you were doing, with your bedtime stories and your toys? Did you ever once consider what it might do to those children to watch 'Uncle Wes' ride away from here for good?"

"Rorie, I never meant to hurt you or the children," he said anxiously, reaching for her arm. "I never meant—"

"Don't touch me," she cried, recoiling as if she'd been burned. "Don't you
ever
touch me again!"

Spinning away, she wrenched open the door and ran outside. He glimpsed Merrilee, feeding an apple to Two-Step, and Topher, gingerly carrying a basket of eggs, before Rorie's next words ripped a piece from his soul.

"Merrilee, Topher, inside! Quickly, children."

Merrilee glanced toward the springhouse door. "Is Uncle Wes coming to church with us?"

"No. Uncle Wes is going away."

"Away?" Topher, too, glanced at the springhouse as Rorie caught his hand and led him toward the house. "But why? Where's he going? He's coming back, isn't he?"

"Those are enough questions for now, children," she said roughly.

The door slammed closed behind them with a resounding bang.

"Dammit, Rorie!" An avalanche of heartache thundered through Wes, and it was all he could do not to let it drag him to his knees.

He rammed a fist into the wall, but even that didn't make him feel any less battered by the pounding force inside him, a force so consuming and powerful he was afraid to give it a name.

"I had a job to do," he muttered, plunging his fingers through his hair. "I'm a Ranger, and I did what I had to do the only way I knew how to do it."

You 're a miserable sonuvabitch
, his conscience retorted.

He groaned, digging his fingers into his scalp. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to make Rorie listen to reason, if not for her sake, then for the children's. No one was going to listen to a word he said, though, if he stormed across the yard buck naked. He needed time to cool off, time to see his way clear to a solution. He didn't give a damn whether she liked it or not, he wasn't leaving her without protection.

And he sure as hell wasn't leaving her with the impression that she'd been used as crudely as a whore!

Stumbling back to his jeans, he dressed himself as unhurriedly as his agitation would allow. Since his gut was still roiling with self-loathing, he decided he would pack his bags and saddle Two-Step next. If worse came to worse, he'd just hog-tie Rorie, put her in the wagon bed, and drive her and the children to a neighbor's—even if it had to be Ethan's.

The time he took concocting this outrageous plan helped him feel more in control of the chaos he'd created around him. He set his hat on his head, gritted his teeth, and stalked up the porch steps to pound a fist on the door. It was thrown open immediately by Shae, who barred his entrance.

"Out of my way, son. I've got business with Miss Rorie."

Shae braced himself as Wes tried to barrel past him.

"Hold on a minute, Rawlins. You aren't in any shape to be talking, and she's in no shape to be listening."

They grappled for a moment, each grabbing a fistful of the other's shirt, but Shae wouldn't back down, and Wes knew he'd have to beat the boy senseless if he wanted to force his way inside. Reason screamed loudly enough above the clamor of his fury to remind him of the consequences the last time he'd brawled with a man whom he cared out, over a woman he held dear.

He released Shae and stepped back, cursing.

Shae nodded, relief stealing across his features. "That's better. Smart too. You might have done a foolish thing, but you're not anybody's fool." His smile was dry. "I was wondering why you were so insistent on getting me down to the springhouse. Then I saw her running across the yard."

"Jesus." Wes couldn't look Shae in the eye.

"She doesn't know I know," he said quietly.

Wes's face burned. "So why didn't you get your shotgun and—"

"Because she never would have forgiven me. Besides, I got a good look at her right after it happened. In the two years I've known her, I've never seen her so happy. It's a shame she found out about you the way she did, but it looks like she's got some mighty strong feelings for you. So if I were you, I'd give her time to remember them."