Adrienne deWolfe (4 page)

Chapter 2

"Keep your hands where I can see them, mister," Aurora Sinclair ordered. She locked her trembling knees and drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten, shooting the stranger her fiercest glare and praying to heaven that the children were all safely in the cellar.

For days she had drilled her charges in the emergency procedure, her distrust of Hannibal Dukker spurring her to take precautions. Although the marshal had yet to threaten her household, she feared his retaliation was only a matter of time. The night before, she had finally convinced him to take his courtship elsewhere; only that afternoon, Creed had given free rein to his envy of Shae.

Even if Rorie could have convinced herself Hannibal's courtship had been based on love—or his boys' desperate need of a mother—she would never have surrendered her orphans' guardianship simply to relieve her own loneliness.

Still, she had spent last night wondering if she had been prudent to reject Marshal Dukker. She would have had to suffer his suit for only another few weeks, until her more civilized beau returned from his cattle drive, or until Shae turned eighteen and could inherit the land she held in trust for him. If she had been wise enough to bide her time where Dukker was concerned, she might not be standing there now worrying that she had endangered the children.

Or that this dusty stranger, who had ridden out of town with twin revolvers on his hips, was part of Dukker's revenge.

Swallowing hard, she tightened her fists over the butt of the .45 and tried to hold it steady, as Shae had taught her. Her best gunfighter's stance only seemed to amuse the stranger, though. He was young, perhaps five or six years younger than she, but his accessories suggested that he was an expert at destruction. In addition to his six-shooters, his cartridge belt, and the sheathed Bowie knife that peeked from his boot, a Winchester rifle glinted against his saddle.

No casual cowpoke carried so much firing power, even in Texas, the Braggadocio Capital of the South.

Cocking his head, the stranger grinned at her. "You planning on shooting me, ma'am?"

The very idea made her stomach roil. "If I must."

"You'll have to aim a bit higher then."

A slow heat crept up her neck. He was trying to intimidate her. She'd been practicing for two whole weeks, and she knew she could hit the side of a barrel—most of the time.

"You have yet to answer my question," she retorted in her sternest schoolmarm voice. "What is your business here?"

He doffed his hat. His hair was as thick as a lion's mane, and flared around his darkly tanned face with the red-gold glory of a sunset. For a moment, she simply could not tear her eyes away. She had stared down onto her former husband's shiny pate for so long, she had forgotten a man could be blessed with such magnificent hair.

"The name's Rawlins. Wes Rawlins," the stranger drawled in his rumbling baritone, one which might have been musical if not for its tiny twang of bluster. "I've come to see Mr. Sinclair."

"Then you have come to the wrong place."

"This is Gator Boudreau's homestead, isn't it?"

"Yes. Or rather, it was. But Sheriff Boudreau was—"

She bit her tongue. Prudence, she reminded herself. She had enough problems with Dukker; she would be inviting disaster if she accused him of complicity in Gator's murder without a single shred of evidence.

"Ma'am?"

Swallowing, Rorie forced herself to meet Rawlins's eyes. They were so startlingly green, they looked like polished emeralds set into the copper of his face.

"Did you know Sheriff Boudreau, Mr. Rawlins?"

"No, ma'am. I've heard talk of him, though."

"Gator was a good man. A decent, Christian man," she added firmly, knowing firsthand the damage gossips could do. "You would never have found him behaving like one of those rude, uncouth Rangers he often kept the company of."

A hint of amusement again crept across Rawlins's chiseled features. She noticed for the first time that he had a smattering of freckles on his nose. They blended almost to perfection with his tan.

"Do you know a lot of Rangers, ma'am?"

"I know a lot of lawmen, Mr. Rawlins. And I can't think of a single one—other than Gator—whom I'd consider trustworthy."

Rawlins frowned. His eyes bored into hers, and for a moment, she had the unsettling feeling that he knew more about her suspicions than she wanted to reveal.

Shae, for heaven's sake where are you?
She wished the boy would come home. He'd been so furious with her for interfering in his fistfight that he had driven them back from town and unloaded the wagon without a single word to her. Then he had stalked off for a sulk.

Of course, Shae or no Shae, Rorie would do what had to be done to protect the children. She certainly would feel better about martyrdom, though, knowing Shae's shotgun was guarding the cellar. Even Gator hadn't been able to beat Shae in an honest shooting match.

"I'm real sorry, ma'am," Rawlins said, "about the way Sheriff Boudreau passed on." He inclined his head. "You must have been right close to him, Mrs.... er, Miss...?"

"For the last time, Mr. Rawlins, what do you want?"

She had amused him again. There was a winsome charm in his smile, a youthful appeal that was more than a little disarming. She tried to steel herself against it. She recalled Gator's tales of Billy the Kid, a young man who had always smiled before he killed.

"Well, for starters," Rawlins said, "how 'bout putting down that Equalizer before you shoot your foot off?"

"I assure you, Mr. Rawlins, I am not the one in danger. Now I suggest you ride on."

"You' re not from around here, are you, ma'am?" Leaning forward, he winked in a conspiratorial manner. "I can always peg a Yankee lady by the way she doles out hospitality."

Rorie felt her face flame.
Well!

" 'Course, I meant no offense," he continued, with that lilting vocal swagger of his. "And I sure don't want to put you out any. It's just that I've had a long ride and I'm real thirsty. Do you think we might call a truce so I can get a dipper of water? Shoot, I'll take my gun belt off, if that'd make you feel better."

Oh, he was a clever one, this Wes Rawlins. He'd gone straight to the heart of her female pride—her hospitality. How in good conscience could she refuse him water? By the looks of him, he
had
had a long ride. And the nearest body of water, Ramble Creek, was another mile to the west.

"All right," she said. "You may go to the well. But keep your hands away from your guns."

"Sure thing, ma'am. Whatever you say."

He was humoring her. She felt it as surely as she felt the growing fatigue in her arms. She worried she wouldn't be able to draw a straight bead on him much longer. She worried, too, about the heat and the darkness in that cellar. Poor Ginevee probably had her hands full, trying to ease the qualms of a dozen monster-fearing children.

"Please hurry, Mr. Rawlins, before my well and my patience dry up."

He swung a leg over his saddle, and her heart quickened as he unfolded. True to his word, he kept his hands high, but his cooperation wasn't what imprinted itself on her senses. She realized suddenly that he was taller than Shae—at least four inches taller, and Shae was six-foot! She couldn't remember the last time she'd had to tilt her head back to look a man in the eye.

Rawlins bent his head and grinned down into her flushed face. "You mind if I use my hands now? On the dipper, I mean."

Her insides fluttered at the provocative warmth in his voice. "Of course not."

"Much obliged... Mrs. Sinclair. It
is
Mrs. Sinclair, isn't it?"

"I am Aurora Sinclair," she admitted grudgingly, less annoyed by the reminder of her failed marriage than by the rush of her silly pulse.

Those green eyes laughed at her as he started to turn away. To her surprise, he limped. His easy masculine confidence couldn't conceal his grimace, and her annoyance ebbed slightly. He hadn't mentioned he was hurt. What had happened to him?

Chagrin trickled through her; she struggled against a swell of motherly instinct. Had she judged him too quickly? After all, he could have pleaded pain or injury and then, when her guard was down, he could have jumped her. If she were back in Cincinnati, where young men didn't wear revolvers during social calls, she would have known immediately where she stood with Wes Rawlins.

But in Texas, a genteel, impeccably dressed gentleman might ride into town and dynamite the bank, while the grizzled, squinty-eyed type might turn out to be a traveling preacher. Rorie hated to pass judgment simply on appearances, but there was too much at stake in her cellar.

"So." He looked curiously around him, his gaze traveling from the chicken coop's half-hinged door to the cistern's rusting pump, and from the house's one boarded window to the fence's tumbled posts. "Are you running a school here, Mrs. Sinclair?"

"A school for some. A home for others."

He turned, dipper in hand, and rested his weight on the well. "A home? You mean you've made this old rat-trap into an orphanage?"

"The children have nowhere else to go, Mr. Rawlins, and our neighbors in Elodea are not inclined to charity."

"I see."

I doubt it,
she thought, but she kept her peace. The Negro and Mexican farmers had always been kind to her, sparing what grains and livestock they could in exchange for their children's education. But the townsfolk of Elodea had yanked every one of their children from her tutelage. The parents had been aghast to learn that their precious Billy Bobs and Peggy Sues were sharing readers with her orphans. Preacher Jenkins and Mayor Faraday had tried repeatedly to replace her, but no teacher could satisfy the Elodean ideal.

"So how long have y'all been living here, if you don't mind my asking?"

"One year."

"That's all?"

She eyed him sharply. What kind of question was that?

"Well, if you must know, Mr. Rawlins, I was hired one year ago as Elodea's schoolmistress. But I was denied the house I was promised because certain elements in Elodea cannot suffer to live beside people of a different color. Fortunately Gator took the orphans in so we would all have a roof over our heads."

"And your husband?" Rawlins's face had darkened in a way that suggested anger. "Where was Mr. Sinclair when you were being booted out of town?"

In some whorehouse, no doubt.
But she didn't need to tell Rawlins about Jarrod's peccadillos.

"My husband is none of your concern. And I will thank you now to leave our home."

Rawlins shook his head, and her heart leaped. Anxiously she watched him replace the dipper in the pail and let the pail sink into the well. The whizzing crank and groaning rope were the only sounds in the yard until several seconds later, when she heard a muffled splash.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but you seem eager to get rid of me. It kind of makes me wonder." Frank eyes searched her own. "Did I give you some reason to be scared? 'Cause even with this hair and all, I don't usually send children running and ladies reaching for their six-shooters. Not on purpose, anyway," he added with the tiniest, self-deprecating smile.

Rorie swallowed. For a moment, she spied concern, warm and genuine, in the jade recesses of his gaze. Guilt warred anew with her doubts. She started to wonder if, perhaps, she should try to explain. Or at least to apologize. She was on the verge of doing the latter when a sudden nerve-rattling howl made her jump.

"Flower bit me!
Flower bit me!"

Rorie spun, her heart in her throat. She realized that the other children must have forgotten Po in their rush for the cellar. Sloughing off mud and petals, the two-year-old scrambled out of the rose bushes and rushed toward her with outstretched arms. After only three frantic steps, his shoes tangled in their unfastened straps, and he fell flat on his face with a thud. His howls crescendoed to an earsplitting pitch.

Rawlins chuckled, and his long legs outdistanced hers as he hurried with her to the toddler's rescue.

"Here now, pardner," he said, undaunted by all the dirt, shrieks, and tears. "Let me see that flower bite."