Adrienne deWolfe Read online

  Unfortunately, he slept like a log that night, waking less than an hour before dawn on Thursday with a stiff back and his arms sore from two days of unaccustomed labor.

  Since he couldn't possibly ride into town and back again before Shae stirred, Wes decided his next best course would be to sneak inside the house and poke around again, looking for clues that might prove Shae capable of extreme violence. Gator's old law reports, letters, or even a journal would be ideal, assuming, of course, that Shae hadn't burned them.

  He shrugged into his shirt, then spent a few minutes working the kinks out of his muscles. Outside, the early morning air was pleasantly cool, with one of those pristine, clear skies that rolled across the hills forever. The stars were still bright, without a single cloud to mar their winking, jewellike beauty. On a night like this, he mused, a man could find himself longing for a sweetheart.

  The thought was a dangerous one, and he hastily girded his defenses against the vision that was sure to follow: his sister-in-law's blue-black hair and violet eyes.

  Instead, honey-brown hair and golden eyes shimmered into view.

  He blinked, shaking his head. God help him, now he knew his brain was going soft. He was fantasizing about a marriage-minded lady with four children!

  A soft mewing interrupted his thoughts. The cry sounded like that of a kitten... or a small child. He frowned and glanced sharply around the yard, spying a huddled form in a white nightdress weeping against a post of the corral. Judging by the long black hair that tumbled to her waist, Wes thought the child was Merrilee. She looked so small and alone, even with Two-Step, kind-hearted brute that he was, standing watch over her.

  "Merrilee, sweetheart, what's wrong?" Wes asked, hurrying to kneel by her side.

  She seemed startled by his appearance and retreated from his arms. "I'm sorry I woke you, Uncle Wes."

  He smiled to reassure her. "You didn't, honey."

  She bowed her head, staring shamefully at the ground, and he touched her shoulder.

  "Merrilee, why are you crying?"

  "I had another nightmare," she said in a tiny voice.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  She sniffled, nodding. "It was about the bad men. The ones who came and burned our house."

  Wes felt a sickness in his gut. It burned its way to his heart. "That sounds scary. What did the bad men do?"

  She shuddered, at last shifting a few inches closer. "They hurt Mama. And Papa too."

  She slipped her hand into his.

  "Is that why you're afraid?"

  She nodded again, at last meeting his eyes. "Miss Rorie said I would be safe here, that the bad men wouldn't come back. But Marshal Dukker comes here, and he's a bad man."

  Wes frowned at this intelligence. He didn't like the idea of Dukker frightening Merrilee. "Why do you think he's a bad man?"

  "Because Marshal Dukker came here when Shae was away. He asked Miss Rorie to marry him, and when she said no, he yelled at her and called her bad names. He pushed her and tried to kiss her, just like the bad men did to Mama. Only Mama fell down," she whispered anxiously, "and the bad men fell down with her. That's when Mama told me to run away."

  Bile rose to Wes's throat. Pulling the child into his arms, he held her fiercely. "I won't let that happen to Miss Rorie, Merrilee. I promise."

  She peeked up at him through tear-moistened lashes. "Even if the bad man comes back?"

  "Especially if the bad man comes back."

  A long moment passed before she sighed, snuggling closer and resting her head on his shoulder.

  "I miss my mama. Do you miss yours?"

  He stroked her hair. "Yeah. I reckon I miss all my folks."

  Merrilee pulled back to look at him. "Miss Rorie said you don't have to miss your folks. She said when people die, they go to heaven and become angels. Angels watch over you. See those two big stars over there?" She pointed at the constellation of Orion. "Those are Mama's eyes. And Miss Rorie told me Papa's eyes are over there."

  She pointed next at the Big Dipper. Wes smiled, warmed by the proof of Rorie's creativity.

  "Is that why you came out here? To see your mama and papa?"

  She nodded vigorously. "I always talk to Mama outside so I won't wake up Nita or Ginevee."

  Two-Step, who was apparently miffed at being ignored, leaned over the top rail just then and nuzzled Merrilee's head. She recoiled in surprise, and Wes pushed the gelding's nose away.

  "Here now, you old whey-belly. Did Miss Merrilee say you could eat her hair?"

  The child giggled.

  "Looks like Two-Step likes you, Merrilee."

  She shyly stretched a hand for the velvet snout. "You have a very nice pony."

  Two-Step nudged her, reveling in the attention, and Wes shook his head. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn Merrilee had an apple or a lump of sugar hidden up her sleeve. Two-Step wasn't inclined to be kind to somebody unless he figured there was something in it for him.

  "I finished drawing Two-Step," she said suddenly. "Do you want to see? It's inside."

  Wes had forgotten all about her request to sketch the gelding. "Sure."

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her, hardly noticing the protest of his aching shoulders. He thought maybe he would whittle a wooden sole for her shoe to see if he couldn't ease her limp.

  "It's inside," she whispered. "We have to be very quiet," she whispered, "so we don't wake anybody."

  Tickled when she asked him to tiptoe, he let her ride high on his hip as he strode with her across the yard. Merrilee chattered happily in his ear, telling him about Fuzzy the burro and how Miss Rorie had had to sell him; and how Daisy, the nag, missed Fuzzy.

  "Do you think Two-Step likes Daisy?" Merrilee whispered as he slipped inside the door, careful not to let it bang behind them.

  "Don't know. Reckon I'll have to ask him."

  Merrilee sighed, helping him light a lamp. "I hope they'll be good friends. Then they can get married."

  Wes smiled at her innocence. Somehow, he didn't think Daisy would be too happy having a gelding as a husband.

  They reached the dining room, and Merrilee headed for Rorie's desk.

  "I left my picture here to surprise Miss Rorie," she said.

  Merrilee set down the lamp and reached for the stack of slates beside a vase of fresh wildflowers. "See?" she whispered.

  Wes raised his brows as he looked at the drawing. He had been expecting a stick figure with a loop for a head and a broomstick for a tail, much as his niece always drew with her writing papers and fine pens. But Merrilee, in spite of the lump of chalk she'd had to use, had captured Two-Step in all his irascible glory. With his ears thrust forward, his head held erect, and his front hoof pawing the dirt, Two-Step was ready to charge off the slate. Wes whistled long and low. Merrilee had talent. More than that, she had a gift.

  "This is very good, sweetheart. May I keep it?"

  Her pleasure ebbed to regret. "Oh no, Uncle Wes. This is my school slate, and I must use it for my lessons."

  Wes frowned. Didn't Rorie have any writing paper for the child to play with? He gazed at the slate once more and realized Merrilee had written something in the corner. "What does this say?"

  She gazed at him curiously, then back at the slate. "It says, 'Two-Step the Pony is Mr. Wes's horse.' "

  He couldn't help but chuckle. She had spelled horse

  h-e-a-r-s-e.

  "Can't you read, Uncle Wes?"

  He was about to tell her he could read just fine, when a leather-bound book caught his eye. It was peeking out of a partially open drawer in Rorie's desk. The spine had no writing on it, and, curious, he opened the volume to the light.

  "That's Miss Rorie's journal," Merrilee whispered uneasily. "We're not allowed to play with it."

  "Her journal, eh?" he said, and began flipping through the pages.

  Rorie's writing was neat and precise, much as she was. He found a three-year-old entry with tear stains on it. Skimmin
g it, he learned of one of Jarrod's apparently many affairs. Wes's lip curled. The more he learned of Jarrod Sinclair, the less he liked him.

  Thinking Rorie might have noted some of her suspicions regarding Gator's murderer, Wes flipped quickly toward the current month's entries.

  Merrilee tugged on his jeans. "Uncle Wes, what are you doing?"

  "Looking for pictures," he answered absently.

  His attention focused on an entry dated nearly three weeks earlier.

  There's just no reasoning with Cousin Hannibal, Gator says. I know he feels badly. Hannibal's the only parent Creed and Danny have left. For their sakes. Gator has bent over backwards, giving Hannibal countless opportunities to mend his ways, but Hannibal always scoffs at Gator's threats.

  Gator has tried talking to Creed about the whiskey still, but Creed got so mad at him for "playing him against his pa," that he never made an appearance at the church barbecue, where Gator announced he would run again for sheriff. Not having Creed's support ate Gator up inside. But I think it hurt him worse when Hannibal stood up and proclaimed his own decision to run for sheriff. Now it looks like Gator will have to choose between his duty to the law, and his duty to his family—

  "What do you think you're doing?" a female voice snapped from the doorway.

  Merrilee must have jumped five feet. Wes did too. Turning, he found Rorie glaring at him from a pool of her own lamp light. He had the fleeting impression of bare feet, a softly clinging nightgown, cascading hair that fell in a flattering way across one delightfully uncorsetted breast, and two narrowed eyes hot enough to incinerate him.

  He donned a sheepish grin. "Er, looking for pictures?"

  "Uncle Wes made my nightmares go away," Merrilee said, rising to his defense.

  Rorie seemed to notice the child then. Setting her lamp on the dining table, she hurried forward, kneeling and placing her hands on Merrilee's shoulders.

  "Sweetheart, you know you can come to me when you're scared. Why didn't you wake me?"

  Merrilee hung her head. "I'm sorry."

  "You don't have to be sorry." Rorie's voice was much gentler now. "It's just that I worry about you."

  "I didn't want for you to worry," Merrilee said, "so I went and talked to Mama."

  "I see."

  Wes heard the disappointment in Rorie's voice, although she quickly masked it in her expression.

  "Besides"—Merrilee put on a brave smile—"Uncle Wes helped me a lot."

  Wes fidgeted as Rorie's eyes met his. He slipped the journal back into the drawer.

  "We must thank your uncle Wes," she said dryly. She rose, taking Merrilee's hand in hers. "As for my journal, sir, I'd like to know—" She broke off abruptly as Merrilee tugged on her gown. "Yes, Merrilee. What is it?"

  "Please don't be mad at Uncle Wes, ma'am. He can't read."

  Wes felt his face heat. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that the child was lying, albeit unwittingly, to protect him, or that Rorie was gazing at him as if journal riffling was the most heinous of crimes.

  "Is that true? Can you not read?"

  Wes shuffled his feet. "Well, as a matter of fact—"

  A creaking floorboard interrupted him. Topher, dressed in red longjohns, trundled into the room, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

  "Who can't read?" he asked around a yawn.

  "Uncle Wes," Merrilee said promptly.

  "Topher." Rorie looked at him with surprise and concern. "What's the matter? Why aren't you in bed?"

  Topher shrugged. "I'm done sleeping. I'm hungry. What's for breakfast?"

  Rorie sighed, obviously struggling to be patient. "Topher, it's too early for breakfast. Run along to bed."

  Topher looked mutinous. "I can't sleep with all your noisy whispering. Besides, Merrilee's not in bed."

  Suspecting Rorie was at the end of her rope, Wes stepped in.

  "Topher does have a point, ma'am." Winking at Rorie over the boy's head, he draped his arm around Topher's shoulders. "If the boy can't sleep, there's no sense in sending him to bed. He can get a head start on his shower bath instead."

  Topher stiffened, betraying the disgust any self-respecting boy his age should feel toward bathing. "The shower bath?"

  "Sure. I'll even walk over there with you if you like."

  "I went swimming yesterday. I don't need no shower bath."

  "It's your choice, son," Wes said. "Either you can get up and take a shower bath, or you can go back to bed."

  Appreciation flickered across Rorie's features, but Topher scowled. He tugged free of Wes's arm.

  "I hate shower baths," he grumbled, stalking toward the hallway.

  Merrilee, meanwhile, was tugging on Rorie's gown again. "Are you going to teach Uncle Wes how to read?"

  Rorie arched her eyebrow, and Wes couldn't quite hide his grin. Bless Merrilee's little heart, he thought. She didn't realize it, but she had just provided him with the perfect opportunity to get to know Rorie better—all for the sake of his investigation, of course.

  "I don't know if Miss Rorie's up to such a big challenge," he said to the girl.

  Suspicion still glimmered in Rorie's eyes, but it was being rapidly replaced by compassion. The softness in her expression gave her a hint of vulnerability, a fragile elegance. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. Maybe it was the halo of lamplight that made the difference, or her loosened hair, framing her cheeks like a mass of honey-colored silk. Or maybe it was the utter simplicity of her gown, with its ribboned bodice and empress waistline.

  "Reading is not difficult, Wes, I assure you, if you just give it the time and study it requires."

  "Miss Rorie can teach anyone how to read," Merrilee said. "She even taught Abraham, and he sees things backwards."

  "Is that so? Reckon I've come to the right place then." Wes patted the child's head, unable to resist an admiring glance at the soft mounds and slender curves that receded shyly beneath Rorie's cotton muslin.

  He felt his heart quicken as he dragged his gaze higher, past the ties that fluttered in rhythm to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. He noticed the pulse in her throat was beating a little fast.

  "When shall we start?" he asked, surprised by the huskiness in his voice.

  "Well, I, er, was thinking we might begin after dinner," she said. Her own voice sounded breathless.

  "Good idea. We can put the children to bed first, so we won't have any distractions."

  She blushed prettily. "Ginevee and Shae will still be about."

  He let his gaze steal down her length once more. "Oh, I'm not worried about them." He met her eyes deliberately. "Tell you what. Why don't I wait here while you put Merrilee back to bed, and then we can start our shooting lesson."

  She started, the spell broken. "The shooting lesson! I'd forgotten we were going to have another one. I'll have to change my gown and—"

  "Don't go to any trouble on my account."

  She glared at him again. How he did love it when those tawny eyes of hers flashed.

  "On second thought," she said crisply, "I promised Ginevee I would help her can preserves."

  He donned his best hangdog expression. "Too bad."

  "Come along, Merrilee. I'll tuck you in."

  She urged the child toward the stairs, then hesitated on the first step. Turning suddenly, she walked back into the room and reached past him for the journal. He got a whiff of rose petals and lavender as her breast brushed his arm. His loins stirred, but she recoiled as if she'd been burned, clutching the book to her chest.

  "You might consider the shower bath yourself, sir." She hiked her chin as if to hide the tremor in her voice. "I daresay it might help to cool you off."

  He smiled, propping a shoulder against the wall, and indulged himself in watching the sway of Rorie's hips as she left. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who had gotten all fired up. He wondered idly if Rorie slept with any children in her bedroom. Then he began to wonder which window might be hers.

  Topher reappeared, sticki
ng his head around the corner.

  "Pssst."

  Wes raised his brows. "You talking to me?"

  The boy nodded. "Is she gone?"

  "I reckon so."

  Topher blew out his breath. "Good." He pulled an oatmeal cookie from his pocket and began munching happily. "Did Merrilee have her nightmare again?"

  Wes nodded, amused to see how rapidly the cookie was disappearing.

  "That's what I figured. When I grow up, I'm going to be a lawman like Sheriff Gator and hang all those bad men who hurt Merrilee's family."

  "You are, huh?" He wondered if Topher knew who his father had been.

  "Sure. Then I'm going to marry Merrilee."

  "Does Merrilee know about this?"

  Topher shrugged. "I reckon," he said over a mouthful of cookie. "Don't get me wrong. I don't much like girls, but I figure I'm going to have to have one someday, and Merrilee ain't half-bad compared with most. She knows how to fish."

  Topher pulled out two more cookies, hesitated, then reluctantly offered one to him. Wes chuckled.

  "No, thanks, Topher. I've got a hankering for slabberdabs."

  "Slabberdabs?" Topher frowned, and he actually stopped chewing for a moment. "What's that?"

  "It's a secret," Wes whispered. "Want to find out?"

  Topher nodded eagerly, and Wes took the boy's hand. As they headed for the kitchen, though, he couldn't resist one last glance toward the stairs—or a sigh.

  Slabberdabs wouldn't be much consolation for a man with an appetite like his.

  * * *

  Rorie dressed mechanically. She hardly remembered rolling up her stockings or hooking her blouse. She was too busy thinking about Merrilee.

  A part of her ached whenever the child gazed at her with those big earnest eyes and spoke about her mother. It wasn't that Rorie thought she could ever replace Merrilee's mother—far from it. It was just that Rorie felt the emptiness of her own womb so keenly that she longed for a deeper closeness with the child. Of the four children, Merrilee had had the most difficulty adjusting to her adopted home, no doubt because she was the only one who had known her parents, and she had witnessed the tragedy of their deaths.

  For three years, Rorie had tried to ease the girl's pain, but Merrilee always maintained a polite distance, wandering off for hours on end to talk to her dead mother. Rorie had also heard the child talking to the birds and the animals, the earth and the elements, in her native Comanche tongue. Unlike the fire-and-brimstone preacher who had found her, though, Rorie didn't frighten Merrilee with tales of hell to make her forsake her "savage ways." As far as Rorie was concerned, her first duty to the child was to help her heal her grief, not force her to accept a God who gave her little solace.