Adrienne deWolfe Page 7

  The old anguish threatened, and Wes clenched his teeth. Deliberately, and with a good deal of practice, he shoved the feelings back down.

  He loved his brother. The man could be overbearing and stubborn at times, but that wasn't the problem. The real problem was that Wes had let his feelings for Fancy get the better of him. And he'd hurt Cord. Never, ever could he go home and face his brother again.

  Wes drew a shuddering breath. It was better not to think about home. It was better to get on with his investigation.

  Since Shae had dragged him off the previous evening to fell an oak for lumber, Wes had missed the family dinner. With Ginevee scrubbing pans at one end of the house, and Aurora tutoring Topher at the other, Wes had also missed an opportunity to snoop through drawers and cabinets.

  But today was a new day. The sun, which had climbed to its zenith, was hotter than the devil's branding iron. Rorie had ended class early so the children could go to the fishing hole at Ramble Creek. Only Merrilee remained behind, apparently content to pick wildflowers, one of which she'd shyly presented to him.

  Since Rorie and Ginevee were busy with laundry, and Shae was fixing a dining room chair in the toolshed, Wes figured he'd have a good ten minutes to prowl the house undisturbed.

  Whistling with practiced nonchalance as he climbed down from the barn roof, he strolled toward the privy, let the door bang loudly, then circled back through the trees to slink inside the kitchen door. All this subterfuge was child's play to a man who delighted in tracking and stalking.

  Since he'd come looking for clues, preferably written ones that might indicate discord between Gator, Shae, and Rorie, Wes stopped first in the stretch of floor space that served as sitting room, dining room, and schoolhouse. He could tell Rorie conducted her lessons there because of the slates stacked neatly on a pinewood sideboard.

  A small desk stood wedged in one corner, and he started his search there, hoping to find a ledger that might indicate Gator's worth and thereby point toward a motive for Shae and Rorie to kill him. Pulling open drawers, Wes rummaged among polished river stones, broken chess pieces, a bag of marbles, a limbless doll, and a variety of other junk that Rorie must have confiscated from inattentive students.

  He couldn't help but be tickled when he found several marked playing cards and a piece of butcher paper on which Topher had scrawled, "cheating is wrong," about twenty times above his signature.

  Opening the next drawer, Wes leafed through the paper cutouts, valentines, and dried flowers that had been carefully preserved between the tattered pages of an old reader. He suspected these items were Rorie's treasures, gifts that she had received from the children. It touched him in an unexpected way to see the value she placed on things of no monetary worth.

  In the next instant, he was making a face at himself. Yep. My brain is most definitely turning to mush.

  The remaining two drawers revealed little more than school supplies, so he turned his attention to the sideboard, with all its drawers and doors. He knew a grim sense of satisfaction when he found it was locked.

  Apparently Rorie kept something in there that she valued even more than handmade gifts.

  Removing his hat, he fished from the inner lining the widdy that he'd confiscated from a weasel-eyed stagecoach driver, who'd tried to jimmy a passenger's trunk. Wes had a whole collection of ring shiners, knuckle dusters, shaved dice, counterfeit money, and other outlaw memorabilia back home in a box. He kept the widdy with him, though, because it was useful in detective work. He wasn't any Pinkerton, but he'd been known to turn up a fair share of verdict-clinching evidence with helpful gadgets like widdies.

  Setting his hat back on his head, he went to work, jiggling the old, stubborn lock with his thief's pick. He'd no sooner swung open the door, when a bobbing, pig-tailed shadow upon the sideboard caught his eye.

  "Hello, Mr. Wes."

  He didn't know what jumped harder, him or his heart. Turning, he found Merrilee standing in the open doorway holding a basket of flowers at least half her size.

  "Hello, Merrilee."

  He tried to smile, but it was hard to appear innocent when facing those big, mahogany eyes.

  "What are you doing in Miss Rorie's private cabinet?"

  "Well, I..." He glanced down, straining to come up with a plausible lie, and noticed the wilted flower twined around his belt loop. Remembering the annoying honeybee he'd had to squash earlier, he looked back at Merrilee. "I, er, was looking for medicine."

  Merrilee's eyes grew even bigger, if that was possible. "Medicine? Are you sick?"

  With a sleight of hand that a cardsharp would have envied, he slipped the widdy into his back pocket. "Not as sick as that honeybee is."

  This humor was clearly lost on Merrilee. She frowned. "What's wrong with the honeybee?"

  His smile was genuine this time as he struggled not to laugh. "That old bee had a run-in with my belly, and since I don't much like to be stung—"

  Merrilee's gasp cut him off, and she dropped her basket, spilling flowers all over her moccasins. "Bee sting?"

  She was backing for the door, and Wes saw instantly that he'd made a mistake;.

  "It wasn't a very big bee sting—"

  "I'll get Miss Rorie."

  "Merrilee, wait!"

  But she was already hurrying down the hall, her pigtails bouncing behind her.

  Wes muttered an oath. God love the child, she meant well, but he was going to have a helluva time explaining to Rorie how he'd opened her locked cabinet, not to mention why he was snooping in the first place. He didn't think she'd believe the medicine story, and that meant he would have to come up with some other whopper. Unless...

  He smiled wickedly to himself.

  Unless he found some way to distract her.

  * * *

  "Miss Rorie!"

  Rorie started to hear Merrilee—shy, respectful Merrilee—call her by her childhood nickname. She supposed it was inevitable, though. The previous night during prayers, Topher had slyly tested the waters in front of the other children by asking God to bless "Miss Rorie."

  That morning, she'd learned Topher's influence had spread to Po, when the toddler presented her with the biggest, ugliest toad she'd ever seen in her life and crowed, "Lookie, lookie! I named him Miss Wor-wee!"

  Somehow, she'd managed to greet her new namesake with decorum.

  In truth, Rorie didn't mind the orphans using her childhood name, since she'd often wished Jarrod would do the same as proof of his affection for her.

  What Rorie did mind was the implication behind Wes's use of the name. She had no intention of encouraging a greater familiarity with her hired hand, nor did she want her children to. Unfortunately, the children had spent all of their play time the day before shadowing Wes. And Wes had spent his work time charming, entertaining, and educating them, God forbid.

  She would have to speak to her hired hand about her children.

  "Miss Rorie!" Merrilee called again, panting as she ran into the garden.

  When Rorie saw the child's eyes, as big and dark as eclipsed suns, she knew immediately that disaster had struck. Jumping to her feet, she all but forgot Wes as Merrilee skidded to a halt before her.

  "Bee sting!" the child cried.

  "Where, Merrilee?" Rorie caught the girl's shoulders. "Where did the bee sting you?"

  Shaking her head, Merrilee gulped down air. "Not me. Mr. Wes!"

  Rorie frowned. "Mr. Wes?"

  Merrilee nodded vigorously. "He was looking for medicine in your private cabinet."

  Surprised by this information, Rorie decided she must have misunderstood. "You mean he's in the dining room?"

  Merrilee looked close to tears. "Yes, ma'am. Hurry!" She tugged on Rorie's hand. "Mr. Wes could get very, very sick!"

  Rorie obliged, letting the child pull her into the house. She knew Merrilee was remembering the previous summer, when Topher had been stung by a bee and had swelled up like a bull frog. The boy had been feverish for several days, and Merrilee
had huddled by his bedside, afraid she would lose her playmate.

  "It's all right, Merrilee," Rorie said soothingly. "I'm sure Mr. Wes will be fine."

  She'd no sooner said this, then a pitiful moan came from the dining room. Merrilee's uneven legs churned even faster as she pulled Rorie down the hall.

  "Hurry, Miss Rorie. Hurry!"

  Much to her secret amusement, Rorie spied Wes sitting on her desk, swinging a long, muscular leg and frowning perplexedly at the taffy box she'd filled with sewing notions.

  "Damn," he muttered before realizing he'd acquired an audience.

  "Does it hurt, Mr. Wes?" Merrilee asked, dragging Rorie all the way to his side.

  He nodded woefully, but she saw the amusement dancing in his eyes. Rorie suspected then that there'd been no bee and no sting, and that he was the only pain.

  Merrilee stepped onto the stool by the desk and pressed a small palm to his sun-baked cheek. "He's real hot, Miss Rorie!"

  The child turned anxiously to her for guidance.

  Wes had the audacity to smirk behind the child's back. "That's not the only place I'm hot, Miss Rorie."

  She shot him a quelling glare. "Merrilee, sweetheart, why don't you gather up all your flowers and put them in a vase for Ginevee."

  The child looked torn between her patient and her chore.

  "Go ahead, Miss Merrilee," Wes said in a brave voice. "Miss Rorie will fix me."

  I'll fix you, all right, she thought, helping the child fill her basket.

  When the flowers were all gathered, Merrilee hesitated once more, glancing back at Wes. "Would it be all right if I draw your pony?"

  "You mean Two-Step?" He chuckled. "Why, I think ol' fiddle foot would be right pleased to have his portrait made."

  Merrilee turned eagerly to Rorie. "Can I, ma'am?"

  Rorie nodded. What harm could come to the child as long as she stayed clear of the gelding's hooves? Besides, Rorie had been encouraging Merrilee's gift for drawing. It was the only way to get her to discuss the phantoms in her nightmares.

  "You may take a slate to the corral," Rorie said, "but you must promise not to go inside."

  "I promise." Merrilee eagerly retrieved a board and chalk from the table and slipped them into her basket. "Thank you, ma'am. 'Bye, Mr. Wes."

  After Merrilee had left, Rorie planted her fists on her hips and glared at the scapegrace sitting on her desk.

  "Ah, my angel of mercy."

  "Mercy's the last thing you'll get from me, Wes Rawlins."

  "You sure have a lot of flash in those eyes. Reminds me of a Winchester when its brass receiver catches the sun."

  "Don't change the subject." She tugged the taffy box from his hands. "Don't you have any scruples?"

  "Now don't go spitting smoke. I was only going to eat one tiny little piece..."

  She glowered at him, but it was hard not to be distracted by his ruggedly sensual beauty.

  "That is not what I meant and you know it well. Lying to the child that way—"

  "What, you don't think I have a bee sting?"

  She blinked, her reprimand faltering on her tongue. It had never occurred to her he really might.

  "Do you?"

  "Yes."

  She wasn't sure she liked the silky tone of his voice. "Where?"

  "On my belly."

  For the first time since arriving in the room, she noticed the wilted Indian paintbrush tucked inside his belt loop. A bee sting in such a tender area probably throbbed worse than a sore tooth.

  She sighed. Why hadn't he said he was hurting in the first place?

  To her embarrassment, she realized he had.

  "I see." She cleared her throat. "Very well. Unbutton your shirt while I get the salve."

  She stepped to the cabinet, too flustered by her self-recriminations as she unlocked the doors to notice the upside-down book above the medicine shelf. He must think she was completely heartless. First his limp when she'd met him, now his bee sting, and she hadn't offered him care for either.

  The idea that a gun-toting, wisecracking rogue like Wes Rawlins could be as vulnerable as Topher, or even Po, touched her in a way that did serious damage to the barrier of distrust that she was trying to keep between them. It took all of her hard-won prudence, caution forged by her husband's betrayals and lies, to keep herself from begging Wes's forgiveness.

  After all, she didn't want a gunfighter getting too comfortable in her home and giving Topher or Shae romantic ideas about shoot-outs.

  All those thoughts flitted through her mind in the space of a few heartbeats. In fact, she couldn't have turned her back on Wes for more than half a minute, and yet, when she turned to face him again, he'd stripped off his vest and shirt.

  Her jaw dropped.

  The jar of salve nearly did too.

  Perfectly at ease in all his bare-chested glory, he settled back on the desk, every sinew rippling in shameless display. Broad and brawny in the shoulders, lean and narrow in the hips, Wes had hidden a whole world of wonders beneath his faded cotton shirt: knotted biceps, corded forearms, and a rock-hard abdomen that would have taken a stinger of steel to scrape, much less pucker.

  She swallowed, and he flashed a dazzling smile.

  "You don't mind me unshucked, do you, ma'am? I figured with you being a doctor's wife and all, you'd grown kind of used to fixing up patients with their shirts off."

  She clutched the jar like a lifeboat in a hurricane.

  "Er... no." Her voice sounded too high, and she felt her face flood with color. "Of course not."

  Think of him as Shae, she instructed herself sternly. You've massaged salve into Shae's aching back a dozen times or more.

  She took a step closer, then forced herself to take another. He began swinging his leg again, an incongruous combination of youthful exuberance and manly sensuality. It drew her gaze to the thickened trunks of his thighs, which spread apart oh-so casually, on a level with her warming womanhood. The realization had a devastating effect on her pulse.

  "Where were you stung?" she asked, relieved to hear her pitch had lowered, although it sounded a bit too husky to her ears.

  "Here." He touched a reddened spot a hairbreadth higher than his buckle.

  "Oh."

  During times like this, she wished heartily that she'd learned how to curse. To treat his bee sting there—assuming it was a bee sting, of course—she'd have to walk right up to him and... and stand between his thighs!

  She glanced uncertainly at his face, which he'd smoothed into stoic lines. She suspected his solemnity was a mask behind which he'd hidden a wealth of mirth, all at her expense. She, however, wasn't about to let him see how much he could disturb her.

  Drawing a steadying breath, she marched herself into the danger zone. She tried to keep her eyes focused on her hands, which, she realized to her mounting frustration, were not only sticky damp, they were fumbling.

  "Need help?" he drawled.

  "I... uh... can manage, thank you. "

  She stole a glance upward—not at his eyes, for she wasn't quite nervy enough for that—but at his chest, the chiseled work of art that God himself had crafted. An auburn dusting of baby-fine hairs clung to the pale gold of his flesh. They curled enticingly over every ridge and plane of his chest. Never in her life had she seen anything so perfect—until her furtive gaze was arrested by the jagged, circular scar on his left shoulder.

  She caught her breath.

  Another scar, not far below it and ominously close to his heart, looked much fresher. She'd never seen a bullet hole before, but she knew with gut-wrenching certainty that these were gunshot wounds.

  Her gaze flew to his. "Wes, you could have been killed."

  He stared into her eyes for what seemed like forever. Only inches away, she could see all the shades of green in his eyes, from pine to jade, to emerald, bursting outward in concentric circles from their pitch-black center.

  That dark core of his gaze mesmerized her. It was the doorway to his secret self, a por
tal where shadows flitted past like phantoms fleeing the light. She thought he might be hiding some secret he didn't want her to know. When his red-gold lashes fanned downward like a veil, intuition told her she'd touched on truth.

  "Naw." His voice was husky. "No little bitty honeybee could send me to the boneyard."

  He hadn't come close to fooling her. She knew that he knew it too.

  "How did this happen?"

  With a will all their own, her fingers touched that second scar. She had never seen anything like it. Two odd triangular impressions, the lower one less distinct, angled outward from each other. They marred his perfect flesh like a cookie cutter might have marred soft dough. "This wound can't be more than a year old."

  "Eleven months," he corrected her in a strangely hushed voice. "I remember, because..."

  His voice trailed off.

  "Does it hurt to talk about it?" she asked gently.

  His heart jumped hard beneath her fingertips, its rhythm growing ragged. "A little," he admitted.

  His gaze moved beyond her, growing dark with some haunting memory. "A man doesn't forget being bushwhacked and left for buzzard bait. Or lying helpless, unable to stop a blood feud from becoming a family massacre," he added with uncharacteristic grimness.

  She swallowed, too shaken by his admission to press him further. Silence wrapped around them. He spared her the gruesome details of the nightmare he'd lived through, and yet his refusal to share his feelings and let her try to ease his hurt made her feel strangely shut out and alone.

  "Wes, don't take such risks anymore." The words blazed a path from her heart to her tongue; she couldn't have stopped them if she'd tried. "You're too young—"

  "I'm not that young."

  She caught her breath. His voice held a razor-keen edge, a stab of warning so sharp, one might have thought that she'd challenged him.

  "I'm sorry. I meant no offense."

  She retreated a step, retrieving her hand. When she reached for the lid, though, he caught her fingers, and she met his gaze uncertainly. His haunted expression was receding, leaving in its place something just as discomfiting. Those forest-green depths gleamed now with a primal intensity, one that he couldn't entirely hide behind his fallen-angel's smile.