Adrienne deWolfe Page 9

  Wes looked inordinately amused. "What's wrong with history?"

  Topher gave him an exasperated look. "It's about old dead people."

  Rorie hid her smile. "I'm sure Abraham is studying for the history test tomorrow. He told me he's going to be the one who wins that bottle of cherry sarsaparilla."

  Topher scowled, giving a vicious sweep with his broom. "I hate history."

  The back door banged, and Merrilee teetered inside, carefully carrying a brimming pail of water. Rorie watched the concern flicker across Wes's features. He started to rise, but Ginevee, who had been waiting for the child, hurried forward to help Merrilee with the pail.

  "History's not so bad," Wes said to Topher. His thoughtful gaze followed Merrilee as she pulled her rag doll from her skirt pocket and limped to the corner to play. "After all, it's just a big, long string of yarns."

  "Yeah?" Topher sounded doubtful.

  "Sure. Take the story of Pocahontas and Captain John Smith."

  "Who's Po-co-harness?"

  "Pocahontas," Wes corrected him gently, "was a beautiful Indian princess."

  "Oh."

  Wes's answer may have disappointed Topher, but Merrilee raised her head, momentarily losing interest in her doll.

  While Po scrambled up on Wes's knee, Nita edged closer, drying a plate with her towel. "Was Pocahontas a Comanche?"

  Wes cast another sidelong glance at Merrilee. "I don't rightly know. She could have been, because she was strong and brave, and full of spirit like all Comanche squaws."

  Merrilee smiled at his words, and Rorie felt her heart warm. She had opened her mouth to tell them that Pocahontas had been a Powhatan Indian, but thought better of it when she saw the pleasure Wes's words gave Merrilee.

  Wes winked at her before smoothing his features into solemn lines. "Gather 'round your ol' Uncle Wes, children, and I'll tell you a little history."

  "Uncle Wes?" Rorie paused in midreach for her sewing basket.

  "Sure. Just like Uncle Remus."

  Ginevee chuckled, and Rorie shook her head, settling at the table with yet another pair of Topher's ripped blue jeans. She suspected this would be one history lesson the children would never forget.

  "A long time ago," Wes began, "in a land called Virginny, there was a beautiful Indian princess named Pocahontas. Her daddy was the mighty Indian chief, Powhatan, and her sweetheart was our hero, Captain John Smith."

  "What did he look like?" Nita asked.

  "Hmm." Wes cocked his head. "As I recall, Captain John was a tall, long-limbed man. He was strong, too, but gentle, and all the ladies liked him. They used to want to dance with him at the hoedowns and fandangos because they thought him such a handsome man. And..." Wes's eyes twinkled. "They'd never seen anyone with a finer head of red hair."

  "Red hair?" Topher gaped in disbelief. "You mean like yours?"

  Wes nodded, and Merrilee, who was kneeling at his feet with her doll, raised her hand.

  "Did he have freckles like yours, Uncle Wes?"

  Wes made a great show of considering this question. "Yes, he did," he answered with an impossibly straight face. He raised his eyes to Rorie. "And that's why Pocahontas loved him so much."

  Ginevee hooted, and Rorie blushed.

  "Anyway"—Wes was smirking now—"that mean old Indian chief didn't like Captain John very much. Powhatan was jealous 'cause Captain John could outwrassle any puma, tiger, or bear in Virginny."

  "What's a tiger?"

  Wes turned his attention to Merrilee. "Why, that's a big striped cat with fangs out to here."

  He made an exaggerated gesture down to his chest, and Topher folded his arms in a huff.

  "There's no such thing."

  A traitorous smile tugged at Rorie's lips. Shameless flirt, gunfighting rogue, and now Wes was proving himself a natural-born storyteller. Enthusiasm was etched into every line of his frame. His animation was magnetic, making the small room seem cozier. As she watched the show, she couldn't decide who was more entertaining: Wes, spinning his outlandish yarn, or the children, listening with such eagerness to his every glib word.

  "What happened next?" Nita asked.

  "Well, Captain John tried to be friends with the Indians, mostly 'cause he liked kissing Pocahontas, but Powhatan wouldn't hear of it. He sent his Indian braves out to capture poor John. When the braves brought John back, all trussed up like a turkey, Powhatan got a hankering for some of John's red hair, so he pulled out his scalping knife.

  "But Pocahontas wouldn't let her father steal Captain John's hair. She threw her arms around John's neck and cried, 'Oh no, Daddy, you mustn't hurt my sweetheart!' "

  Wes was speaking now in a high, squeaky voice. Nita and Merrilee both giggled. Topher rolled his eyes.

  " 'I love him, and I want to marry him! We will hunt you many tigers and make you many grandbabies.'

  "So Powhatan thought about that," Wes drawled. "He thought about getting a striped tigerskin every month and bouncing a new freckled grandbaby on his knee every year. He decided that would be a pretty fair trade. So he let Captain John keep his hair, and he let Pocahontas marry John. And that's why, to this day, you can still find a freckled Indian or two living in Virginny."

  He grinned at the end of his tale, and all the children clapped and cheered except for Topher.

  "I liked it better when Captain John was wrassling tigers," the boy said.

  "Me too," Po said, jumping up and down on Wes's knee. "More stories, Unca Wes."

  Chuckling, Ginevee hung up her apron. "It's bedtime for you, young man."

  She deftly scooped up the toddler in midbounce. Po's look of astonishment quickly vanished, and his wail drowned out Nita and Merrilee as they thanked Wes and said their good-nights.

  "I'll tuck you all in after I help Topher study," Rorie said, not missing a single, sneaking footstep the boy was taking toward the back door.

  He muttered an oath and stalked into the dining room.

  Wes had been thoroughly enjoying himself, and he felt a pang of disappointment to see his audience go. He looked hopefully at Rorie, thinking she might linger over her half-finished coffee, but she was gathering up her sewing in preparation to leave the room.

  His earlier wistfulness struck him full force as he imagined returning to the solitude of that big lonely barn. Especially after Rorie's tender ministrations to his bee sting earlier that afternoon.

  "So what did you think of my story?" he asked, trying to hold on to that sweet, homey feeling for just a few minutes longer.

  She cast him a sideways glance, her lashes fanning down over the mirth in her eyes. "Well, it was certainly interesting. But that's not exactly the way the historians tell it."

  "It's not?"

  "No, it's not. Tigers in Virginia. Really. And Pocahontas was only twelve years old when she met John Smith. I assure you they never got married. It was a bunch of romantic nonsense, and I'll thank you not to fill the children's heads with it."

  Wes chuckled. "So romance is nonsense, eh?" When she looked back down at her sewing, obviously discomfited by his teasing, he added, "You have to admit Captain John knew how to spin a yarn. Take that bit about Pocahontas throwing herself in front of the tomahawk that was meant for him. Chances are that Captain John Smith fella filled the history books with a whole lot more nonsense than that."

  Rorie glanced up from her basket, one eyebrow raised in amused challenge. "Oh? Don't you think a woman is capable of saving a man's life?"

  "Sure I do. A woman saved my life once." His heart beat a little irregularly at the memory. "Never one to rest on her laurels, though, Fancy went on and saved Cord's and Zack's lives too. Thanking her didn't hardly seem like enough after that, not when a lady as smart and brave as Fancy was on the loose, so we decided one of us should marry her. We elected Cord."

  Rorie's astute, curious eyes met his own. "So Fancy's your sister-in-law?"

  "Yeah, that's right." In spite of his best efforts, his voice thickened with the old hurt. "Fancy's family now.
" He hastily donned a cocksure grin to throw Rorie off track. "I reckon you'd like Fancy. She's always been fond of drawing her gun on a man, same as you."

  Rorie made a wry face. "I suppose you won't let me live that down any time soon."

  She rose, and he rose with her, pleased to see she hadn't flown into one of her prim-and-proper snits at his jest. Now more than ever, he was reluctant to let her slip away when they finally seemed to be on civil terms. After all, he had a hundred questions that needed answers—and a loneliness that ached for relief.

  Thinking fast, he lighted on a subject he hoped might woo her to stay. "You have a fine son in Topher, ma'am."

  A strange sort of upset flickered across her features.

  He sensed he'd just strayed into dangerous territory again.

  "Thank you, but Topher isn't my son. He's an orphan, like the others."

  Wes realized his blunder then. He'd assumed, because of the boy's fair hair and skin, that he was a relation of Rorie's.

  "Well, he's still a fine boy," he said, uncertain why Rorie was splitting hairs. For all intents and purposes, Topher was her son now, so it seemed odd that she still referred to the boy—to all the children, in fact—as orphans. "I've never heard a name quite like Topher before. How did he get it?"

  She toyed with the lid of her sewing basket for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to close it and the subject.

  "Topher is the nickname I gave him," she said finally. "Two years ago, when Jarrod caught Topher stealing eggs from our henhouse, his speech was almost unintelligible. I thought it was cruel to call the boy Christopher, when he had such a difficult time pronouncing the name."

  Wes was touched by Rorie's sensitivity. Although he had never lisped, he'd endured more than his fair share of heckling as a child, thanks to his freckles. To understand the shame and frustration Topher must feel because of his affliction didn't take much imagination.

  "So Sinclair caught the little rascal stealing eggs, eh?"

  Was it his imagination, or had the reminder of her husband made her even more uptight?

  "Topher is no longer in the habit of stealing, I assure you." She closed the basket lid with a snap. "When I met Topher, he already had a long history of running away from the orphanage, but persuading Jarrod to let me teach the boy elocution was far easier than convincing him to let Topher live with us. Eventually, however, even Jarrod was forced to admit the boy might be shot by an angry farmer if he continued thieving to feed himself. So we adopted him."

  Wes frowned. That was a hell of a cheap trick for Sinclair, taking on the responsibility of a child and then walking out the door. If Sinclair hadn't been ready for children, why had he filled his home with orphans? As far as Wes was concerned, if a man didn't want an obligation, he avoided entanglements.

  He himself had been careful to live by that creed, pledging himself to Two-Step and the state of Texas. That was it. That was all he wanted—except, perhaps, to get his hand on the louse who had abandoned Rorie to rear four children on her own.

  "Sinclair hurt you pretty bad, didn't he?" he asked quietly.

  She raised her chin, but her knuckles turned white as she gripped the handle of her basket. "The children and I have survived quite well without Jarrod since the divorce. So well, in fact, that we are beyond missing him.

  "No," she continued with a brittle smile, "the damage Jarrod did by leaving must be weighed against the good he did by giving the children a home. I know Topher would never have been better off in the orphanage or with that swaggering, big-mouthed Ranger who sired him. From what I hear, Bill Malone left his mark in every town."

  Wes winced. He knew of Malone and Malone's reputation. It seemed the man had trouble keeping his pecker in his pants—or rather, he'd had trouble. About six months earlier, Malone had gotten caught in the cross fire in a range war out in Tom Greene County.

  Wes felt his face warm under Rorie's cool stare. As much as he would have liked to defend Rangers, he didn't dare. Not while he was keeping his own identity a secret.

  "Topher is lucky to have you. All the children are," he added, feeling guilty for deceiving her. "If I'd been tossed in an orphanage, I would have run away too. A boy needs more than gruel and discipline to grow into a man. He needs a whole lot of love."

  Seeing the ghost of pain on his face—a phantom not unlike the one she'd glimpsed when he'd spoken of a massacred family that he couldn't defend—Rorie felt her heart twist. She wondered what had driven this man who so clearly valued family away from the kinfolk he loved.

  "Wes, you were lucky, too, having an aunt and brothers to give you love."

  He stiffened, and she knew she'd touched an unhealed wound.

  He recovered almost instantly, though, flashing her a devilish grin and cloaking himself in the guise of a rogue. "I've always been lucky in love. Must be the star I... er, was born under."

  His color heightened. She wasn't sure what had embarrassed him, but she thought it must have something to do with his confession. She'd always heard hired gunmen were superstitious. Here was yet another proof of his profession.

  She regarded him warily for a long moment before gathering the courage to demand the truth. "Wes, are you a gunfighter?"

  He looked genuinely surprised by her question.

  "If by that you mean do I sometimes fight with a gun," he said carefully, "then I reckon I am. But"—he held her gaze steadily—"if you're asking if I'm on the run from the law, no, I'm not. I'm not a road agent, Rorie. I'm not a gambler or a bootlegger or a confidence man, either. I wear these six-shooters to protect myself, and I wouldn't ever hesitate to use them to protect honest people who need me."

  She bit her lip. She wanted to believe him. She told herself she shouldn't be so gullible, that she had nothing but his word. From long experience, she'd learned that a sweet-talker's word was as changeable as the wind.

  As she lost herself in the emerald fathoms of his gaze, though, a sweet comfort stole over her. She had prayed so long for a champion, one who would keep her and her children safe from the dragons, the Hannibal Dukkers of the world. Wes's armor might not be as shiny as some, but his gallantry certainly couldn't be denied. And by his own admission, as reluctant as it might have been, he held a deep and abiding respect for family.

  Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she should learn how to trust again.

  "I'm... glad to hear it, Wes. I was a little worried, you know. Losing Gator was a terrible blow to the children. They looked up to him, and they want to look up to you. So whether you like it or not, you're going to have an influence on them. That's why it's important for you to set a good example."

  She waited, half-expecting him to bolt for the door. Instead, his expression turned wistful.

  "No more tigers in Virginia, eh?"

  She smiled, shaking her head. "No more tree-climbing either, I'm afraid."

  He chuckled, reaching for his hat. "Well, I reckon it could be worse. I reckon you could have told me no more bee-sting salve."

  She felt her face warm.

  He tipped his hat. "Good night, ma'am," he drawled, giving her a naughty wink. "Pleasant dreams."

  Chapter 7

  Wes could have kicked himself for nearly telling Rorie he wore a star. He'd gotten too damned close to her mesmerizing eyes and the private hurt she tried to hide to remember the questions he'd meant to ask about Gator.

  But he had learned a bit more about the enigma she posed, and why Elodea's gossips stayed busy at her expense. She'd been divorced.

  Piecing together what little information Shae had told him about the children over the last two days, Wes suspected Po and Nita, like Merrilee, had wound up on Rorie's doorstep because of Sinclair's medical practice. Yet, while Sinclair might have mended their broken bones and tended their fevers, Rorie clearly had been the one to open her heart to them.

  Just like she'd opened her home to him.

  Wes winced, needled by guilt. The more he learned about Aurora Sin
clair, the more he wanted to close his investigation and clear her name. In truth, he had a hard time reconciling his suspicion of her as a murder conspirator with the reality of her as a protective, caring parent.

  A woman who cared that much about homeless children—and scarred young gunslingers—couldn't possibly be cold-blooded enough to conspire against the man who'd put a roof over her head. Hell, if she could have killed anyone, it would have been her husband, yet even he seemed to rate a redeeming quality or two in her fair mind.

  Only against the Ranger force did that mind of hers show bias.

  Wes frowned. He was bothered by Rorie's virulent dislike of everything he stood for, just as he was bothered by folks who claimed Rangers preferred keeping the peace to enforcing justice. He was proud of his badge and the men who had worn it—Samuel Walker, Big Foot Wallace, Rip Ford, and, of course, his brother. Even Bill Malone had been one hell of a lawman, in spite of his other foibles.

  All of those men had made names for themselves by doing legendary deeds, and Wes wanted to follow in their footsteps. He didn't want Rorie to despise the entire Ranger force because of one man's indiscretions. In truth, he felt honor-bound to prove to her Malone was the exception rather than the rule.

  Wes figured he could accomplish this mission over the next few days while he determined beyond a shadow of a doubt whether Shae was a viable suspect. In the meantime, he'd have to buy himself time if he didn't want Dukker riding onto the property and demanding the Sinclairs' eviction. Keeping Rorie and the children safe, though, shouldn't be too hard if the wire from Bandera Town proved the legitimacy of Shae's claim.

  The trick would be getting to that wire without raising Rorie's alarm or Shae's suspicions. The two of them had just been to Elodea on Monday for supplies, and Wes needed a good reason to go back—preferably before Shae sneaked off for a romantic rendezvous with Lorelei.

  As he bedded down in the barn, he decided he'd wake himself a couple of hours before dawn the next morning, ride into town, and demand to know from that surly telegraph operator whether he'd received his wire.