Adrienne deWolfe

by Texas Lover

  "It's like you said," she answered lamely. "The sweetheart tree could tell me whether to let Ethan make his offer to me."

  She dared to look at him then—which proved to be a mistake. His eyes were like shards of glass in the moonlight. She felt cut by their touch.

  "Is that why you turned down Dukker? Because of Hawkins?"

  She laughed weakly. More than twenty years her senior and hard of hearing, Ethan wasn't exactly her idea of a knight in shining armor. She had to admit, though, he'd never caused her to fear for the children's safety the way Hannibal Dukker had.

  "Ethan is one of the reasons," she answered with well-rehearsed circumspection.

  Wes frowned. "Do you love him?"

  The conversation was taking a decided turn for the worse. By mentioning Ethan, she had hoped to put Wes in his place, to make him keep his distance out of respect for her serious beau. She hadn't intended to get into a discussion of her feelings for the man.

  "Wes, really. That is hardly a matter for your concern." She started to turn away only to find her path blocked by a ramrod-straight arm that extended from his shoulder to the tree. She retreated—her next mistake. Her spine struck bark, and she became trapped between the magnolia's unyielding trunk and the imposing expanse of Wes's chest.

  "What about the children? Is this Hawkins good to them?"

  She caught her breath. She should have been outraged by his impertinence; instead, his show of concern brought a rush of warmth to her heart.

  "Yes," she said quietly. "He's good to them."

  He nodded, but he didn't look satisfied. There was an intensity about his hardened jaw and the taut line of his arm. If she didn't know better, she would have thought she'd made him jealous. But she was a realist, so she attributed his tenseness to youthful anger because she'd thwarted his kiss. Besides, she reminded herself, the man was pining away for his sister-in-law.

  "I reckon there's only one other thing to ask then," he said less gruffly. "Is he good to you too?"

  She swallowed. She hadn't expected this line of questioning. In truth, she hadn't expected him to care. As much as she would have liked to discount his concern, to attribute it to a wily philanderer's ace in the hole, she needed only to search his eyes to see that his regard for her and her family was not contrived. It was a painful revelation: this wild, young scoundrel, who'd known her less than four days, was showing more kindness toward her than her husband of seven years ever had.

  Tearing her gaze away, she cast about frantically in her mind for some suitable answer. "He treats me well enough," she said, failing, in spite of her best efforts, to keep the defensiveness from her voice. "He's had a wife, and I've had a husband. Love only comes once in a lifetime, and we've already had our turns."

  Wes looked incredulous. "So you're saying Jarrod Sinclair was the love of your life?" Snorting in derision, he shook his head. "Darlin', it sounds to me like you just haven't lived."

  Her throat tightened. He'd come uncomfortably close to the truth, a truth that had smoldered in her soul ever since she'd realized that she'd traded the oppression of her father's household for the degradation of her husband's.

  Forcibly squaring her shoulders, she tried valiantly to disguise her hurt with anger. "You are in no position to judge me, or Jarrod, or..." Her vision blurred, and Wes swam out of focus. "Or anything that may have passed between us," she finished hoarsely.

  "Rorie." His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and strong and gentle. "I didn't mean any offense. You have to know I'm on your side. It's just that... Well, shoot. Jarrod Sinclair should have the stuffing beat out of him for running out on you. I'd hate to see your feelings get all tangled over some other fella who might not treat you any better.

  "You deserve a world of good things, Rorie," he said with surprising sincerity. "Don't marry some man who doesn't love you because you're afraid someone better won't come along."

  She shook her head, trying to convey how wrong his insight was, but for all her hard-won stubbornness, she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. She wanted to believe his impudence was what made her so distraught, but the part of her that abhorred deceit refused to dole out blame. Wes had spoken to her secret fear.

  Although a life with Ethan wasn't her fondest desire, she had witnessed his tolerance when he'd sat with his grandchildren at church. He might not be the kind of man she wanted holding her through the night, but at least she had no worries that he might leave her and the children behind for some mythical greener pasture.

  For an infinite moment, the spell of silence wrapped around her. She became acutely aware of the young, vital man who held her, the kind of man whose embrace she secretly longed for in the night. She knew she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety by letting Wes touch her for so long, but try as she might, she couldn't relinquish that sweet, seldom-felt comfort.

  For just one heartbeat longer, she told herself. For just one fraction more of her lonely, predictable life, she would allow this tantalizing breach of social conduct. Then she would summon a respectable show of outrage and storm inside to her empty bed.

  Wes's hands shifted, though. She caught her breath as his fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear. The featherlight gesture was so intimate in its innocence, that she stood frozen, uncertain whether to flee, to protest, or simply to frown. She could do nothing so decorous.

  Instead, she found herself peeking up at him, past the shimmer of teardrops on her lashes, to gaze with girlish fascination at the dance of storm and shadow on his face. The sun god of two days earlier had been transformed by lancets of lightning. He'd become Thor, the fiery-haired king of the storm.

  But Thor, she recalled, was half-brother to Loki, the master of mischief and mayhem. When Wes cupped her face in his hands and smiled, she knew she should run as fast as her feet could carry her. Her feet stood rooted, though, and her limbs trembled like tempest-tossed leaves when his head lowered with mesmerizing slowness, and his lips parted to taste hers.

  His kiss was patient and kind, a sly, gentle plunder that left her dizzy with the rush of long-repressed desire. She swayed, her knees weakening faster than her resistance, and found herself clutching his shirt front. Just to brace her weight, she wanted to believe, until she realized that she, not he, was the one pulling closer, pushing her hips shamelessly into his.

  Reason completely abandoned her then; good breeding left her in a cloud of dust. Never in her most sinful, decadent dreams had she imagined she might kiss a man the way she kissed Wes Rawlins. She twisted her fingers in his hair; she crushed her breasts against his chest. She demanded more of the mouth he slanted across hers and reveled in the thrust of his tongue. It gave her the most wanton, wicked pleasure to feel his solid length locked hard against hers. She'd never kissed a man who was taller than she was; she'd never felt her womanhood melt into the heat of brazen masculinity or thrill to the hardening of an unapologetic male. He was raw virility, ready for the taking; she was primal femininity unleashed.

  She rubbed and arched, trying to appease her tender ache, and his restraint dissolved. With a feral growl, he flattened her shoulders against the tree, exposing her throat to his mouth and her breasts to his hand. She squirmed when his tongue's moist heat darted inside her ear, and she groaned to feel her nipple strain beneath his expert teasing.

  His thigh was wedged thick and hard between her legs, and his fingers were making short work of the buttons on her blouse. In a matter of seconds, she would be bared to him, to the storm. The realization jolted through her like the electrical charges flashing around them.

  Grasping wildly for the dignity she'd scattered to the wind, she raised a shaking hand and shoved against his chest.

  "Wes, we have to stop," she said, gasping.

  "The hell we do," came the rumble near her ear.

  She nearly slid down the trunk when the top two stays of her corset burst free, and the leathery pads of his fingers closed over one very delighted breast. She g
rabbed his wrist, and it was all she could do to make herself deter his fondling.

  "Wes, please," she whimpered, hating the sound and yet preferring it hands-down to the groan she'd made seconds earlier. "Stop."

  His thumb challenged her resolve, nudging the swollen nub that jutted so eagerly into his palm. She came dangerously close to tearing open his buttons, then. In desperation, she threw her arms around his neck, dragging her body hard against his and pinning his fingers against the forbidden territory he sought to explore. She could feel his heart, as loud as the thunder, hammering against her own.

  For several moments, his breath was hot and ragged in her ear. She sensed his inner struggle, the wanting that her response had roused in him, and she wished fervently that she'd had the good sense to act like the prude she'd always pretended to be outside her marriage bed. What was she to do with the man now? How was she to explain herself? For heaven's sake, he wasn't even her suitor!

  "Lord have mercy on me." His raspy chuckle gusted goosebumps down her spine. "Where'd you learn to kiss like that?"

  She squeezed her eyes closed, thankful he couldn't see her blush, and prayed he couldn't feel its heat when he rubbed his stubbled jaw against her cheek.

  "I... had a husband, remember?"

  "So that's what getting hitched does to a lady, eh?"

  She wanted to die. She tried to wrench free, but he anchored her hips to his own with an arm as tractable as Bessemer steel.

  "Steady, darlin'. I don't think you want to turn around just yet."

  He reached for her buttons, presumably to fasten them. She was tempted to ask how he'd become so dexterous with ladies' clothing, but she decided she didn't want to know.

  "I'll do that. Let me go."

  "Shh," he murmured, his fingers working up her shirt more quickly.

  She squirmed.

  "Hold still," he whispered more urgently.

  "Wes Rawlins, so help me God, if you don't let me g—"

  His mouth swooped down to silence her. She reeled, too stunned to carry out her threat, which had something to do with a well-aimed knee. Then she heard the crunch of boots on the gravel behind her. Somebody coughed.

  Rorie turned to stone. Wes fastened the button at her throat, and she prayed he hadn't missed one of the others.

  "Sorry to barge in on you folks," the intruder said.

  "Reckon you didn't hear me coming—er, 'cause of the thunder."

  Shae! She groaned inwardly. Dear Lord, why couldn't it have been Ginevee?

  Her eyes locked with Wes's. He gave her a lopsided grin, then casually stepped around her, blocking her disheveled state from Shae's view. She silently cursed and thanked him at the same time when she saw her perfectly fastened bodice.

  "Something I can do for you, Shae?" Wes drawled.

  Rorie hastily patted her hair and smoothed down her blouse. Her skirts would have to pass muster the way they were now.

  "As a matter of fact, I was looking for you," Shae said darkly.

  Rorie glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was balancing the shotgun butt-down on his boot. As harmless as his stance looked, the kick shot was a trick Gator had taught him, one that let him level the muzzle and fire lightning fast.

  The realization suddenly made her clothing irrelevant.

  "Shae, is something wrong?" Her voice quavered more from anxiety than embarrassment. She moved to shield Wes, and Shae's eyes narrowed.

  "The fact is," he said, "I was going to ask you the same thing, ma'am."

  Her laughter sounded ridiculously high and strained. "Don't be silly. Nothing's wrong."

  He didn't look convinced. "You sure Rawlins isn't bothering you?"

  "Oh, no. We were just... er..." She glimpsed Wes's hand sneaking playfully toward her waist, and she discreetly shoved it away. "We were just talking about ways to nurse the tree."

  "Ways to fertilize the tree," Wes corrected her with his wayward sense of humor.

  She gritted her teeth, wanting to slap him.

  Thankfully, Shae was diplomatic enough to drop the subject. "There's a storm blowing in from the north. Looks like it might be a real duck drencher. I rounded up the animals and boarded the roof as best I could, but the barn isn't going to be too comfortable tonight. That's why I thought Rawlins might want to bunk with me and Topher."

  "Why, that's right kind of you, Shae," Wes said.

  The last thing Rorie wanted was Wes bedding down in the room next door, but what could she possibly say? I don't care if it's raining bullfrogs and heifer calves, young man, you sleep outside so I'm not tempted to sin?

  "Yeah, well..." Shae glared at his hired hand as if to convey that his conscience was strictly a nuisance in this matter. "I reckon you can't get into too much trouble with me and Topher watching over you."

  "I reckon," Wes agreed.

  "But it's just for tonight, mind you."

  "That suits me fine."

  Rorie cleared her throat. "Wes will, of course, sleep in the barn again when the hay is dry enough. He'll want his privacy."

  She wished she'd swallowed her tongue the instant she made the allusion.

  "And lots of rolling-around room," Wes added drolly.

  She choked.

  He smirked.

  Shae looked from her to Wes as if he'd just been swatted by a two-by-four. Finally, he shook his head.

  "Whatever you say, ma'am. I'll be going to bed now, unless you think you need me...?"

  He tossed this last question to her like a lifeline, but Wes was quicker to jump on the bait.

  "Oh, no. We're dandy here, Shae. Go on about your business. Just don't tucker yourself out by waiting up for me."

  Now she wanted to throttle the scoundrel.

  "Good night," Wes called jovially after the boy.

  The front door banged, and she rounded on her tormentor.

  "How dare you?" she exclaimed. "How dare you say such things and imply that we... that I... that tonight..." Her chest heaved. "Wescott Rawlins, you are a shameless rogue and a villain!"

  "That's why you like me."

  "Oh!" She stomped her foot. "You have no idea what I like!"

  He leaned closer. "Oh, I think I do."

  She jerked her head away, her lungs straining so hard beneath her corset that she could scarcely catch her breath. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to throw a temper tantrum like one of the outlandishly melodramatic females her father had taught her to disdain.

  "Mr. Rawlins," she began again with considerably more aplomb, "you are mistaken if you believe you hold the key to my desires." She winced, wishing she hadn't put it quite that way. "What transpired tonight between you and me was, at best, a regrettable moment of folly."

  "Folly, eh?"

  "That's right."

  "Not an invitation?"

  She drew herself up to her most prim and proper pose. "Certainly not an invitation."

  "So you mean to say you kiss Ethan Hawkins that way?"

  "Good heavens, no!"

  "I'm mighty glad to hear that."

  She glared into his laughing eyes. This conversation was getting rapidly out of control again.

  "I think the time has come for us to speak frankly, sir. I have a serious suitor in Mr. Hawkins, and I must insist that you lavish your spurious affections on someone else."

  That sobered him a bit. He cocked his head and studied her. After a moment of silence, his appraisal made her blush.

  "Do we understand each other?" She wasn't sure she liked the gleam that was kindling in his eyes. It smacked more of challenge than of understanding.

  "What about the tree?" he asked, suspiciously nonchalant.

  She frowned. "The tree?"

  "Sure. If poor old Maggie's ever going to get well, she'll need a real couple of sweethearts."

  She tried to look disdainful. "That's nothing but a Texas tall tale."

  "Maybe." His eyelids lowered, and his hand raised to cup her chin. "But for Maggie's sake—for Merrilee, Toph
er, Po, and Nita—can you afford to take that chance?"

  She swallowed. He'd struck at her weakness, the children, and she knew she should rally her wits to strike back. Instead, every nerve in her body tingled to feel that warm, callused palm connect with her flesh. She told herself he didn't really care what happened to her family, that he'd weave a dozen such quixotic tales if he thought they might win him a tumble in the barn. All he really wanted was a bit of sport, a bawdy release.

  The thought made her feel like crying.

  "Wes, don't." Drawing a ragged breath, she forced the lump from her throat. "Don't bait me with promises you don't intend to keep."

  His lips paused in their descent, and contrition flitted across his features. She was surprised—and intrigued—when a tiny, pensive smile touched his mouth. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, then dropped his hand, finally stepping back.

  "Fair enough," he said.

  She should have been relieved. Instead, she felt a perplexing sense of loss. "So... you and I understand each other at last?"

  Rain drizzled from the clouds. The wind whipped droplets down her collar to slide along her breast, still tender and aching for more of his touch. She tried to ignore the sensation by pushing a strand of hair from her cheek, but the memory of his caress had left its imprint there too.

  "In a manner of speaking," he answered, for once sounding grave.

  She nodded. She didn't have the clear-cut victory she'd hoped for, but she told herself it would have to do. The rain began falling harder, more like pellets than drops, and lightning was rending great holes in the mist. She turned toward the house.

  "Rorie, wait. There's something I have to tell—"

  Thunder boomed. Above its echo, she heard a branch snap and fall from the magnolia.

  "Hurry, Wes. It's not safe out here. Get your gear and come inside."

  Wes didn't move. Instead, he watched her as she ran toward the porch. She looked back once in a blinding flash, but as the darkness returned, he heard the front door slam.