Adrienne deWolfe

by Texas Lover

  Spying his opportunity, Ethan nodded curtly to Wes and Lorelei. "Well, it's your funeral, Ranger. And you're welcome to it. I've got a preacher to see on business of a much more pleasant nature. Good afternoon."

  Wes's jaw dropped. So did Rorie's. She knew Ethan was referring to the christening of his granddaughter, but Wes couldn't possibly know that. Shock, anguish, outrage, betrayal—she recognized them all as they flashed across his face. For a heartbeat, she thought to correct his misinterpretation, but his eyes stabbed her with such potent fury, she lost her nerve.

  She lost her moment too. Ethan's firm grip on her elbow was guiding her away.

  As she forced her numb limbs to move in time with Ethan, a bitter sense of irony washed over her. She had planned to tell Wes her decision in the gentlest way possible, but he had leaped to a conclusion—the right conclusion.

  What was left for her to say?

  * * *

  "Colonel Hawkins is taking Mrs. Sinclair to the preacher," Lorelei whispered, her features growing animated with delight. "Do you suppose this means he has asked her to marry him?"

  Wes, still reeling from the encounter, could only nod his head. Rorie had chosen Hawkins. She'd chosen Hawkins over him!

  Pale and shaking, he felt a whirlwind of confusion batter his innards. He'd never dreamed she'd do this to him. Not after he'd told her he loved her. Not after she'd said she loved him!

  Lorelei's eager monologue permeated the maelstrom in his brain. "Wait until I tell Marshal Dukker that Mrs. Sinclair said yes to Colonel Hawkins. He'll just be livid."

  "No!"

  Wes rounded on the girl, and she shrank back a step. He grabbed her arm and dragged her into a quiet, unoccupied alley.

  "Lorelei, so help me God, don't you dare breathe a word about her to Dukker."

  "B-but don't you see? If I tell Marshal Dukker, he'll get upset that she passed him over, and he'll be more likely to let the truth slip about Gator. It's perfect for our plan."

  "Your plan, Lorelei." The blood was pounding so hard in Wes's temples, that she floated before him in a red haze. "I told you to stay out of my business. Pumping Creed about the still was dangerous enough. You've got about as much chance as a lamb in a wolf's den if you cross Hannibal Dukker."

  Lorelei's pout was mutinous. "Well, someone has to enter the wolf's den to find poor Sheriff Gator's bones. Besides, I've gotten to know Creed a little better since I started helping you, and while I wouldn't necessarily let him court me, I don't think he's as bad as you and Shae want me to believe. I think you're just trying to scare me."

  "You're damned right I'm trying to scare you! Detective work is not a schoolgirl's game! And you're talking about Pa Dukker now, not Creed. If Dukker killed his cousin, he won't have the slightest qualm about blowing off your silly little head. So if you've got half a brain rattling around beneath those curls, you'll stay out of my way. And out of Dukker's."

  She snapped her parasol closed. "How dare you talk to me like that? Are you forgetting who my papa is?"

  "I don't give a rat's fanny who your pa is. I don't get paid to entertain babes in bloomers when they've become bored chasing wedding bells."

  She huffed, turning crimson. "I do not have to stand here and be insulted by the likes of you." She jabbed her parasol into the dirt for emphasis. "You could stand to learn a thing or two about manners—even from Creed. Good day, sir."

  She flounced off with a swish of skirts and a glimpse of dainty ankle. Wes slammed a fist into his palm.

  "Goddamned feather-headed women!"

  He didn't know whose brain he needed to shake more sense into: Lorelei's or Rorie's. At least Rorie wasn't foolish enough to put her life in danger simply for amusement.

  No, she just threw it away, he reminded himself brutally.

  He rubbed a rough hand over his face, hoping the harsh contact of flesh on flesh would stave off the dreaded prickle behind his eyelids. How could she do this? Didn't she understand he wanted her, he needed her? How could she take away her love, her children, the only family he had?

  The questions kept echoing in the frozen chambers of his mind. He couldn't think, he could only feel, and anguish, raw and blistering, lashed him up one side and down the other.

  "I won't let you marry him," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You're mine, Aurora Sinclair. So help me God, you'll fill the bed of some other man over my dead body."

  * * *

  Rorie walked numbly from booth to booth, seeing little and hearing less. Even Ethan's voice, booming at her side, registered as little more than a droning hum in her ears. Her entire being had retreated into the depths of her soul.

  And inside her soul, she cried.

  Outwardly, of course, she showed no sign of despair. She was the very picture of dignified serenity, if perhaps a trifle pale, as evidenced by her pinched reflection in a silver hand mirror that Ethan offered to buy for her.

  She managed smiles and nods when appropriate, and her conversation with one of Ethan's daughters-in-law seemed to go well. The woman offered to take Po to her house so he could nap, but other than that, Rorie couldn't remember a single word that had passed between them.

  If her family sensed her unhappiness, not one of them commented on it. Shae did gaze at her a little oddly during the horse race, when she stared glassy-eyed at the starting line long after the race had begun.

  An hour or so later, Ginevee had to nudge her, reminding her to clap when Nita, bursting with pride, accepted the honorable mention for her age group in the pie-baking contest.

  But it was Merrilee, intuitive, tender-hearted Merrilee, who finally roused Rorie from her emotional hibernation.

  "I miss Uncle Wes too, ma'am."

  Starting, Rorie gazed down at the child holding her hand. She couldn't imagine how Merrilee had appraised her situation. Ever practical, however, Rorie decided she must have given herself away somehow, perhaps by gazing at Wes while he kept vigil across the street. Arms akimbo, he stood rigid and foreboding, the epitome of lawful intimidation to keep the marksmen in line as they warmed up for the shooting match. To Rorie's consternation his gaze seemed to be riveted on her.

  "Mama says missing Uncle Wes makes you sad," Merrilee went on earnestly.

  "Mama?" Rorie repeated weakly. For as long as she could remember, Merrilee had talked to her mother as if she were a daily presence in her life. Rorie had patiently tolerated the child's fantasies in the hopes that Merrilee would outgrow them and her grief.

  Still, Merrilee's references to her mother never failed to trigger a painful feeling of rejection in Rorie—not to mention a prickling sensation of disquiet.

  Merrilee nodded, her blue-black pigtails bobbing. "Mama says you'll be happy again soon, though. She likes you, Miss Rorie."

  Ethan, who'd been frowning throughout this exchange, shook his head at the child. "Burro milk, Merrilee. Your mother is—"

  "Ethan," Rorie warned, shooting him her fiercest look.

  He gazed at her in mild exasperation. "Miss Aurora, pardon my saying so, but it's downright nonsense, the child prattling on about her mother that way. The woman died three years ago."

  Rorie bristled at his criticism of her child, but it was Merrilee who rose to her own defense, showing an uncharacteristic asperity.

  "Just because you can't see Mama doesn't mean she's gone away, Mr. Ethan. But Mama forgives you for saying so. And I do too."

  Ethan blinked at his comeuppance. Before he could argue his point, however, his son Nathaniel—the one who lived in Elodea—ran toward them through the crowd.

  "Pa," he panted, "you just got a wire. Sounds urgent."

  Ethan's eyebrows knitted together. Glancing at the contestants who were taking their places for the first round, he repeated reluctantly, "Urgent?"

  "Yes, sir. I reckon you'll want to come see."

  Ethan muttered something about poor timing. Sighing, he tipped his hat to Rorie and made his apologies, patting Merrilee on the head before he worked his way through
the crowd to the telegraph office.

  Merrilee watched the two men leave. "I don't think Mr. Ethan likes Comanches very much," she said thoughtfully.

  "Who does, feather duster?" came a jeering voice from behind.

  Rorie turned to see Danny Dukker. His hands splayed on his hips, he stood with his legs spread, his feet bare, and his overalls rolled up to his scabbed knees. The faint tint of a shiner lingered under his healing left eye. The boy looked as if he hadn't seen a comb—or a bathtub—in several days.

  "It's not nice to call people names, Danny," Merrilee said with adultlike patience.

  Danny grinned at her, showing a broken front tooth. "Yeah? So what."

  Rorie saw the gleam in the boy's pale gray eyes, and she suspected Danny was carrying a bit of a torch for Merrilee. She didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed.

  "Danny, where's your father?"

  He leered at Rorie, giving her a ribald wink. "Whoring, most likely. That stupid Ranger spoiled Pa's fun, shooting up the whiskey barrel and saying everyone had had enough to drink. Pa looked mad enough to kick a hog barefooted when he walked out of the square. But I reckon he'll be back in time to see Creed whip that white-nigger of yours in the shooting match."

  Rorie sighed, less surprised by Danny's vulgar behavior than she was saddened by it. Hannibal Dukker wasn't fit to raise a hound, much less a child.

  "Yes, well, we're all looking forward to a fair contest, Danny."

  The boy snorted.

  Meanwhile, Mayor Faraday was climbing the steps of the city father's platform with Lorelei, whose job, as the reining County Fair Queen, was to kiss the winner and award the prize. Two town councilmen already sat beneath the shade of the white-and-yellow tent.

  "Looks like they're about to begin," Rorie said, catching the eye of Ginevee.

  She waved her friend forward, and Nita and Topher followed in her wake. Topher's face darkened considerably when he spied Danny. He picked up his pace, elbowing his way through the spectators.

  "This view stinks," Danny said abruptly, scowling at his approaching rival. "I'm finding me a better spot. See you around, feather duster."

  He yanked one of Merrilee's braids, and she squealed in surprise.

  "Hey!" Topher was barreling through irritated bystanders now, intent on pummeling Danny.

  "Hey yourself, toad," Danny taunted, exaggerating Topher's lisp. He made an obscene gesture, then laughed, disappearing into the ever-shifting crowd.

  Rorie had to grab hold of Topher's overall straps to keep him and his flailing fists from charging after Danny.

  Merrilee winced, rubbing her head. "Why does Danny always pull my hair?"

  "Boys do that when they like you," Nita said sagely.

  "They do?" Merrilee's eyes grew impossibly round. "But Topher doesn't do that."

  "Well, I can start," Topher said, folding his arms in a huff.

  Rorie was forced to hide the first smile she'd had all day. "That won't be necessary, Topher."

  Ginevee chuckled, passing a basket of ice chips to the others.

  Sucking on an icicle seemed to cool Topher off, although he did spend a frenzied minute jumping and shouting to catch Wes's attention. Wes tipped his hat to the boy, but otherwise his features remained carved from bronzed marble as he stood near the firing line. Rorie's heart twisted when his shadowed gaze bored into hers. She forced herself to turn away and watch the contestants.

  True to her earlier prediction, there were twenty men of all backgrounds and ages competing for the hundred-dollar prize. The judging committee had decreed there would be two preliminary flights of ten men each, and the top three sharpshooters in each flight would go on to the semi-final round.

  Lots were drawn among the contestants, and Shae found himself pitted against Creed from the start.

  Of course there were other notable deadeyes in the lineup. Topher and Nita cheered for Jasper in the first round. His hunting practice had stood him in good stead, because when the smoke cleared, he was the only marksman from his flight to hit the bull's-eye. Tom Parker wasn't quite as fortunate, but he still claimed third place.

  Then came Creed's and Shae's turns. Rorie noticed uncomfortably that a sweaty, sneering Hannibal Dukker had materialized with a whiskey bottle in his fist. He stood beneath the judging platform, as much a critic of his son's performance as the men who were officiating over the match.

  "Give 'em hell, Creed!" Danny screeched, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  Topher scowled, watching Danny. The boy stomped on a barrel and banged a stick against a metal drain pipe when Shae stepped forward to fire. Outraged, several spectators demanded the boy stop. During the resulting hail of insults and threats, Hannibal Dukker stalked over to keep the peace. The noise subsided instantly, and the spectators slinked off under the threat of Dukker's fists. Danny, his cheeks looking rather bleached for so much heat, huddled like a church mouse on his barrel.

  At last, the judges finished inspecting the targets. Shae had made the second-closest bull's-eye. Creed had hit dead center.

  "I think we should all scream and stomp next time Creed fires," Topher muttered.

  "Children," Rorie said, "Shae can win without us cheating for him."

  "Yeah." Nita nodded emphatically, but her eyes were anxious as she glanced at Ginevee. "Do you reckon Shae's just not used to Uncle Wes's rifle?"

  Rorie started. She hadn't realized Shae had exchanged Gator's carbine for Wes's Winchester, and this proof of Wes's growing bond with Shae only made her feel more miserable about the decision she'd had to make.

  For the semi-final round, more lot drawing ensued to determine firing order. The slates were wiped clean, and the six contestants faced new targets in the late-afternoon light. By some divine providence, Creed and Shae were placed at opposite ends of the line.

  Ethan reemerged from the crowd.

  "I got troubles back home, Miss Aurora. Rustlers got my damned best bull and a couple of stud ponies too. Me and the boys are saddling up now to track those brand blotters down. But I don't feel right about leaving you and the young ones by your lonesome. We'll see y'all home first, if you're of a mind."

  "Go home now?" Topher's chin jutted. "Have you lost your cotton-picking—"

  Ginevee's hand clapped over his mouth, garbling the rest. Nita's and Merrilee's eyes both pleaded with Rorie, and she secretly had to admit she didn't much like the idea of cutting her family's fun short so Ethan could chase down a bull.

  "No, Ethan. We'll stay for the barbecue," she said firmly. "I'm sure Tom and Jasper will be happy to see us home."

  Ethan looked torn, but Nathaniel was holding the reins of the palomino and shouting for his father to hurry.

  He finally nodded to her in exasperation. "Suit yourself, Miss Aurora."

  Topher made a face at Ethan's back, and the girls giggled. Rorie sighed. Married life with Ethan would certainly have its challenges.

  Meanwhile, Shae was stepping back from the line with his smoking rifle. When the judges proclaimed him the winner of the semi-final round, Topher, Nita, and Merrilee went wild.

  In the glaring westward sun, the final round began. Shae leveled his rifle and fired three times in rapid succession. Creed, his lip curling, stepped forward and did the same. The other two contestants took their turns, and a hush settled over the spectators. Mayor Faraday and his daughter clambered down the platform for the final call.

  It took several minutes for the judges to inspect and measure the four straw-backed targets. A lot of gesturing and headshaking ensued before they sent a young runner back down the street's two hundred yards to report the findings to Faraday.

  The boy panted something into the mayor's ear.

  "A tie?" Faraday's booming voice carried easily to every straining ear.

  Whispers of speculation followed his announcement. Jasper and the other man stepped respectfully from the firing line as Faraday waved Creed and Shae forward.

  "The hell there's a tie," Hannibal Dukker shout
ed in a slurred voice. "You old men need to wipe the crud from your spectacles."

  Creed looked immensely uncomfortable. Mopping his brow, which was made high by thinning hair, he glanced sheepishly at Lorelei, standing only an arm's length away. Her eyes were only for Shae, though. Dukker took a threatening step toward the boy, and Wes moved unhurriedly to Shae's side.

  Faraday cleared his throat. "As I was saying, boys." He raised his voice so every bystander could hear. "You'll need three more cartridges to break your tie. We'll draw straws to see who fires first."

  Topher and Nita were almost beside themselves when Creed pulled the short straw and had to fire first. The boy resorted to complaints, protesting just about everything imaginable, including the sun's glare off a particularly distracting window.

  "If you'd been man enough, boy, you would have won already," Dukker yelled at his son.

  Red-faced, Creed fell silent, forced to take his place on the firing line. For the first time since she'd known him, Rorie's heart went out to the boy. As much as she wanted to see Shae win, she didn't want to see Creed publicly humiliated by his father. Even Lorelei looked sympathetic toward the suitor she'd once spurned.

  When Creed's smoke cleared, Shae took his turn. Immediately, the judges scrambled to the targets, and more measuring, gesturing, and headshaking ensued.

  The runners sprinted back to Faraday with the judges' decision. The mayor grew visibly tense, his smile strained.

  "Well, folks, we got our winner. Taking first place in the hundred-dollar prize in Elodea's Twenty-fifth Annual Founder's Day Shooting Spree is... Shae McFadden."

  The orphans cheered. County residents who knew and respected Shae loosed a ripple of applause. But for the most part, the faces around Rorie darkened. She felt Elodea's hostility so keenly, she grabbed Merrilee and Topher, pulling them protectively against her legs.

  Lorelei was the one town resident who displayed unabashed delight at the announcement. Before anyone else near Shae could react, she bounded forward, her tiara twinkling like starlight, and reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She never got past the lip-puckering stage.