by Texas Lover
With a roar that sounded half bear's and half bull's, Hannibal Dukker lunged forward, grabbing her arm and wrenching her away from Shae.
"What's the matter with you?" he shouted at her. "Are you some nigger-loving whore?"
Stunned, Lorelei stumbled into her father's arms. Creed stepped hastily to her defense.
"Leave her alone, Pa. McFadden won the match fair and square."
Rorie held her breath. She thought everyone on the street did at that moment, except for Wes, who stood poised to draw his gun with his right hand and to slap Dukker in irons with his left.
"And I say you were distracted, you idiot." Dukker shoved Creed aside and turned his venomous stare on Shae. "You were distracted by the stench of this nigger."
"It's hard to believe," Shae retorted with the aplomb of a trial attorney, "that you could smell anything more than the blood on your hands. Cousin."
The kinship dig, more than the other, set Hannibal into another spittle-flecked rage. He took a swing at Shae, who ducked easily. Before either man could throw another punch, though, Wes grabbed Dukker's holstered gun from behind and slammed him facedown on the ground. The older man squirmed, trying to roll over, but Wes's knee pinned him between his shoulder blades. His manacles clamped with a snap over Dukker's wrists.
It all happened so quickly, even Topher stood speechless, his heart racing beneath Rorie's forearm. As Wes hauled Dukker to his feet, the lawman screeched vulgarities, first at Wes, then at Shae, then at his son for standing like a half-wit and not "plugging the Ranger bastard."
Impervious to his prisoner's cursing, Wes spun him around and ripped the badge from his shirt.
"Hey!" Dukker writhed like a snake trying to shed its skin. "You can't take my badge. Faraday! You lily-livered prick, tell him who you made law in this town!"
"Shut up, Dukker," Wes said flatly. "You're under arrest for disturbing the peace... until I can find evidence of your other crimes."
"The hell I am! You won't get away with this, Rawlins. This here's my town, and no rooster-headed son of a—"
Wes shoved his neckerchief into Dukker's mouth. The town marshal turned purple trying to spit it and his threats out at the same time.
Wes pushed him forward, and the crowd parted in a mixture of shock and awe as the Ranger marched their marshal off to jail. Creed, thin-lipped and ashen, hiked his rifle over his shoulder and stalked off in the opposite direction.
That's when Rorie noticed Danny. He was standing on the barrel again, his young face raw with upset as he looked from his father's retreating back to his brother's. Rorie's heart ached for the boy. She thought to call to him, to try to ease his hurt.
But the hardware store's owner was storming toward the boy with threats to cuff Danny for denting the drain pipe. Sticking out his tongue, Danny jumped down and bolted for the safety of the alley.
Minutes later, as Rorie was trying to calm her children and lead them safely through the angry crowd, she spied Danny slinking through the shadows beneath the jail's barred window.
Chapter 21
The orphans all agreed it was time to leave town.
Even Topher only put up a token fuss when Rorie marched him to the livery and told him to wait there with Ginevee and the other children while she went to retrieve Po.
Shae, who had gone in search of Tom and Jasper, had promised to meet her back at the wagon in fifteen minutes. In light of the day's events, Rorie worried that even a quarter of an hour might be too much time to waste.
In spite of the no-gun ordinance, many Elodeans were carrying rifles, thanks to the shooting match. Some were openly belligerent toward her, their eyes and brains dulled by drink. She did her best to ignore their scathing words and glances as she hurried down the street. After all, she wasn't worried for herself. She was worried for Shae. Although slavery might have been abolished in Texas, bigotry flourished. There wasn't a white man in Elodea who thought a black boy deserved a hundred-dollar prize.
Especially at a white boy's expense.
Her uneasiness spurring her on, she was at a near trot as she passed Sultan's Saloon, where most of the rowdies appeared to be congregating. Ordinarily, she would have avoided this side of Main Street, but Wes's office was on the other side with Elodea's town jail. Having been stabbed repeated throughout the day by his pine-needle green glare, she decided she would much prefer to brave a mob than bleed a single moment longer from his stare.
Her timing, unfortunately, couldn't have been worse. She'd no sooner reached the corner of Main and the appropriately named Calaboose Alley, when the door of Dukker's office squealed open and Wes emerged. The incarcerated marshal shrieked profanities after Wes, threats that curdled her blood, but Wes ignored Dukker. As he slammed the door and turned the key, she thought of ducking into the blacksmith's shop to spare herself a confrontation. It was already too late, though. With the instincts of a wolf, he'd sensed her—his mate.
Her knees turned to rubber as his hot, fierce gaze slammed into her. The hunger in his glare was as potent as the anger. When he stepped into the street, his long, lean legs chewing up the yards between them, she nearly panicked. She might have turned tail and fled if she thought it would save her.
He halted before her. Her tongue swelled and her mouth grew unpleasantly dry. Perhaps it was his Stetson or the muscles in his rigid neck and shoulders, but he looked taller than she remembered—broader and more dangerous too.
An electrical charge of some sort, a pulsating current of elemental need, crackled between them. He caught her chin in his hand, and her heart leaped to her throat. She could feel the restrained strength throbbing through his fingertips, but his grip was not hard, only firm. It left little doubt in her mind that he could possess her instantly, if he so desired.
"Come with me."
Abruptly, he grabbed her hand and pulled it through the crook of his arm. It remained there throughout their walk. She didn't dare try to extract it, not when she could feel the shivery tenseness of his bicep, like a warning, beneath her palm. His silence was unnerving enough.
He led her to the cramped ticket office that Gator had turned into his Elodea headquarters. Recalling the last confrontation she and Wes had had there, she glanced uneasily at his stony face as he held the door open for her. His features were shuttered, giving nothing away—except a hint of the Ranger ferocity, which he wore like a warrior's armor.
She didn't know which unsettled her more, entering the dim room with its shuttered window, or hearing the discordant clatter of his unwieldy key ring when he tossed it into a desk drawer and locked it inside. Turning reluctantly, she found him barring her escape, his legs spread and his arms folded as he stood in front of the door.
"If you're trying to punish me," he said, "you're doing a damned fine job."
"W-what do you mean?"
"I mean I can't help what I am. And I can't change overnight. But you—" his voice grew harsh and gravelly, "you just can't seem to see past all your hurt and prejudice to cut me any slack. What does it take, Rorie, to make you trust a man?"
"Wes." She struggled to keep her voice gentle, devoid of the blistering torment in her breast. He was dynamite on a very short fuse, and she could feel the explosion just waiting to blow. "Trust is no longer the issue between us. And I don't want to change you. I fell in love with who you are. I would never ask you to be something different—to become miserable in some misguided attempt to please me."
"Then dammit—" He battled visibly to leash his temper. "Why can't you be patient? Why won't you give me the time I need to work Rangering out of my blood?"
She sighed, dropping her eyes. She had known this wouldn't be easy. She might as well try to reason with a volcano.
"Because I have four children who need a father. Now."
"Your children need someone who can teach them, protect them, and love them too. They need more than a male figure to discipline them, Rorie, and that's all Hawkins will ever be to them."
"You're not being f
air to Ethan."
"And you're not being fair to me!"
She cringed as his outburst rattled the window. He stalked toward her, looking hell-bent on rattling her too. In spite of every common-sense command to keep calm and not feed his fury, she retreated before his advance.
Her buttocks struck the desk, and she turned anxious and angry by turns. How dare he trap her, throwing his size and strength around in an effort to intimidate her? Even in Texas, where swaggering male braggarts reigned supreme, a woman had the legal right to court, marry, and raise her children with whomever she pleased!
"Wes, that's far enough. I will not have you bullying me because you can't have your way. I'm marrying Ethan because that's the best course of action for everyone involved, yourself included. If you would take just ten minutes to calm down and think things through, you would undoubtedly see I'm right."
"That's the problem with you, Aurora. You think when you should be feeling."
"And you feel when you should be thinking," she fired back, her patience unraveling faster with each second that his looming presence bent her backward over his desk. "Put your childish jealousy aside for two seconds and kindly recall the facts. You want children. Redheaded sons and daughters of your own. Well, I can't give them to you."
If she had thrown ice water in his face, she couldn't have stunned him more. His eyes widened; he drew a sharp breath. Straightening an inch or two, he allowed her to draw herself to her full height. She was glad for the chance to fortify her defenses, because she hadn't realized just how deeply hope had wormed its way into her heart.
But in that moment when dawning comprehension flickered across his face, he confirmed in her mind the bitter, dreaded truth: his need to have a son outweighed the love he felt for her.
Only then did Rorie fully and finally accept that Wescott Rawlins could never be her husband.
"And now," she said, choking down a sob, "if you'll excuse me, Wes, I have children waiting for me outside."
"Rorie, no." He caught her shoulders, anguish warring with the denial in his eyes. "It will be different between us. You'll see. We can—"
"We can't, Wes." A tear dribbled past her lashes. "I tried to conceive for seven years. My husband was a doctor, and even he couldn't find a cure for my condition. I can never be a mother. But Ethan doesn't need a woman to give him children like you do. He has three sons already, so he can take me as his wife without expectations or regrets."
"No! I won't let you marry Hawkins!"
Before she could protest, his mouth crushed hers, and he dragged her hard against him. Her senses sizzled as the familiar fire flared, showering sparks and fanning smoke between them. As his hand gripped her buttocks, grinding her hips into his arousal, she could feel the heat coursing through his length.
"Oh, Wes," she gasped, tasting tears and suspecting they didn't belong solely to her. "Don't."
She tried pushing against his chest, his shoulders, but his strength was too great and his need too strong. When she turned her face away, he made a guttural sound, his mouth hot and hungry as it fastened on her throat. She felt her heels sliding out from under her as he bowed her spine back; she felt her resistance melting as his fevered hands started grabbing fistfuls of her skirt and pulling it up her legs.
"Wes, stop."
She knew within seconds her will would be consumed, that she would ignite with the forbidden desire she felt for this man. If she didn't do something drastic, something shocking, his frenzied passion would drag her down. She would thrash and moan, as wanton as any saloon girl whether he took her on the desk or on the floor.
In desperation, she leaned back and struck his face full force.
He staggered back. His hand flew to the crimson stain on his cheek, and the hurt in his eyes nearly killed her.
"Let me go." Her voice cracked as she backed for the door. "Accept what cannot be."
Then she stumbled out onto the sidewalk, blinded by a sun that was setting on her hopes and dreams, and turning her heart to ashes.
Wes reeled, his vision too blurred to see as he groped for support.
"Aurora..."
His hand struck the desk, and he sank heavily, perching on the scarred wood top.
She was gone. This time he had lost her forever.
"Rorie..."
His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, shaking with the helpless rage and grief that ripped up his insides. Not until she'd thrown sons in his face had he fully realized what her barrenness would mean if he pursued a future with her. And yet, how could he let her walk out of his life? How could he let her become some other man's wife? He loved her. He loved her orphas too. But she'd made up her mind for them both. She expected his heart to live with her choice.
Accept what cannot be.
The memory of her words was a private hell that burned through all the fibers of his body. Everything inside of him shriveled and crumbled, like the charcoal remains of a tree after the onslaught of a forest fire. It hurt too much to think, to breathe, to be.
He raised his head. Staring glassily out the open door, he tried to catch some last, fleeting glimpse of her. But it was a faded red-and-black sign that swam into focus.
He heaved himself to his feet. He reached for his hat and the Winchester Shae had returned. The crowd had largely dispersed, and the womenfolk were dragging their drunken men home. Now it was his turn to ride the bottle to damnation.
With a self-deprecating sneer, he headed for Sultan's saloon, never noticing the boy-sized shadow that cowered behind the potbellied stove in his office.
He never heard the scraping of a widdy in the desk drawer's lock, or the rattle of the key ring he'd thought was safe from theft.
* * *
Danny had never seen a man cry before. He'd seen women cry—mostly his ma, after his pa was finished beating her—and he'd even cried himself a few times, when his pa had given him a blackened eye or broken tooth.
But he'd never seen Creed cry. He'd never seen his pa cry, either. Danny should have known that sarsaparilla-chugging Ranger was nothing but a sissy.
Slinking through the alleys, heedless of their refuse, Danny crouched beneath the window of the jail and waited for some whooping, six-shooting cowboys to stagger out of sight. His heart raced with the excitement and the danger. The drunkards, not the Ranger, worried him. After all, Danny had seen what his pa did when he got roostered, and the memories scared Danny down to his bones.
Everything about his pa scared him sometimes, like the time Pa had threatened to kill him just for stealing a five-cent piece from the dresser to buy a couple of candies. Luckily, Creed had come home, and he'd sobered up right quick to find Pa's hands squeezing Danny's throat.
It bothered Danny that Pa and Creed fought like wild Injuns, mostly over Miss Lorelei. Still, it was nice not to be hit, and when Creed was around, he would take the blows himself before he'd let Pa strike Danny.
But Creed wasn't around much anymore, now that he was chasing that little cockteaser—that's what Pa called Miss Lorelei. Pa didn't like the way Miss Lorelei put on airs, and when Pa didn't like something, he drank, which never boded well for Danny.
But Danny figured Pa wouldn't try to hit him for a whole week, maybe even longer, if Danny was the one who got Pa out of jail.
Tiptoeing around the corner of the building, Danny fumbled with the lock and finally pushed inside. In the shaft of moonlight that spilled from the window into the holding cell, he could see two beady eyes, as red and wild as a javalina's, glaring at him from the lump of whiskey-stale flesh on the floor. Yellowed teeth glinted dully as Pa drew back his lips, and Danny edged uneasily forward. He knew that look. It meant trouble.
"What took you so long, boy?"
Danny winced as Pa's breath washed over him.
"Rawlins was fighting with that old schoolmarm."
"Yeah?" Pa lumbered to his feet, snatching the keys from Danny's inexpert hands and unlocking the cell door himself. "What were them two fight
ing about?"
Danny frowned, trying to remember. All that jawing and boo-hooing hadn't made much sense to him.
"Babies. And getting hitched, I think."
Pa's lips twisted in his I-got-a-rabbit-in-my-gunsights grin. "You don't say?"
He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers, and Danny carefully pulled from his boot the Remington he'd stolen from the Ranger's desk. Unhooking the safety, Pa spun the wheel and gave a satisfied grunt.
"I got your badge too," Danny said eagerly, plucking the tin star from his shirt.
Pa holstered his gun. "Good work, boy."
Danny beamed. Pa must love him again.
"Where the hell's that no-account, Nancy-boy brother of yours?"
Danny jumped up to sit on the desk, watching curiously as Pa heaved and cursed, pushing a stack of firewood away from the stove.
"Sultan's, I reckon. The Ranger went there, too, but now he's gone."
Pa looked up sharply. "Gone?"
Danny nodded. "Yeah. I saw him ride off with a whiskey bottle a little while ago, after his fight with the schoolmarm."
Pa snorted and knelt. He jimmied up a couple of loose floorboards, then pulled a cedar box from the cobwebs underneath the floor.
"Light the lamp, boy."
Danny scrambled to obey, then watched as Pa grabbed the crowbar he always used to "rattle the cage" when he was bored and his prisoners weren't much fun. Soon he'd pried the nails off the lid and was pulling a gunnysack, robe, and black cloth gloves from the box.
"What about McFadden?" Pa's lip curled over the name.
"Well, after Miss Lorelei gave him his kiss and his prize, he made a beeline for the bank. I saw him drive off a little later with the rest of that half-breed trash."
"Little bitch," Pa muttered. "She ain't half as smart as she thinks she is, cozying up with her questions and her tits."
Pa was inspecting the gunnysack now. It had four holes on one side, kind of like an All Hallow's Eve mask. His grin came back, the one that always made Danny's skin goose-pimply.
"I got a job for you, boy."