Adrienne deWolfe Read Online Free Page B

realized that the other children must have forgotten Po in their rush for the cellar. Sloughing off mud and petals, the two-year-old scrambled out of the rose bushes and rushed toward her with outstretched arms. After only three frantic steps, his shoes tangled in their unfastened straps, and he fell flat on his face with a thud. His howls crescendoed to an earsplitting pitch.
    Rawlins chuckled, and his long legs outdistanced hers as he hurried with her to the toddler's rescue.
    "Here now, pardner," he said, undaunted by all the dirt, shrieks, and tears. "Let me see that flower bite."
    "Hurt. Hurt!" Po wailed, his great, almond eyes gushing tears.
    The gunslinger lifted the boy with the skill of a mammy, and Rorie halted, momentarily stunned. Discarding her .45, she planned to snatch Po away, but Rawlins had taken complete charge, turning over each muddy little hand for inspection.
    "Aw, the tyke's just scared, ma'am. See? No scratches. No hurt," he told Po, who must have finally sensed he was being held by a stranger, not Shae. Whimpering, he reached for Rorie, and Rawlins obliged, lowering the child into her arms.
    "What's his name?" he asked.
    She cradled the boy, kissing his silky black hair. "Po. That's the name his mother gave him," she added defensively. "She was Cantonese."
    She waited for Rawlins to back away as if Po had bubonic plague. To her surprise, he leaned closer instead, his smile turning wistful. Stretching out a freckled hand, he patted the boy's head.
    "He's a cute little younker. Reminds me of my nephew Seth. Seth was always getting into trouble at that age, and Cord had to build a baby corral just so Fancy could—"
    Damn. Wes bit his tongue, blushing furiously. He'd done it again. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't reminisce about Fancy, but here he was, only a couple of hours later, mooning over her memory—and in front of another woman yet!
    He glanced sheepishly at Aurora Sinclair, figuring he'd just made a first-class fool of himself. To his relief, he found a new acceptance warring with the suspicion on her face. She looked like she might even smile. Not that it mattered, but she would be pretty if she did. Downright beautiful, in fact. He didn't like grimness, especially in a woman, but he had to concede that Aurora Sinclair had better reasons than most. Her husband was missing; her protector—and lover?—had been gunned down; and the marshal of the local town was trying to ride her out on a rail.
    What was Dukker's big hurry, anyway? Sure, the land might belong to him, but Aurora had orphans to rear. What difference did it make if she lived here a couple of weeks longer until she found them a new home?
    He gazed once more into the big, watery eyes that peeked up at him from the hollow of Aurora's neck.
    Something wasn't right here. Or, as Aunt Lally would say, "Son, there's a fox in the henhouse."
    Thinking he might get some answers now, as long as he stayed circumspect, Wes prepared to ask about Boudreau's death. The scrabble of pebbles distracted him. A long, lean shadow poured across his boots, and he tensed, reacting instinctively to being watched from behind. He had wondered what had happened to the mulatto.
    "You all right, Miss Aurora?" Shae asked. "I heard Po crying."
    "Yes. Yes, of course," she said a little breathlessly. "I'm fine. And so is Po."
    Wes didn't have to turn to understand the reason for her agitation. A slender, polelike shadow had rippled outward from the youth's. He guessed it was a shotgun.
    "You must be Shae," he said, turning as casually as he was able. He saw instantly that he faced a marksman. Despite the youth's swollen knuckles and blackened eye, his grip was firm and his bead dead-on. Wes returned that narrowed stare with a calm respect. The youth could have blown him away if he'd wanted to, but Wes knew he wouldn't. His gut told him so.
    "That's right. I'm Shae. What's it to you, mister?"
    "I saw you in town today. You put up some fight."
    "Yeah?" Suspicion