proving his legal authority, he reached for his hidden star. The glint of steel froze him in midgesture. Warned of her .45 before Mrs. Sinclair drew it from her skirts, he spent the next heartbeat or so cursing himself for having fewer brains than a wooden Indian.
Then he smiled. He couldn't help himself.
He'd looked down many a gun barrel before, but never once had he faced a woman with the bearing of a queen and the courage of a mother cougar.
Chapter 2
"Keep your hands where I can see them, mister," Aurora Sinclair ordered. She locked her trembling knees and drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten, shooting the stranger her fiercest glare and praying to heaven that the children were all safely in the cellar.
For days she had drilled her charges in the emergency procedure, her distrust of Hannibal Dukker spurring her to take precautions. Although the marshal had yet to threaten her household, she feared his retaliation was only a matter of time. The night before, she had finally convinced him to take his courtship elsewhere; only that afternoon, Creed had given free rein to his envy of Shae.
Even if Rorie could have convinced herself Hannibal's courtship had been based on love—or his boys' desperate need of a mother—she would never have surrendered her orphans' guardianship simply to relieve her own loneliness.
Still, she had spent last night wondering if she had been prudent to reject Marshal Dukker. She would have had to suffer his suit for only another few weeks, until her more civilized beau returned from his cattle drive, or until Shae turned eighteen and could inherit the land she held in trust for him. If she had been wise enough to bide her time where Dukker was concerned, she might not be standing there now worrying that she had endangered the children.
Or that this dusty stranger, who had ridden out of town with twin revolvers on his hips, was part of Dukker's revenge.
Swallowing hard, she tightened her fists over the butt of the .45 and tried to hold it steady, as Shae had taught her. Her best gunfighter's stance only seemed to amuse the stranger, though. He was young, perhaps five or six years younger than she, but his accessories suggested that he was an expert at destruction. In addition to his six-shooters, his cartridge belt, and the sheathed Bowie knife that peeked from his boot, a Winchester rifle glinted against his saddle.
No casual cowpoke carried so much firing power, even in Texas, the Braggadocio Capital of the South.
Cocking his head, the stranger grinned at her. "You planning on shooting me, ma'am?"
The very idea made her stomach roil. "If I must."
"You'll have to aim a bit higher then."
A slow heat crept up her neck. He was trying to intimidate her. She'd been practicing for two whole weeks, and she knew she could hit the side of a barrel—most of the time.
"You have yet to answer my question," she retorted in her sternest schoolmarm voice. "What is your business here?"
He doffed his hat. His hair was as thick as a lion's mane, and flared around his darkly tanned face with the red-gold glory of a sunset. For a moment, she simply could not tear her eyes away. She had stared down onto her former husband's shiny pate for so long, she had forgotten a man could be blessed with such magnificent hair.
"The name's Rawlins. Wes Rawlins," the stranger drawled in his rumbling baritone, one which might have been musical if not for its tiny twang of bluster. "I've come to see Mr. Sinclair."
"Then you have come to the wrong place."
"This is Gator Boudreau's homestead, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or rather, it was. But Sheriff Boudreau was—"
She bit her tongue. Prudence, she reminded herself. She had enough problems with Dukker; she would be inviting disaster if she accused him of complicity in Gator's murder without a single shred of evidence.
"Ma'am?"
Swallowing, Rorie forced herself to meet Rawlins's eyes. They were so startlingly green, they looked like polished emeralds
Then he smiled. He couldn't help himself.
He'd looked down many a gun barrel before, but never once had he faced a woman with the bearing of a queen and the courage of a mother cougar.
Chapter 2
"Keep your hands where I can see them, mister," Aurora Sinclair ordered. She locked her trembling knees and drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten, shooting the stranger her fiercest glare and praying to heaven that the children were all safely in the cellar.
For days she had drilled her charges in the emergency procedure, her distrust of Hannibal Dukker spurring her to take precautions. Although the marshal had yet to threaten her household, she feared his retaliation was only a matter of time. The night before, she had finally convinced him to take his courtship elsewhere; only that afternoon, Creed had given free rein to his envy of Shae.
Even if Rorie could have convinced herself Hannibal's courtship had been based on love—or his boys' desperate need of a mother—she would never have surrendered her orphans' guardianship simply to relieve her own loneliness.
Still, she had spent last night wondering if she had been prudent to reject Marshal Dukker. She would have had to suffer his suit for only another few weeks, until her more civilized beau returned from his cattle drive, or until Shae turned eighteen and could inherit the land she held in trust for him. If she had been wise enough to bide her time where Dukker was concerned, she might not be standing there now worrying that she had endangered the children.
Or that this dusty stranger, who had ridden out of town with twin revolvers on his hips, was part of Dukker's revenge.
Swallowing hard, she tightened her fists over the butt of the .45 and tried to hold it steady, as Shae had taught her. Her best gunfighter's stance only seemed to amuse the stranger, though. He was young, perhaps five or six years younger than she, but his accessories suggested that he was an expert at destruction. In addition to his six-shooters, his cartridge belt, and the sheathed Bowie knife that peeked from his boot, a Winchester rifle glinted against his saddle.
No casual cowpoke carried so much firing power, even in Texas, the Braggadocio Capital of the South.
Cocking his head, the stranger grinned at her. "You planning on shooting me, ma'am?"
The very idea made her stomach roil. "If I must."
"You'll have to aim a bit higher then."
A slow heat crept up her neck. He was trying to intimidate her. She'd been practicing for two whole weeks, and she knew she could hit the side of a barrel—most of the time.
"You have yet to answer my question," she retorted in her sternest schoolmarm voice. "What is your business here?"
He doffed his hat. His hair was as thick as a lion's mane, and flared around his darkly tanned face with the red-gold glory of a sunset. For a moment, she simply could not tear her eyes away. She had stared down onto her former husband's shiny pate for so long, she had forgotten a man could be blessed with such magnificent hair.
"The name's Rawlins. Wes Rawlins," the stranger drawled in his rumbling baritone, one which might have been musical if not for its tiny twang of bluster. "I've come to see Mr. Sinclair."
"Then you have come to the wrong place."
"This is Gator Boudreau's homestead, isn't it?"
"Yes. Or rather, it was. But Sheriff Boudreau was—"
She bit her tongue. Prudence, she reminded herself. She had enough problems with Dukker; she would be inviting disaster if she accused him of complicity in Gator's murder without a single shred of evidence.
"Ma'am?"
Swallowing, Rorie forced herself to meet Rawlins's eyes. They were so startlingly green, they looked like polished emeralds
Similar Books
The Death of Che Guevara
Jay Cantor
The Sharp Time
Mary O'Connell
Wartime Lies
Louis Begley
A Wedding Quilt for Ella
Jerry S. Eicher
Extenuating Circumstances
Jonathan Valin
Chronicles of Darkness: Shadows and Dust
Andrea F. Thomas, Taylor Fierce
The End of Christianity
John W. Loftus
A Vote of Confidence
Robin Lee Hatcher