stranger things happening in the heat of passion. Maybe her priggish style of flirting was a clever ploy to throw him off her trail.
He almost laughed aloud. Surely she wasn't that accomplished at scheming.
Amused by the absurdity of his thought, he began to hum, and then to sing:
Come you midwestern girls, listen to me,
Don't lose your fair heart to them Texas boys.
When they go a'courtin', they make a great noise,
Wear old leather coats, patched-up holes in their drawers.
They ain't got much grace, and they sure got no poise,
Those wild, unruly west Texas boys.
As Two-Step trotted up the drive, Wes's rusty singing was accompanied by the sound of steel striking wood. He sang his last note with raunchy gusto, and Shae paused in his work to make a face.
"You're late, Rawlins."
"Reckon I am."
Shae climbed to his feet, balancing himself on the barn's sloping roof. He wore the look of a busy man who'd just decided his day was going downhill.
"You got some kind of explanation?"
"Oh, I always have an explanation."
Shae grimaced, and Wes had the sneaking suspicion that his young boss was more irritated at him for showing up than for being late.
"Would this explanation of yours have something to do with a whiskey bottle?"
"Well..." Wes dismounted and pushed back his hat with his thumb. He couldn't very well lie. " 'Fraid so," he said solemnly, trying not to smirk at the memory of Aurora, stomping her foot after every missed shot.
"Miss Aurora doesn't like drinking."
"Is that a fact?"
"A genuine fact, mister. So if you're thinking about cutting your wolf loose each night, you'd best turn around and head back where you came from."
Wes hiked an eyebrow. Now that had to be the third attempt since sunrise to steer him clear of this spread. He supposed he could put Shae's mind to rest by confessing he hadn't touched a drop of whiskey for over eleven months.
Bad things always seemed to happen when he got cork high and bottle deep. The first time, when he was sixteen, Zack and Aunt Lally had been kidnapped by outlaws and their Bosque County ranch had been burned to a cinder while he'd been staggering around the local saloon. That night had been the worst one of Wes's life.
Of course, that evening a year ago, when he'd gotten drunk enough to punch out Cord's lights had certainly run a close second. Tarantula juice had a nasty way of sneaking up on him. Wes had made the decision to avoid it, but he doubted whether Shae would believe him.
"Much obliged for the warning, Shae. I'll keep my wolf leashed and muzzled for now.
"On second thought"—he anticipated his next clash of wits with relish—"I should probably go apologize to Miss Aurora before I muzzle anything."
He turned to lead Two-Step toward the corral.
"Rawlins!"
He glanced up. Sunlight glinted on metal, distracting him from the boy. Against the weather vane, within an arm's reach of Shae, leaned the double-barreled Whitney.
"I'll be watching you," Shae said grimly.
Wes steeled himself against his rising annoyance. Did the boy always pack a scattergun when he worked? Or was the weapon a precaution born of guilt... and fear of capture by lawmen?
"Fair enough, Shae." Wes matched the boy stare for stare. "But just be sure, while you're watching, you don't let the real badmen sneak by."
Feeling somewhat vindicated, he unsaddled Two-Step and turned him loose inside the fenced-off pasture, where the Sinclairs' few barn animals had been temporarily relocated.
True to his name, the gelding danced around Aurora's nag, two goats, and a disgruntled-looking heifer to claim the sweetest, most tender clover for himself. Wes watched the rascal fondly for a moment before it occurred to him that no children were in sight. He wondered with wry amusement if Aurora had whisked them into the storm cellar again. After all, he was prowling the grounds once more.
"There's an ax near the woodpile up by the porch," Shae called from his bird's-eye view. "You can start by
He almost laughed aloud. Surely she wasn't that accomplished at scheming.
Amused by the absurdity of his thought, he began to hum, and then to sing:
Come you midwestern girls, listen to me,
Don't lose your fair heart to them Texas boys.
When they go a'courtin', they make a great noise,
Wear old leather coats, patched-up holes in their drawers.
They ain't got much grace, and they sure got no poise,
Those wild, unruly west Texas boys.
As Two-Step trotted up the drive, Wes's rusty singing was accompanied by the sound of steel striking wood. He sang his last note with raunchy gusto, and Shae paused in his work to make a face.
"You're late, Rawlins."
"Reckon I am."
Shae climbed to his feet, balancing himself on the barn's sloping roof. He wore the look of a busy man who'd just decided his day was going downhill.
"You got some kind of explanation?"
"Oh, I always have an explanation."
Shae grimaced, and Wes had the sneaking suspicion that his young boss was more irritated at him for showing up than for being late.
"Would this explanation of yours have something to do with a whiskey bottle?"
"Well..." Wes dismounted and pushed back his hat with his thumb. He couldn't very well lie. " 'Fraid so," he said solemnly, trying not to smirk at the memory of Aurora, stomping her foot after every missed shot.
"Miss Aurora doesn't like drinking."
"Is that a fact?"
"A genuine fact, mister. So if you're thinking about cutting your wolf loose each night, you'd best turn around and head back where you came from."
Wes hiked an eyebrow. Now that had to be the third attempt since sunrise to steer him clear of this spread. He supposed he could put Shae's mind to rest by confessing he hadn't touched a drop of whiskey for over eleven months.
Bad things always seemed to happen when he got cork high and bottle deep. The first time, when he was sixteen, Zack and Aunt Lally had been kidnapped by outlaws and their Bosque County ranch had been burned to a cinder while he'd been staggering around the local saloon. That night had been the worst one of Wes's life.
Of course, that evening a year ago, when he'd gotten drunk enough to punch out Cord's lights had certainly run a close second. Tarantula juice had a nasty way of sneaking up on him. Wes had made the decision to avoid it, but he doubted whether Shae would believe him.
"Much obliged for the warning, Shae. I'll keep my wolf leashed and muzzled for now.
"On second thought"—he anticipated his next clash of wits with relish—"I should probably go apologize to Miss Aurora before I muzzle anything."
He turned to lead Two-Step toward the corral.
"Rawlins!"
He glanced up. Sunlight glinted on metal, distracting him from the boy. Against the weather vane, within an arm's reach of Shae, leaned the double-barreled Whitney.
"I'll be watching you," Shae said grimly.
Wes steeled himself against his rising annoyance. Did the boy always pack a scattergun when he worked? Or was the weapon a precaution born of guilt... and fear of capture by lawmen?
"Fair enough, Shae." Wes matched the boy stare for stare. "But just be sure, while you're watching, you don't let the real badmen sneak by."
Feeling somewhat vindicated, he unsaddled Two-Step and turned him loose inside the fenced-off pasture, where the Sinclairs' few barn animals had been temporarily relocated.
True to his name, the gelding danced around Aurora's nag, two goats, and a disgruntled-looking heifer to claim the sweetest, most tender clover for himself. Wes watched the rascal fondly for a moment before it occurred to him that no children were in sight. He wondered with wry amusement if Aurora had whisked them into the storm cellar again. After all, he was prowling the grounds once more.
"There's an ax near the woodpile up by the porch," Shae called from his bird's-eye view. "You can start by
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