Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  Mac folded his arms, his smile faintly mocking. "May the best rancher win, lad."

  "Yeah." Zack's gaze slid to hers, and he colored all over again. "Good luck... ma'am," he added gruffly.

  She frowned, watching his long strides carry him away. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought she'd aggravated him again. One minute the man was smiling, the next minute he was scowling.

  And men complained that women were moody and unpredictable!

  A white paw pushed against her thigh. Pris panted up at her, a question in her liquid brown eyes, and Bailey half smiled, bending over to scratch the Border collie's black ear. Pris preened under the attention, hence her name, but then she gave an impatient "yip," as if she were eager to be herding.

  "Just wait till they get an eyeful of you," Bailey told the dog affectionately.

  Mac dragged his gaze away from Zack's receding shoulders and gave her one of his canny, searching stares. She hated it when he looked at her that way. It reminded her of all the times in her childhood when she'd tried to lie, futilely of course. "Two papas to make up for no mother," Caitlin used to tell her gaily. "What could be better than that?"

  "'Course the talk around the cattle pens is Pris is just a bonny furball," Mac said evenly. "A pretty bitch doesn't have the herding instinct."

  "Stupid cowpokes."

  "Well now. Ye like one of them well enough, don't ye?"

  She glared at him, another futile defense. If Iain McTavish chose to back down from a fight, he made that choice freely, not as a result of intimidation. "If you're referring to Zack, we were just talking business."

  "So that's what ye young folks call it these days?"

  Bailey pressed her lips together. She tried to convince herself Mac pried into her personal life only because he wanted to see her settled and happy. Even so, she couldn't shake the nagging worry that he'd developed a deeper, more selfish reason. She couldn't bear to hurt him any more than she already had. "I told you, Mac, I stopped mooning over Zack Rawlins years ago."

  "Aye. Ye told me."

  She didn't bother to debate him. She wanted this topic of conversation to end as quickly as possible.

  Straightening, she snapped her fingers at her frisky collie. "C'mon, Pris. It's time to make those cowpokes eat some crow."

  Zack was waiting for her by the pigpens. They drew straws under the watchful eyes of their judges, all nonpartisan farmers and townsmen. When she triumphantly pulled the longer straw, she selected her hogs first, a litter of Berkshire shoats and their grand dame. Left with ten cantankerous specimens of spotted pork-on-the-hoof, Zack elected to ride first, to "get it over with," as he so graciously put it. Tramping off with a coil of rope and a bag full of corn, he led Boss into the starting chute.

  Seeing those yellow kernels made Bailey nervous. Even though Zack had spent the last week in Fort Worth, he'd apparently found time to learn something about swine.

  In the fourteen days since the planning meeting, Bailey had learned from eager-to-advise farmers that pig herding had once been a midwestern tradition. That, in fact, Cincinnati had once been nicknamed Porkopolis, since the herds used to be trailed there before the War of Secession. This information had made Bailey worry that Zack might actually have a hidden advantage, since Rorie, his sister-in-law, hailed from Cincinnati. No doubt Rorie had been the one to suggest that Zack lure his hogs with corn. Even so, Zack couldn't possibly have gotten much practice.

  But Bailey and Pris had.

  She smiled smugly, scratching the collie's head. At first Pris had been skittish around all those grunting quarter-tons of lard, but now the forty-pound collie rounded up petulant pork just like she rounded up mutton. Of course, pigs, unlike sheep, were awfully canny creatures, and Pris was still new at matching wits with the beasts....

  The bell rang, and the chute flew open. Ten hogs charged the ring, squealing in mass confusion, and Zack whooped, spurring Boss from an adjacent gate. The gelding cornered instantly, heading off a beady-eyed boar with nasty-looking dewclaws. But rather than follow their leader like nice, well-behaved steers, the other nine hogs raced off in all directions. Bailey heard Mac's chuckle, and she couldn't help but grin. Zack had only three minutes to chase all the hogs into their pen.

  The cattlemen's grandstand roared with encouragements, and Boss wheeled. Bailey watched in admiration as Zack hugged the big black, his powerful thighs commanding the cow pony to turn, cut, or run. His rope rose and fell in his right hand, slapping the spotted flanks that raced by; with his left hand he rummaged in his burlap bag for a fistful of corn.

  The first fling did little more than scatter the squealing hogs and start the whole whooping-wheeling-galloping process over again. The second fling was apparently less frightening and lured the pigs back into a loose formation.

  Bailey bit her lip. Two minutes had passed.

  Now the hogs' inimitable leader was beginning to put two and two together: The big black animal had food. The boar trotted warily behind Zack's stirrup, his snout upturned and his pink nose twitching. This behavior was quickly mimicked by the sows, and poor Boss could hardly put a hoof down without endangering a curly tail. With a few deft switches of his rope, Zack managed to guide the spotted cluster of rumps to the open pen. The cattlemen's grandstand yelled with delight, and Bailey, anxiously rechecking her timepiece, saw that a good half minute remained.

  Zack seemed to have matters well under control now. Unhooking the corn bag from his saddle horn, he heaved it over the top rail of the pen. The burlap broke, the corn scattered, and the boar rushed greedily inside, closely followed by all of his harem—except for one independently minded sow. She chose instead to snuffle outside in the dirt for overlooked kernels. Zack mouthed an oath as he slammed the gate closed behind the herd. Bailey felt a resurgence of hope.

  The loiterer oinked in terror when she saw Boss bearing down on her, this time carrying an angry-looking cowboy and a twirling rawhide lasso. She bolted, but Zack's lariat caught her rear hoof, and she toppled, thrashing, to the ground. Boss backed up, tightening the rope like a good cow pony, and Zack cursed again. Clearly, Boss couldn't drag the pig all the way across the arena to the pen—unless, of course, Zack wanted to incur the wrath of the pig's owner. He jumped down, wresting a second rope from his saddle horn, and Bailey snickered as he tried to throw a leash around the sow's flailing head.

  The three-minute bell rang. The sheepherders cheered, and Zack scowled in defeat, releasing his squealing quarry with obvious disgust.

  Bailey did her best to wipe the unsporting smirk off her face as Zack passed her gate, leading Boss across the arena to the stalls at the rear of the ring.

  She vaulted into her saddle. "We've got them now, Mac!"

  "Patience, lass." He unsnapped Pris's lead. "Dinna go counting yer chickens just yet."

  Bailey laughed, too exhilarated to heed such wisdom. Her very first rodeo, and she was going to win, not only for herself but for sheepherders everywhere!

  Agonizingly slow, the seconds dragged by. Sassy tossed her head, stamping with excitement, and Pris ran back and forth along the gate, sniffing eagerly at the animal smells beyond. Twisting in her saddle, Bailey strained to see how many of the ten pigs still needed to be chased into the adjoining chute. Instead, her gaze was pulled upward, away from the hogs as if by magnetic force.

  She spied Zack, standing with Wes by the judges' platform. He was watching her, and when their eyes met, she felt an electric crackle like lightning flicker down her spine. She caught her breath, not quite prepared for the surge of heat and smoke that spiraled outward to her toes and fingers.

  That charge was the last thing she remembered before the gate flew open, and Sassy bounded with Pris into the ring.

  Chapter 5

  Zack didn't know which was worse, letting swine make him look ridiculous in front of the entire county or letting his private parts turn him into a fool in front of Iain McTavish and Bailey McShane.

  God, what was wrong with him
? Two years earlier he'd barely noticed Bailey had a rump, much less the saucy roundness of it. Today he'd practically had to rope his hands to his sides just to keep from exploring that taut little fanny.

  Of course, she hadn't helped him any by squirming and wriggling, butting his pecker as she'd tried to scramble over the fence. If he hadn't seen for himself her single-minded concern for Nat Rotterdam, he might have suspected she was teasing him on purpose, just like all the braggarts claimed. Bailey McShane was a handful—more than a handful, God help him—and he didn't want her messing up his life. If he had wanted his peaceful existence turned upside down by a wildcat, he would have courted her long before now.

  No, Zack wanted a lady, the sweet, well-mannered, soft-spoken kind. The fact that Bailey had quite suddenly and unexpectedly fired his blood after all these years, when he was well acquainted with her shortcomings, could mean only one thing: He'd been spending far too much time with his steers. He needed a woman.

  But not Bailey, he sternly reminded his more willful parts.

  Wes pushed back his hat, giving Zack a cheeky grin as Bailey thundered past them on her palomino. "I don't suppose you let that pig run by you on purpose, eh?"

  "No, I did not," Zack growled.

  Bailey whistled, pointing, and Pris charged the wheeling right flank of the hogs, cutting off their retreat before McTavish could roll the chute gate closed.

  "Kind of funny, isn't it," Wes drawled, "her being female, her dog and horse being females, and you and Boss... well, you're both males."

  Zack grunted something noncommittal, secretly impressed with Bailey's command. She rode in a circular pattern, shouting orders like a five-star general, while that collie of hers raced to obey, barking and snapping at the stragglers until they joined a formation.

  "'Course, it's probably just a coincidence," Wes continued cheerfully, "you and Boss being up against all females. Too bad that sow got away. You would have figured she would have followed her boar."

  Zack shot his brother a withering glare. "If you're trying to make me feel better, you're doing a damned poor job."

  "I am?" Wes did a masterful job of looking contrite. "Here now. Don't go swallowing an overdose of woe. This contest isn't over yet. You still got that cougar to bag, and he's male. 'Course..." Wes shook his head, loosing a lusty sigh as Bailey pointed and Pris charged off after the last recalcitrant sow. "There won't be any living with our womenfolk if Bailey wins. They're gonna ride us boys but good."

  "This business has nothing to do with you and Cord," Zack said.

  "It doesn't?"

  "No."

  "Well, shoot." Wes's commiserating tone was thoroughly belied by the twinkle in his eyes. "We'll make it our business. We wouldn't want to leave you hanging out to dry all by your lonesome."

  "I can handle Bailey McShane just fine, thank you."

  "'Course you can. But since me and Cord are married to, er, outspoken ladies of our own, we can lend you the wisdom of our experience—"

  Zack gave his younger brother a bite-your-tongue-or-eat-my-fist look, and Wes turned back to the arena with a shrug and a smile.

  "Suit yourself."

  By now Bailey's battle strategy was paying off. Pris had marshalled the sows shoulder to shoulder behind the grand dame, and the whole troop was trotting, somewhat irregularly, toward the gate and the slop troughs at the rear of the pen.

  Suddenly one shoat broke ranks. Ignorant of the consequences, she ran merrily ahead to forage, no doubt scenting the corn kernels that Zack's swine had overlooked. General Bailey, of course, didn't tolerate this breach of discipline. With a slash of her arm, she pointed out the delinquent to Sergeant Pris, and the collie bounded forward, her white tail fluttering like a battle banner.

  Barking orders, which the pig either ignored or couldn't comprehend, Pris raced ahead, rounded on the yearling, and flashed all her fangs. This warning was only mildly effective. Even at her tender age, the shoat was twice Pris's size, so the miscreant ran on. Incensed, Little Napoleon charged after her and nipped a ham hock.

  One would have thought that pig was going to the slaughterhouse.

  With a squeal that would have rung tears from a statue, the baby turned tail and ran straight to her mama. The grand dame bristled. Gnashing her teeth, she bellowed a battle cry that would have done a wild boar proud. Suddenly all ten hogs were on the stampede.

  "Pris!" Bailey spurred her mare out of the way. "Pris, come around!"

  Canine pride must have been at stake, because the collie ignored the command. Planting her paws, Sergeant Pris lowered her head and barked riotously at the mutineers. They grunted back swine obscenities and charged her at ramming speed.

  Clearly shaken, Pris stopped wagging her tail. She retreated a step. Then another. In the next heartbeat, Zack and Wes were laughing uproariously with the rest of the cattlemen as Pris shot like a black and white bullet into the pen, all ten pigs in hot pursuit. Bailey slammed the gate, Pris vaulted the fence, and the shoat's defenders were left to oink their outrage until they discovered the tasty tidbits waiting for them in the slop troughs.

  "Good girl, Pris," Bailey called, leaning down from her saddle to ruffle the dog's fur.

  Pris wagged her tail in relief to see her mistress in such high spirits.

  Zack, still grinning, cocked an eyebrow at the judges. They'd gathered together, all muttering and shaking their heads. He glanced at his brother, and Wes shrugged, equally mystified.

  "Miss McShane," Bandera's mayor boomed through his megaphone, "kindly report to the judges' circle."

  Amid the disgruntled applause of the cattlemen and the wild cheering of the sheepherders, Bailey cantered to the platform and reined in with a flourish. "Mayor Strathmore means the winner's circle." She tossed this smug taunt at Zack as she dismounted.

  Zack folded his arms, equally smug. He didn't know what had happened, but a second glance at the judges convinced him that their decision wasn't in Bailey's favor.

  "If I were you, I wouldn't embarrass myself with premature claims, neighbor."

  He had the satisfaction of watching her eyes narrow as the last judge, pig-farmer Evans, clambered down the wooden stairs to join him, Wes, and Bailey in the circle. McTavish materialized with his usual ghostlike efficiency to hold his employer's animals.

  Bailey turned her attention back to Zack. "I beat you," she retorted, her eyes agleam like polished sapphires. "It's as simple as that."

  "'Fraid not, sweetheart."

  "Weren't you watching?"

  "Oh, I was watching all right. Watching you lose."

  " What?" That jewel-like gaze flashed in warning as she rounded on poor Mayor Strathmore. "What's he talking about?"

  "Well, Miss McShane," the judge said uncomfortably, wiping a handkerchief across the back of his neck, "it seems you didn't quite abide by the rules—"

  "The hell I didn't." Her glare snapped back to Zack. "What kind of game are you playing, cowpoke?"

  "Me?" His jaw hardened. Wasn't it just like her to cast the blame on him? "You sheepherders had just as much input making up the rules as we cattlemen did."

  "That's right, Miss McShane," Strathmore interjected hurriedly. Pushing his spectacles up his perspiring nose, he pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the contest contract. "It clearly says here the contestants will herd ten pigs into a corral—"

  "That's what I did. I herded ten pigs."

  "Uh, no, ma'am, you didn't."

  Her slitted stare made the man's Adam's apple bob. "Are those spectacles of yours working, Strathmore?"

  "C'mon, Bailey," chided Farmer Evans, the Berkshire hogs' owner. "There's no reason to get personal."

  "He's calling me a cheater!"

  "No one's calling you a cheater, Bailey." Evans's voice was soothing, reasonable. "You just had a run of bad luck, that's all. Pris didn't know better, and I reckon neither did you."

  Her fists flew to her hips. "We agreed dogs could be used in the contest—"

  "Yes, but dog
s were supposed to herd the pigs," Strathmore reminded her, "not the other way around."

  Her jaw dropped. "What?"

  Zack was hard-pressed not to chuckle. Strathmore did have a point, as convoluted as it was. No wonder he was a law wrangler.

  "That's ridiculous!"

  "Now, Miss Bailey," Strathmore said a bit indignantly, "both sides agreed beforehand. The judges' ruling stands. Why don't you get out of this hot sun and go cool yourself off for a spell?"

  She shook his hand off her arm. Stalking closer to Zack, she wagged a finger under his nose. "You put them up to this, didn't you, Rawlins?"

  It was his turn to gape. "Now, wait just a consarned minute—"

  "You said you wouldn't let me win, and you didn't!"

  "You made me make that promise!"

  "Yeah?" Standing toe to toe with him, she actually jabbed her finger into his chest. "I should have known you'd made that promise too easily. No wonder you've been over here all this time standing by the judges' platform: so you could influence their decision!"

  He felt his cheeks flame. He didn't take kindly to being called crooked, and he sure as hell didn't like to be prodded with a finger.

  "You know what your problem is?" he ground out, lowering his face to within inches of hers. "Your daddy spoiled you rotten."

  "He did not!"

  "He spoiled you and coddled you. What he should have done was turned you over his knee."

  "My daddy knew how to treat a woman," she flung back, "which is more than I can say for you, Rawlins!"

  That was it. The final straw. He'd borne her public insults to his manhood too many times.

  In a surge of primal frustration, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her hard against him. He heard her gasp as her heels left the ground; he saw shock widen her eyes. Then his mouth swooped to cover hers.

  For an instant, the barest of moments, she swayed on tiptoe. Her hands clutched his shirtsleeves; her chest collided with his. His anger was snuffed out in a flare of desire. He slanted his mouth, demanding an entry to the enticing wetness that lured him deeper.