Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  The din ebbed; the crowd receded. Her lips trembled open, and her rigid spine softened, arching, letting him mold her length to his. Her nipples were taut, rubbing his chest with each shuddering breath. When she pulled him closer, his heart tripped; when his tongue thrust, she parried. He barely stifled a moan.

  She was kissing him eagerly now, hungrily, demanding a response that every sizzling part of him ached to provide. But not here. Not now. God have mercy on his soul.

  Abruptly he pushed her back, setting her on her feet. She blinked up at him, her eyes brimming with wonder.

  He heard a buzz. Growing, crescendoing, it thundered to a roar. Boots were stomping, hands were clapping, spectators in the grandstands were howling with mirth. Dumbfounded, he stared at the lips that were so moist and swollen from his kiss. Shame burned through him. How could he have lost control?

  He swallowed hard, thinking he should apologize. He thought he should at least tell the judges to damn the rules and let her take the prize.

  He should have thought less and paid more attention.

  Suddenly, a fist slammed into his gut like a miniature locomotive. He wheezed, unprepared for the punch that nearly blew a hole through his spleen.

  "Dammit, McShane," he gasped, clutching his searing midsection.

  Without a word, she turned on her heel, red-faced and tight-lipped as the snickering judges parted before her. McTavish glared his resentment. He must have decided Zack had been punished enough, though, because the Scot quietly followed her, leading the animals.

  Wes shook his head after them. "You sure handled her, son." Stepping closer, he gave Zack's shoulder a commiserating slap. "Yep, you handled her real well."

  Chapter 6

  One week after the calamity in the judges' circle, Zack still wasn't sure he could look Bailey in the eye, much less Amaryllis. Knowing he'd publicly dishonored them both was a pang in his gut, one far worse than the bruise Bailey had left as a reminder. He figured he was lucky she hadn't drawn her six-shooter on him, or, worse, sent McTavish across their boundary line with a scattergun.

  As for Amaryllis, she had just as much right to plug him. He'd probably shocked the devil out of her when he'd locked lips with Bailey in full view of the entire county. Of course, kissing Bailey had shocked the devil out of him too, but he rather doubted Amaryllis—or Judge Larabee—would believe him.

  Wes, on the other hand, was thoroughly delighted by Zack's change of heart. He took full credit for Zack's supposed affection for Bailey, and every chance he got, he did his annoying best to play cupid.

  For instance, the morning of July fifth, when Zack was riding to meet the cattlemen's cougar-bagging team, he made the unfortunate mistake of riding westward, within shouting distance of Wes's front porch, and found himself subjected to his brother's wayward sense of humor.

  "I hope you're bound for greener Scottish pastures," Wes had called gaily above the heads of his usual three-foot-high audience. "I need a slew of ankle-biters to tell my stories to, and I expect you to pull your weight in the niece-and nephew-making business, just the same as Cord and Fancy."

  About three days later, when the bickering cattlemen's team broke up, declaring every man for himself, Zack rode home in disgust, hoping for a little peace and quiet.

  Instead, he was cornered by Cord. Apparently the eldest Rawlins was less interested in the progress of the hunt than in some brotherly matchmaking. He heartily endorsed the idea of Zack chasing a skirt with "more brains than fluff," and gave his blessing to a Rawlins-McShane union, even if Zack was still digging in his heels. After all, Cord had learned to tame a wildcat named Fancy.

  "From where I was sitting in the rodeo stands, son," the Rawlins patriarch drawled, "kissing Bailey McShane looked like it was well worth losing the friendship of the county judge. I've always thought it a shame, you not getting to lay claim to the Sherridan spread. But then, I reckon there's more than one way to skin a cat."

  Fortunately for Cord and Wes both, Zack wasn't a hothead who countered taunts with punches. He had, however, retaliated by packing up his gear and camping out in the hills with his horse and his hound. Boss and Rebel were fine listeners, and they didn't pester a man with gab, which was more than Zack could say for his brothers.

  Besides, Zack had vowed to end One Toe's ninth life. Considering how much head-butting had gone on between the arrogant cusses on the cattlemen's team, Zack figured it was just as well he was hunting alone. He'd come close to punching out Nick Rotterdam and Red Calloway both, and yielding to that kind of temptation wouldn't have boded well for his political career.

  Zack soon learned that the cattlemen weren't the only ones competing among themselves. By July tenth, the Woolgrowers' team was just as divided, or at least it appeared that way, because Zack ran across two separate groups of sheepherders tracking cats through the Bandera Mountains. President Eldridge and his followers made up the first group; Bailey, her foreman, Rob Cole and his son, Jesse, comprised the second.

  Zack crossed paths with Bailey's hunting party late in the afternoon. When he spied her palomino mare among the trio of geldings, his heart lurched unexpectedly into a full-steam race. The hammering in his chest was so embarrassing, not to mention confusing, that he ducked behind the boulder of his clifftop perch to catch his breath.

  "Cougar scats. Just like I told you, Bailey," he heard seventeen-year-old Jesse boast.

  Leather creaked and spurs clinked. Peeking around his limestone hideaway, Zack saw the Woolgrowers' vice president dismount beside his son. McTavish remained in his saddle while Bailey and the Coles squatted over the cougar droppings. Zack had already inspected them, and he knew they were about two days old.

  Bailey pushed back her Stetson with her thumb. "They're cougar scats all right," she said, resting her weight on her rifle stock as she studied the ground. The sun struck sparks from the curl that spilled across her forehead, and Zack didn't know where to look next: at her thighs, so sleek and provocative as they spread beneath the straining denim of her jeans, or at the sun-flushed V of skin that plunged to a tantalizing and disappointing end just shy of her breasts.

  Zack noticed he wasn't the only male enamored of this view. Grinning like the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing, black-haired, blue-eyed Jesse squatted shoulder to shoulder with Bailey. Hell, he squatted thigh to thigh with her. The pup's ruse was thinly disguised, since his gaze was glued to Bailey's neckline, not the cougar's scats, and Zack had half a mind to tromp down the hill and knock the boy's teeth out.

  "These aren't One Toe's tracks though," she continued matter-of-factly, as if having a man's hips practically locked to hers was too common an occurrence for her to get riled. "Looks like we're following a cold trail."

  "Aye. Ye might try splitting up, lad," McTavish called wryly from his horse. "Spreading out. That way we can see where those earlier tracks lead to."

  Bailey rose, and Jesse joined her. To Zack's inexplicable annoyance, the young sheepherder didn't look too chagrined after McTavish's warning.

  "Maybe there's a den nearby," Rob Cole said hopefully, watching Boo snuffle past his son's boots. "Think your hound's found something?"

  "Could be," Bailey said. "There's no telling what though, knowing Boo. I like Mac's idea. Let's beat the bushes a bit and see what we can find. This cougar's long gone."

  "What if he comes back?" Jesse asked, apparently concerned with Bailey's safety.

  "Well now, Jesse," she said, "if you're afraid, I'll have Mac hold your hand."

  "I'd rather you held it, ma'am." The boy grinned shamelessly.

  Bailey laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. "Maybe that's not such a bad idea, lad. At least then I'll know where one of them is."

  Zack's jaw jutted. Well, she certainly seemed to have gotten over his kiss double quick.

  Feeling somewhat outnumbered, and not at all sure his apology wouldn't be greeted with ridicule, Zack postponed his atonement yet again, promising himself he would speak to Bailey in private, as she deserv
ed, the first chance he got.

  To his chagrin, the moment of his penance caught up with him much sooner than he'd expected.

  Watching the sheepherders fan out upwind of his perch, Zack thought it safe to scramble back over the rocks to the chokecherry tree where he'd tied Reb and Boss. He didn't count on Reb barking her fool head off when she scented another canine in the vicinity. At least, that's what Zack attributed her excitement to, when he heard thrashing in the scrubby thickets below. He tried to silence the hound as he led her and Boss down the cliff path, but Reb's ruff was fairly standing on end. She began growling, straining against her leash.

  That's when Boo bounded back into the clearing.

  With his big ears flapping, he slid to a splay-legged halt and barked raucously at the elm tree dissecting the path. This greeting apparently wasn't enough, though, because in the next heartbeat, he'd charged up the hill, touching noses and wagging tails with Reb.

  Zack muttered an oath as Bailey's voice floated up to him from the shriveled canopy of live oaks and cedars.

  "Boo? Boo! That had better be a hunting bark, you big rutting—"

  Her voice abruptly broke off. Zack knew she'd spied him, and his heart tripped. A moment dragged by. Then another. He imagined she was gathering her nerve—or maybe her anger—before she pushed the final cedar branch aside and led her mare into the clearing.

  "Hell and sulfur, Boo. You dragged me all the way over here to watch you make puppies?"

  Boo woofed good-naturedly; Reb whined, sniffing Boo's puppy-making parts; and Zack winced inwardly. It was bad enough discussing the mating act with a woman. Why did he have to do it with a woman he'd just kissed?

  "I wouldn't go hunting with a bitch that's in heat," he said gruffly, hoping to disguise the embarrassment staining his cheeks. He jerked his hound's leads out of the tangle that threatened to trip his feet. "Besides, Reb just had a litter."

  "Looks like she wouldn't mind another," Bailey said, snapping her fingers at her hound. "Boo! Come."

  Boo reluctantly obeyed his mistress, turning down the path with one last longing look at Reb. Zack prayed to God no one ever caught him looking that way at a female.

  "Until that hound of yours gets wind of the right scent, you should keep him leashed," he called, jerking Reb back to his side before she could bound after Boo. "There are too many hunters roaming these hills. One might shoot Boo by mistake." He paused, uncertain which protocol to follow next. He finally had his private moment with Bailey, but how the hell was he supposed to apologize with delicacy after she'd started their conversation off with the topic of dog rutting? He'd never been at ease making parlor talk with women, and every time he thought he'd finally gotten the knack, Bailey came along and changed the rules. She drove him crazy.

  "Oh, yeah?" She planted her fists in the usual place. He'd seen her take that pose so many times, he figured she must have dug little niches into her hips, just so she could fit her knuckles into them. "Just 'cause you kissed me doesn't give you the license to tell me what to do, Zack Rawlins."

  There she went, giving him lip again. He smiled grimly, remembering it was her lips that got him into trouble in the first place. "Er, look, Bailey. I've been meaning to talk to you about that—"

  A screechy "woo-wooing" interrupted him. Zack recognized the call of an outraged raccoon even before the varmint dropped out of the elm tree and landed square in Boo's path. Whether the coon had fallen or leapt from its den wasn't clear, but the spittle on its jaws and the clicking of its fangs made its condition alarmingly evident. It was rabid.

  "Boo!"

  Bailey's warning could barely be heard above the explosion of barking and snarling. Zack cursed, struggling to hold Reb back from the thirty-pound pestilence that threatened Bailey's hound. He managed to grab his Winchester even as he heard Bailey snap the lever on hers.

  They were too late. Too sick and crazed to flee, the coon attacked. In the melee of slashing, clawing, and biting that ensued, the coon had little chance. Boo flipped the creature and went for its throat, receiving little more than a scratch and a bite in the struggle. But they were enough.

  Zack's throat constricted as Boo let the limp carcass drop from his jaws. He was panting, his eyes shining, and he wagged his tail in triumph. Zack fidgeted. Glancing at Bailey, he saw the shock slowly ebb from her features. He couldn't ever remember her looking so white.

  "Boo," she said again quietly, extending her gloved hand. It trembled the tiniest bit, and Zack felt his gut clench.

  The hound trotted with his usual happy-go-lucky gait to her side, plopping down on his haunches, his ears pricked, his eyes eager as he awaited her command. She swallowed hard, resting her palm on his great head.

  "Bailey?" McTavish called anxiously, breaking through the underbrush with a ready rifle. The Coles quickly followed, leading their horses.

  "What happened?" Jesse asked, peering curiously at the trickles of blood on Boo's leg.

  Bailey said nothing. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pressed Boo's head against her abdomen.

  Zack cleared his throat. "There was a coon. Near the tree. It came out of nowhere, and..."

  Boo whined, licking Bailey's glove, and Zack's words faltered. There was no need to explain the rest. He knew the men knew. Bailey did too.

  "Lass." Cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm, McTavish ground-hitched his gelding and strode closer. "Were ye hurt a'tall?"

  "No." Her voice was hoarse, strained, but its volume was strong.

  Jesse whistled long and low. "Damn." He squatted over the coon. "He was a big 'un." He glanced admiringly at Boo, then up at Bailey. When he saw her stony expression, his enthusiasm ebbed. "Hey, Boo wasn't bit, was he?"

  "Of course he was bit," his father growled, shifting uncomfortably from boot to boot. "A hound doesn't fight a coon without getting bit."

  Zack felt McTavish's gaze boring through him.

  "Came out of nowhere, did he, lad? Leapt to the attack?"

  Zack nodded. As much as he'd always complained about Boo chasing his cows, it occurred to him that he liked the hound. He liked the way Boo protected Bailey.

  The silence thickened.

  Mac pushed back his battered cap. "Bailey, lass. It isna natural, a coon starting a scrap with a hound."

  Her chin trembled almost imperceptibly as she wrapped her other arm around Boo and hugged him tighter.

  "'Tis plain to me," McTavish continued, his words firm, his voice gentle, "there was sickness in the beastie's blood. Ye willna see a coon by day if he doesna have the rabies fever."

  Zack winced to hear Boo's death sentence spoken at last. Jesse climbed hastily to his feet.

  "But maybe Boo won't get rabies," he said, glancing at his father. "You could pen him away from your livestock, ma'am, watch him awhile for the signs..."

  Cole shook his head and looked at the ground. His heart twisting, Zack watched Bailey. He knew how much she loved her ugly old cur dog. But to expose her entire flock to disease for the sake of one animal, no matter how favored, would be the height of impracticality, not to mention cruelty. The odds were against Boo. Watching an animal grow sicker, madder, more vicious from day to day would be a kindness to no one, least of all Boo.

  "Bailey," he finally said, "since I'm not as acquainted with the hound as you and McTavish, maybe you'd like to leave him with me...."

  Her chest heaved, and she hastily shook her head. "No." She drew herself up straighter. The gaze that met his was resolute behind the silvery film of tears. "He's my hound. Come, Boo," she added quietly.

  Turning her back on the men, she walked with firm, purposeful strides into the cedar maze, and Boo trotted obediently at her side. If the hound suspected his fate, he didn't balk, but he did nudge his head beneath her hand, staring up at her as if he sensed her distress.

  Zack was glad when the gray-green shadows swallowed them. He drew a ragged breath.

  The rifle report rolled across the clearing moments later.

  Jesse fl
inched; Cole grimaced; McTavish muttered something in his native tongue. Zack wondered if the older man had spoken a prayer or curse, and when he glanced at Bailey's foreman, McTavish looked at him. There was something vaguely discomfiting about the Scot's stare, as if McTavish were appraising him, sizing him up. Zack couldn't help but tense.

  The minutes ticked by. Reb whined, and Boss nickered. The sheepherders began to fidget. Zack thought about going into the trees after Bailey. He couldn't help but remember the one and only time he'd had to shoot a hound to put it out of its misery. Rusty had been fifteen—Wes's age—and Zack had been sixteen. Even though the hound had been nearly blind, arthritic, and unable to chew his food, Zack had felt heinous, as if he'd murdered his best friend. Wes had sobbed like a baby after the deed was done, but Zack, unable to shed his own tears, had retired to the privy to retch.

  What if Bailey were sick, or, worse, had fainted?

  He started in her direction, but McTavish stepped forward to block his path.

  "Leave her be," he said crisply. "She knows what she's about."

  Zack frowned, wondering how McTavish could bear to stand so calmly by his horse when the woman he'd once courted was probably, at the very least, sobbing her head off a few hundred feet away. If Zack knew one thing about women, it was that they needed comforting when they cried. What was the matter with McTavish? Didn't he give a damn how Bailey felt?

  He was just about to challenge the Scot's apparent lack of compassion, when a twig snapped. A cedar bough trembled. White-faced and gray-lipped, Bailey pushed through the veil of needles, her chin set and her shoulders rigid. To Zack's amazement, her eyes were dry, but he had never seen them look so hollow.

  "I can't bury him deep enough," she announced in a brittle tone.

  "Aye, lass. The ground's too hard."

  Zack glared at McTavish. He sensed, even if the Scot didn't, that it had cost Bailey a lot to admit she couldn't finish the job on her own, even though she'd dented her rifle stock all to hell.

  "Are you packing a shovel?" She directed her question at Zack in a clipped voice, the same voice he'd heard her use in the Bullwhip when she'd squared off with Hank Rotterdam. Zack wasn't sure he liked her speaking to him as if he, too, were her foe.