Before he could tell her about his ax and the hand trowel he'd brought to douse his campfires, Rob put in his two-bits' worth.
"We should probably burn the coon. Boo too," he added. "You don't want any critters digging up the carcasses, infecting themselves and everything else in these hills."
Bailey blanched even whiter, if that was possible, and Zack wished he was standing close enough to kick Cole in the seat of his pants.
"That's not necessary," he said. "I'll bury Boo. I'll see to the coon too."
For the briefest of moments, Bailey's gaze poured into his. He spied the warmth of her gratitude, the welling relief behind her suffering, and he heard his breath catch. It was the strangest sensation, looking into eyes he'd seen ten hundred times, eyes he thought he knew, and seeing a stranger staring out from their depths. He marveled that he'd never before noticed how captivating Bailey's gaze could be—or how sweetly vulnerable.
"Thank you." She released a ragged breath. Then, as if she couldn't bear the intensity of their staring, she turned on her heel and strode to her horse. "I need a whiskey, boys." She thrust her rifle roughly into the saddle boot. "Who's buying?"
* * *
Digging a grave deep enough for Boo's remains was no small feat in midsummer with an ax and a hand trowel, yet Zack honored his word, pausing only to wipe his brow and flex his cramped fingers. He refused to consider the easier way of destroying the carcass by fire. Boo had meant a great deal to Bailey and, he reflected, Bailey must mean something to him. Otherwise, why would he be out here breaking his back, when he could be turning over a couple piles of ashes?
The sun was hanging low in the sky when he finished dousing the coon's burial pyre. More than two hours had passed since Bailey and the sheepherders had ridden toward town, and Zack considered following them. After the afternoon he'd just put in, he had a powerful thirst, and liquor was a strong temptation. He didn't drink much, not after watching rotgut make Cord lose control and turn Wes downright fractious, but he did enjoy a good beer now and then.
He also needed to replenish his supplies, and since he didn't much like the idea of returning home and facing his brothers' brand of humor, he decided to ride to Bandera. He figured he could get a warm meal, a bath, and a shave before he headed for the saloon.
By the time he had tethered Boss and Reb outside the public washhouse, the sun had turned a fiery orange, undulating above the horizon in the shimmering heat waves that it struck from the earth. Anticipating his bath made Zack think longingly of the spring-fed waters he'd lost to Bailey in the Sherridan deal. Two years earlier, he and his brothers had been in the process of expanding their range when the widow Sherridan's prized water-fed pasturage, located between the McShane and Rawlins ranches, had come up for sale. Bailey's daddy had died at the same time, and his funeral had been the day of the auction.
Zack had counted on the funeral to eliminate competition from her, and he'd offered the widow Sherridan a fair but admittedly low price. He'd never expected Bailey to withdraw her daddy's life savings after the reading of his will. Racing from the bank in her mourning chaps and duster, she'd arrived at the auction block with a wad of greenbacks that had fairly made his eyes bulge. "Cash on the barrelhead," she'd challenged him. "What good is a promissory note to Mrs. Sherridan when she's struggling to set up house back in Arkansas?"
Zack winced as he recalled that public embarrassment at Bailey's hands. Still, the hardheaded, businesslike Bailey of the auction block was entirely different from the pale, heartsick one who'd been forced to shoot her own hound. If he hadn't seen her both times with his own eyes, he would never have believed the two women could exist in the same body. The realization made him wonder what else he didn't know about this neighbor he called Bailey.
As he rounded the corner of the public washhouse, his gaze was drawn to the church at the end of the street and the sun-beaten sycamore dominating the front yard. He couldn't immediately say what made him hesitate and peer more closely into the leafy shadows that darkened the grasses. Maybe it was the appeal of all that shade, rolling out in gray-green waves toward the picket fence, now tinged a dusky peach in the twilight. Or maybe it was the lone mourner with the wheat-colored hair, who sat, head bowed, against the tree trunk.
Zack chewed his bottom lip. Bailey really looked like she could use a friend.
Feeling awkward and not at all sure of his welcome, he walked the two blocks to the churchyard. He doffed his hat as he paused at the gate, suspecting he looked like he'd strolled through a dust devil. That was a regular state for him, thanks to cattle hooves and prairie winds, but he wasn't among cowboys at the moment, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. He hastily combed his fingers through his hair and he used his hat to beat off the worst of the trail dust. Then, drawing a bolstering breath, he lifted the latch and pushed inside the yard.
Bailey was too preoccupied to notice him. She was turning an object over and over in her hands, and as he crossed to the tree trunk, he recognized the leather strap that had once been Boo's collar. His heart twisted.
"Bailey."
She started at his gentle tone, blinking up at him with luminous, tear-filled eyes. He thought he recognized a welcome in her gaze before the embarrassment rolled in. She quickly looked away.
"Mind if I sit awhile?" he asked.
She hiked a shoulder, her chin jutting the tiniest bit, and he was reminded of his seven-year-old niece, Megan, who often employed the same tactic when she was too proud to admit she was hurting.
Gingerly lowering himself beside Bailey, he propped his back against the tree and stretched his legs out beside hers. He couldn't help but notice how short hers seemed compared with his, or how slender and delicate. He frowned, wondering when he'd last thought of the woman beside him as delicate.
A couple of minutes passed. He pondered what he should say as he watched her squeeze Boo's collar. Her hands were butternut-brown from the sun, small in size, and undeniably feminine, but he imagined their grip must be strong, the fingertips callused. Just to think of her touch heated his insides, and he found himself bending and rolling his hat brim in an effort to work off the electric surge of forbidden yearning. He took small consolation in the fact that her own motions had grown jerky now that his thigh was scant inches from hers. Or maybe she was nervous because she thought he might grab her and kiss her again.
He groaned silently, imagining what she and the rest of the county must have thought of his behavior that day at the rodeo. His Aunt Lally had raised him better than that, and the first chance she had, she'd been quick to remind him of it too.
Suddenly he realized his silence had attracted Bailey's furtive stare. He spied her eyes glistening like blue topaz in the charcoal shadows of her Stetson. He cleared his throat.
"I'm real sorry about Boo."
She averted her face. "He was just a dog," she said thickly, giving him another one-shoulder shrug.
"But he was your friend."
When her chin quivered, Zack added gently, "You can raise thousands of animals, Bailey, and for the most part separate your feelings from your business. But every now and then, one'll come along and sneak inside your heart. Take Boss, for instance. He's twelve years old now, and Cord says it's time I started favoring a greener pony. But putting Boss out to pasture feels like cheating him somehow. He likes to work, and I like working with him. Fact is, he's like kinfolk to me.
"There's no shame in mourning an animal that worked hard for you," he continued. "Boo protected you. He deserves a special place in your memory, because he was special."
Bailey swallowed hard, fighting down her shameful lump of tears. She didn't know which was tougher, trying not to cry, or trying not to hug Zack.
Whoever would have thought she'd hear Zack "Pragmatic" Rawlins wax poetic about some old cow pony, much less a sheepherder's hunting dog? She'd fully expected him to eulogize Boo with "good riddance." In fact, she'd even begun to regret letting him bury Boo, since Zack was the least likely pers
on to give her hound a fond farewell.
Zack had surprised her when he'd volunteered to do the job, and now he was surprising her again. She'd spent years secretly hoping to discover a friendlier side of him. To learn for certain he truly did have one was disconcerting. Why was he being so nice to her?
She studied him through narrowed eyes. "Why did you kiss me?"
He started, and his face flooded with color. She had caught him off guard. Good. It was a business tactic her daddy had taught her, but she'd also found it invaluable in courting, particularly when the beaux who came sniffing around slipped in and out of the truth as easily as greased pigs.
Not that one little kiss made Zack her beau, of course.
"Well... I reckon I, uh, kissed you 'cause—" He broke off and tossed her a sheepish glance. "Shoot, Bailey. I kissed you 'cause I wanted to."
He did? Her eyebrows furrowed at this revelation. "Why?"
Her question seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. His hat looked in serious danger of being crumpled beyond use, and that was saying plenty, since he'd have to pay a full twenty dollars to replace it.
"Because I, er... I mean..." He released a gusty breath. "You're an attractive woman, Bailey."
Her lips curved cynically. Other men had told her the same thing right before they'd asked her what the market price was for her sheep.
"But I know that doesn't make kissing you right," he hurried on. "I want to set matters straight and apologize."
Did that mean he wasn't ever going to kiss her again? Disappointment pierced the armor of her skepticism. "Why did you wait all this time, then?"
He sighed, staring at the uncreased crown of his Stetson. "I know I should have apologized sooner—"
"Hell, I don't want your apology. I want to know why you waited so long to kiss me."
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, it's like this, Zack. As far as I've been able to tell, you didn't even know I existed until you kissed me one day out of the blue. So when did you decide I was attractive?"
He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I've always thought you were attractive, Bailey."
"You have not."
He gaped at her challenge. "If you're referring back to the time when I was courting Caitlin, and I called you skinny—"
"You said I'd have to put an anvil in my britches to keep from blowing away."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "I did?"
"Yeah. And once you said I'd have to stand up twice to cast a shadow. Remember?"
"Well..." He cast her a sidelong glance. "I reckon you must have really riled me up to say a thing like that."
"I riled you up?" She blew out her breath. "I went and sicced Boo on you that day."
"Now, that I remember."
"'Course, he was only a puppy then," she said more glumly.
"Lucky for me." Zack flexed his right hand, gazing at the tooth scar below his knuckles. Then he shook his head. "That dog loved the hell out of you, Bailey."
His quiet observation nearly did her in. Biting her lip, she squeezed her eyes closed, struggling hard against the renewed surge of grief and guilt that ripped up her chest. Boo had trusted her. Even when she'd told him to sit, even when she'd raised the gun and pulled the trigger, his yellow wolf's eyes had never shown anything but loyalty and love for her.
Oh, Boo. I'm so sorry. I hate what I had to do to you. I keep praying it was the right thing....
The ache swelled from her chest to her throat. She turned her face away, and Zack's hand closed over hers.
"I miss him already," she whispered.
"I know."
He sat with her in silence for many minutes, his leathery fingers wrapped warmly around hers, Boo's collar gripped between them. As the orange glow beyond her eyelids slowly faded, turning bluer, blacker, with the shift from day to night, she heard the crickets singing to their mates. She heard the tree frogs and an owl, and the voice of some townswoman calling her husband to dinner. Everyone, it seemed, had someone to love.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Dropping her head back against the tree, she opened her eyes and stared at the stars, praying to God Zack hadn't seen her crying.
"I'm glad you kissed me, Zack."
His breath caught, and it seemed like a full minute passed before he finally, slowly, released it.
"You pack a powerful wallop for a girl who likes being kissed."
"Well..." It was her turn to blush. "I didn't punch you for that."
"You didn't?"
"No. I punched you for saying my daddy spoiled me."
"Hmm." His thumb grazed the knuckle of her forefinger. "Then I apologize for that too."
She swallowed, feeling his skin brush hers again. And again. It was nice to know he hadn't done it the first time by mistake, but his caresses felt scary too. She didn't worry that he'd overstep his gentlemanly boundaries. That was the last thing she ever worried about with Zack. No, her uneasiness came from sensing things were different. Things had changed between them. Her girlhood fantasy was holding her hand. For the first time ever, her dreams were within reach.
Her stomach somersaulted at the thought.
"What do you want from me?" she asked bluntly.
His body tensed, his thumb stilled. For a moment, she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that her ploy had worked so easily.
But a heartbeat later, his thumb began its gentle, deliberate stroking once more. She shivered, uncertainty and confusion chasing down her spine.
"I know what I don't want," he said softly. "I don't want to be at odds with you. Think we can call a truce?"
His voice had turned husky, and it was her turn to squirm. Tugging her hand from his, she rose in a tightly reined in panic.
"Of course," she said in her most businesslike voice. "I've always said neighbors should be neighborly."
He started to climb to his feet. The realization that he would soon be standing over her, the way he'd stood over her a thousand times before, acted like a flash point to her memory. Suddenly she was back in the winner's circle, his heart pounding into her chest as he'd arched her backward, his forearm hard around her waist, hugging her hips in steamy intimacy against his.
She averted her eyes from his tempting length and stooped, brushing imaginary grasses from her knees. Zack Rawlins was not her beau. He'd held her hand out of kindness; he'd called her attractive to steer her thoughts away from Boo. He'd behaved like a thoughtful neighbor, nothing more. She tried to find some comfort in that.
"Well." She cleared her throat. "I reckon Mac is waiting for me at the saloon. I've been gone a long time."
"I'll walk you back—"
"I wouldn't hear of it," she interrupted briskly, glancing down the road toward the rattle of approaching buggy wheels. "My troubles have detained you long enough."
When she dared to peek at his face, he was frowning. "Bailey, I chose to sit here with you. And I want to walk you back to your horse."
"For heaven's sake, Zack, I'll be safe. I've got my six-shooter, and the Curly Horn's just around the block."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
His lips tilted in a wry little smile.
For an endless moment, he regarded her, his brow furrowed as if he were pondering some weighty decision. The longer his gaze poured into hers, the more it seemed to glow, warm and mesmerizing in the silver shafts of moonlight. She couldn't break their connection even though she tried. The calling to her female core was simply too strong, too exhilarating.
At last he raised his hat to his head. "The point is—"
"Yoo-hoo!"
The female greeting jolted Zack and Bailey both, much like fingernails on a school slate.
"Well, I declare, Nick, isn't that Zack Rawlins? Why, I do believe it is!" Amaryllis Larabee called above the sound of clopping hooves.
Zack muttered an oath, recognizing the thinly veiled spite in her tone even before he rec
ognized her voice. As Aunt Lally would say, the time had come to pay the piper—which, admittedly, was nothing more than he deserved—but damnation. Why did Amaryllis have to show up when he was about to go beyond the truce-striking stage with Bailey? He'd been thinking he might even like to call on her at the end of the week, just to show more neighborly concern about Boo, of course.
But judging by Bailey's I'd-sooner-claw-your-eyes-out-than-speak-to-you look, which she was giving both Nick and Amaryllis at the moment, Zack wasn't sure his offer would be accepted. Hell. She actually appeared to be jealous. After all the ways Nick had hurt her, did Bailey still have feelings for the cur?
Nick reined in, halting his buggy alongside the churchyard gate. He was wearing his usual cheesy grin, a crisply starched white shirt, and a turquoise-studded bolo. His vest and pants appeared to be of black broadcloth, and in the moonlight his boots looked dust-free. Remembering the bath he'd delayed, Zack couldn't help but stiffen to see his rival so well turned out. Nick might have been five years younger than he, but unlike Zack, he'd never lacked for confidence around women. Even if Zack believed only half the rumors Nick had spread about his persuasiveness with the ladies, he suspected Nick knew just as much as he did about courting. Maybe more.
Amaryllis wrinkled her dainty nose. "Oh, and it's you too, Miss McShane. I thought you were somebody... else," she added breezily.
"'Evening, Bailey," Nick drawled, pushing his hat back with his thumb. "Ain't seen hide nor hair of you since the rodeo."
"After all the whiskey you guzzled, I'm surprised you remember anything you saw at the rodeo," she retorted none too charitably.
"Oh, I remember." His gaze seemed uncharacteristically sharp when he glanced at Zack. "Some things more than others."
Amaryllis tittered, linking a possessive arm through Nick's. "He's talking about my gooseberry pie," she confided with well-rehearsed modesty. "He kept declaring over and over again how it was the very best in the county, and wouldn't you know? That blue ribbon I won proved him right. He asked Papa if he could come calling on me right there on the spot." Sidling closer to Nick, she flashed Zack a syrupy smile. "'Course, Papa was just delighted."
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 10