"Jerky, would you—?"
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "I'm going."
She thrust Pokey into his arms, and Jerky scowled down at the wriggling fur ball.
"Reckon you're hungry, eh? Well, me too." He leered at Pokey with a predatory grin.
"Jerky, you stop that," Bailey called, knowing full well the old sheepherder was being ornery just because he had a cowboy for an audience. "Hurry back with the rope."
Jerky muttered something about cow dogs and one more mouth to feed as he stumped off toward the big house, Pokey's little chin resting on his shoulder.
Bailey cleared her throat. "Sorry, Zack."
His smile was wry. "No bother."
But if Bailey thought Jerky's behavior was rude, Mac's was actually hostile. When Zack followed her into the barn, she noted the rigid cast of Mac's shoulders and the stab of his narrowed eyes. She attributed his irritability to spending two hours with a frightened three-quarter-ton mother-to-be. Nevertheless, she didn't want Mac's dour mood chasing away Zack and all his expertise. She shot her foreman a warning look as Zack halted beside her.
"Buttercup must have an angel watching over her," Bailey said with forced brightness. "Look who just happened to be riding by."
After an intense moment of eye locking with Zack, Mac turned back to his panting patient. "Aye, it looks that way."
Zack doffed his hat. "The lady seems to be in some trouble." His drawl sounded smooth, almost soothing after Mac's throaty rumble. "Is she breech?"
"Aye."
"I reckon the calf couldn't be turned, eh?"
Mac's smile was tight. "Right again, lad." He laid a hand on Buttercup's heaving belly, and concern rolled back the antagonism on his features. "Maybe all the calf needs is a longer arm to turn her around."
Zack nodded, passing his hat to Bailey. She hung it on a nail above the manger's lantern, and he entered the stall to kneel by Mac's stool.
Ablaze in the glow of the sinking sun that was framed in the loft's open doorway, Zack looked like he'd been forged more from fire than earth, yet his demeanor was gentle, born of his knowledge of the land and its creatures. When he leaned forward in the trampled straw, Bailey noticed that the curl falling across his brow was the same red-brown color as the cow's flank.
Bailey had a hard time taking her eyes off him despite Buttercup's distress. Since turning a calf in the birth canal was not an easy task, Mac made way for Zack behind Buttercup's motionless legs. Bailey knew the calf's weight was pressing on its mama's spinal nerve, and the risk of Buttercup's paralysis grew greater with each minute the baby delayed its entrance into the world.
Bailey mouthed an anxious prayer as she leaned over the stall, watching the rolled cuff of Zack's sleeve strain over his flexing bicep. He wore a look of intense concentration rather than distaste, his hand probing ever deeper along the canal until his shoulder butted up against the cow's rear. But no matter how he adjusted himself or his grip, the baby remained in its backward position.
At last he withdrew, his breath coming fast, the pristine white of his shirtfront smeared with birth fluid. He regretfully shook his head. "Looks like that calf has made up its mind. It's coming out against the hair."
Jerky snorted. He had stumped up behind her, the top of his wiry gray head not quite reaching her ear. "I coulda told you that, cowpoke."
Bailey shot her cook a quelling glare. "Did you bring the equipment Zack asked for?"
In answer, Jerky held up a broom and a coil of rope.
"What's yer plan, lad?" Mac asked, his tone betraying a hint of grudging acceptance.
"We need to saw off the bristles on that broom and jury-rig a calf puller. A windlass sure would help."
Mac nodded. "We've got a hand winch in the toolshed. I'll wheel it in."
Jerky mumbled something to himself, which was such a common occurrence, Bailey paid little attention. Then she noticed he was clutching the broom to his chest and staring defiantly at Zack.
Zack arched an eyebrow as if to ask, "What's the matter with him?"
"Jerky, it's getting late," Bailey said quickly, "and the pastores will be coming by the house soon for dinner. Since Mac and I are tied up here, I need you to make sure the men get their monthly provisions, especially Vasquez. I hear his boy has been sick."
Suspicion of Zack, worry for his broom, and the pleasure of being needed all vied for dominance on Jerky's face. Nodding in encouragement, she squeezed his shoulder as she eased the pole from his dwarf-sized fist. He grunted.
"Cows and babies. Damned rain is gonna bring 'em."
Bailey wasn't exactly sure what Jerky meant, but then, she rarely was. She nodded again and smiled.
He tossed another less-than-civil glance at Zack. "You're eating mutton like everyone else."
Then he turned, ambling off into the spectacular red and orange of the Texas twilight.
Bailey fidgeted beneath Zack's bemused regard. "Jerky is, uh, what you might call a coot. But his chili won a blue ribbon in last year's county fair. And he's just as good with mutton stew and cabrito."
Humor warmed the chocolaty depths of Zack's eyes. "I don't doubt it."
Moments later, Mac returned with the winch and a handsaw. After cutting the bristles from the broom, Zack wrapped the stick, leaving a foot or so of the rope at the end. As Mac cranked the winch, taking up the hemp's slack, Zack braced the broomstick against Buttercup's hindquarters for added leverage. The heifer lowed pitifully, and Bailey, her stomach knotting at the beast's pain, scrambled over the slats of the stall to cradle the cow's head in her lap.
"No more midnight rendezvous for you," she scolded gently, stroking the blaze on the damp forehead.
Buttercup, saucy little heifer that she was, had run away one night and entertained a bull somewhere near Zack's property. At least, that's what Bailey and Mac had surmised about four months later, when there'd been no denying Buttercup's belly was starting to swell. As was typical of bovine virgins, Buttercup had been completely oblivious of the new life growing inside her—until now.
"Ready?" Zack glanced at her over his patient's heaving stomach, and Bailey nodded, blushing. For some odd reason, she'd had the silly thought that in less than fifteen minutes, she and Zack might become parents.
Zack knelt in the soiled straw, and the lantern light struck russet highlights from his hair. Although Bailey couldn't see everything he was doing over the mound of Buttercup's belly, she had a fairly good idea what was transpiring. His main task would be to reach inside the birth canal and loop the rope around the calf's hind legs so Mac could begin the tediously slow process of pulling the baby earthward with each of the heifer's contractions.
Buttercup thrashed, and Zack's shoulders all but disappeared behind the cow's hindquarters. Bailey could still see his face, lined with compassion, determination, and concern. She bit her lip, wishing she could do something more to help.
One glance at Mac, with his furrowed brow and bow-taut forearms, made her think he must be wishing the same.
"All right, McTavish." Zack waved, still concentrating on his patients, one wheezing, the other not yet filled with the breath of life.
Bailey heard the creak of the winch; she watched the rope tense. She hugged the heifer's head closer, doing her best to distract her by rubbing Buttercup's nose and murmuring encouragements into her twitching ear. After an interminable series of heartbeats, Buttercup's spasm passed, and Zack quickly raised his hand again. Mac's biceps relaxed beneath his rolled-up checkered sleeves, and his work glove hovered restlessly on the winch's handle.
He didn't have to wait long for the next crank. Again and again, Zack gave the command. Bailey watched him through veiled lashes as he did everything in his power to soothe the panting heifer. His thick, callused hands were gentle as they massaged Buttercup's belly between contractions; his rumbling bass voice was soft and sweet, coaxing the struggling mother and her recalcitrant calf.
The setting sun blazed full force upon his back now, and perspira
tion trickled down his neck into his collar. His shirt and crisp black broadcloth pants were stained beyond all hope by the blood and urine that were an inescapable part of calf birthing. Bailey imagined that hunching over Buttercup and performing the sensitive maneuvers necessary to keep the rope anchored to the slippery calf must be making Zack's muscles ache as well.
Yet to watch him, to hear him, one would think that he cared nothing at all for those inconveniences. One would think that he put as much stock as she did in a heifer he'd never before laid eyes on, and that he was as eager as she to witness a four-legged blessing as it came into the world.
"We've got the hindquarters," he called triumphantly.
Bailey breathed another prayer, this one of gratitude mixed with hope.
"Aye, and the head," Mac huffed moments later, his ruddy features creasing in a grin.
There was no need for Mac and the rope after that, since the calf's forelegs followed naturally, sliding into the straw after the rest of its body. Zack untied the hemp, and Bailey scrambled up the stall wall to let Buttercup twist her neck and peer behind her.
"Come on, Buttercup," Mac urged, squatting down to give the beast's rump a helpful shove. "Ye did yerself proud, graduating from heifer to cow today. On yer feet now. Time to greet ye're bairn."
Zack scooped the dazed red and white calf into his arms and deposited it near its mother's nose. The baby heifer flailed feebly, seeking the musty warmth of Buttercup's flank, and Bailey, sitting on the wall, watched anxiously as the cow sniffed her newborn.
"C'mon, Buttercup," she murmured, shifting her buttocks impatiently on her splintered seat. "C'mon, stand up. You can do it."
Zack stepped back to join her, offering his silent support during that crucial, agonizing moment—a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time. If Buttercup was permanently paralyzed, she would have to be destroyed.
Bailey held her breath as Buttercup's great body heaved. The cow's forelegs thrashed, and she rolled onto her belly.
"The hindquarters, girl," Bailey heard herself mutter, vaguely aware she was wringing her hands. "Throw your hips into it."
Slowly, as if the entire world were operating at molasses speed, Bailey watched Buttercup drag her rear knees under her weight. She saw Mac's slow nod; she heard Buttercup's long-drawn-out breaths and the steady, drumlike beating of Zack's heart—or maybe the echo in her ears was her pulse.
Then Buttercup's knees trembled. They held. She hiked her tail and thrust her rump into the air. Her head, neck, and forelegs quickly followed.
Bailey was so happy, she whooped. If she'd had her hat, she would have thrown it into the air. Instead, she threw herself sideways, hugging Zack's neck to thank him, and planted a wet kiss on his lips.
She wasn't sure who was more surprised by that kiss, him or her.
She'd meant to kiss his cheek, but he'd turned so quickly when she'd whooped, perhaps thinking she was falling, that he'd thrown off her aim, and her balance. The next thing she knew, she was toppling off the wall, flailing like a windmill until he caught her in his arms.
She knew a breathless moment, blinking up into his eyes, feeling his heart thumping against her breasts. In a rush of heat that had little to do with the summer night, she felt her skin sizzle and her nerves spark, shooting electrical currents to her toes.
The sensations left her mystified—and more than a little intrigued. Never before had she been able to tolerate more than a perfunctory hug from her daddy, Mac, or any of her suitors. In fact, she had never been able to understand why Caitlin would practically purr with anticipation, relishing the thought of a beau's embrace. As Bailey understood it, hugging led to kissing, kissing to mating, and mating to children. No mystery there.
But with Zack's body pressed close to hers, Bailey at last had an inkling of the comforts a manly embrace might bring. She wished she could explore this newfound pleasure further; she wished, with a pang of guilt, that the pastores weren't on their way to the house and that Mac had long since retired to his sleeping quarters. She even dared to wish Zack would kiss her again, as he had at the rodeo, only longer and more leisurely this time, so she could finally learn what she'd missed when she'd run off all her beaux.
Her face warming with embarrassment and an unexpected yearning, she forced herself to make light of their intimacy. "Nice catch, cowboy," she said with brassy brightness, "but you can save yourself the trouble next time if you'd just pucker up."
Zack's face turned as red as the sunset behind him. When he hastily set her on her feet, she hoped he wouldn't notice the trembling in her legs. They felt like melted butter.
Eager to put their relationship back on its safe, familiar footing, she pointed, directing his attention to his patients. "Well, what d'ya know, Zack?"
Buttercup had accepted her calf and was eagerly licking its fur. Bailey turned to Mac—her rock, her confidant—and winked. "Looks like you and Zack are fathers now. Reckon that makes me a mother."
Mac held her gaze for a long, deliberate moment before stooping and gathering up the rope, broomstick, and stool. She was surprised, not to mention discomfited, by his reticence. Usually Mac was as excited about babies as she was, but he'd had a long afternoon, and she supposed he was tired. After all, lambing was never as much work as calving.
"Someone best go tell Jerky he has a new baby to spoil," she said, trying again to dispel the tension, "or we'll never hear the end of it. Reckon I can do that when I wash for chow. You're staying, aren't you, Zack?"
He glanced at Mac, who kept his gaze riveted on his task, and his jaw squared. Fidgeting, Zack looked down his soiled length. "Reckon I'm not too presentable right now—"
She waved away his protest. "You can use Mac's shower bath. It's right around the corner. Seems like the least we can do after all your help is put some vittles in your belly and fit you with new duds." She crossed her arms, sizing him up. "Hmm. Someone on this ranch has gotta have legs as long as yours. I still have a trunk full of Daddy's old clothes...."
"Uh, that's okay," he said quickly. "I have some spare rigging in my saddlebag. Don't ever travel without it, seeing as how I never know when I'll be spending a night or two on the range."
Mac snorted, dunking his hands in a pail of water and lathering his arms with soap. Bailey tossed him an exasperated look. She was beginning to suspect weariness wasn't the only thing messing with her foreman's mood. If he had something to say, why didn't he just say it?
"That's good to know," she said to Zack, reaching for his hat and sailing it to him with practiced skill. His eyes lit appreciatively, and when he caught it, she grinned. "Then you can mosey on over to the big house when you're ready. Deal?"
"Deal."
His smile was fleeting, almost bashful as he set the Stetson on his head and tipped the brim. Turning, he headed into the barnyard, and Bailey stifled an admiring growl when she watched his buttocks, so enticingly taut and round, fade into the pewter blue of the coming night. Too bad she and Zack could never be more than neighbors...
Feeling Mac's gaze on her again, she cleared her throat and closed Buttercup's stall door, stepping briskly to join him at the bucket.
"I feel like celebrating. How 'bout you?" she asked.
"It depends." He plucked a ragged towel from a wall peg and scrubbed his arms dry with such briskness, he left them nearly as red as the hair sprinkled over them. "What are ye celebrating, lass?"
"The birth, of course."
"Ah."
She frowned, shaking the water from her own hands. "I should think another dairy cow is cause for a whoop and a holler at least. You got some reason to be so solemn?"
His smile was dry as he passed her the towel. "Not if ye know what ye're about."
She sighed. God knew, she loved the man, but not his riddles. "You want to shoot from the hip, or are you just going to take potshots at me all night long?"
Some of the old humor flickered in his smoke-colored eyes. "Ye sure ye can take a straight shot, then?"
"Give it your best."
"All right. Bailey, lass, I'm worried about ye. For all yer spit and fire, ye're still green when it comes to sparking."
"What, you mean that wisecrack I made to Zack about puckering up?" She snorted, tossing the towel over the manger with a nonchalance that, she hoped, hid her embarrassment. "Come on, Mac. I was only pulling his leg."
"I know, lass. But I canna say he does."
She groaned inwardly. Zack was so serious half the time, may he hadn't thought she was teasing. But then, would that be so awful?
The question was a disconcerting one. Unlike Amaryllis, Bailey knew next to nothing about she-stuff and sparking. She could talk cows and ranching all night long with Zack Rawlins if she had to, but when it came to behaving like a lady... well, the very idea made her knees weak. She was bound to say or do something wrong, and then Zack would laugh at her. She couldn't bear for him to ridicule her unschooled femininity. That was why she'd always been so careful to show him her good side—her male side.
"If Zack Rawlins can't take a joke after living with his brother Wes his whole life long," she said testily, "something's wrong with him. Besides, I've always made it clear to Zack I'm courting his friendship, not his acreage. Things haven't been too neighborly between our spreads since Daddy died—well, since Caitlin eloped, truth to tell—and I'd like to see that change. We could use a cattleman on our side. God knows, Hank Rotterdam isn't going to do us any favors."
"Is that what ye want, lass? A favor?"
"You know very well what I want," she fired back, not deceived for a moment by Mac's carefully neutral tone. The man was hell-bent on suspecting the worst of Zack, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why, other than that Zack was a cattleman, of course. "I want peace of mind. I want an end to these damned range wars. I want to know my livestock have only coyotes, cougars, and wolves to fear."
"What do ye think he wants?"
"The same things, most likely."
Mac didn't look convinced, and she muttered an oath, her good mood rapidly rolling downhill.
"Look, Mac. Among other things, I've got a drought to worry about. And so does Zack. We don't have time for a courtship."
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 12