The meal passed amicably after that. Zack said little, but he did a lot of listening. As the Cattlemen's president, he'd always tried not to voice his prejudices against his sheepherding neighbors, and he'd come to think of his silence as proof that he'd finally learned to let bygones be bygones. That night he realized just how many biases he still had, and how many of them were unfounded.
For instance, mutton tasted good. Damned good, in fact. It didn't curdle a man's stomach, twist a man's mind, or any other such nonsense. It was just another source of meat, for God's sake, and yet, if Hank Rotterdam had caught him dishing a second "plate of sheep," Zack would have been drummed off the board and out of the county.
Then there was the cattlemen's overall impression that sheepherders were crazy. Listening to Bailey talk about her plans to raise Angora goats to offset financial losses during the drought, Zack's instinctive cattleman's protest dissolved in a flood of admiration. The girl had a head for business, all right. Her idea even made him wonder if diversifying livestock might not be in his best interests too.
Zack also wondered during the course of the evening just how much truth was in the cattlemen's vociferous claims that sheep were largely responsible for the county's water crisis, since, according to sentiment, sheep drank more water than steers. Curiously, cattlemen, not sheepherders, seemed to be the ones hardest hit by the drought.
If Bailey's spread was any indication, sheepherders could water several armies of livestock and still have enough left over to irrigate a fodder crop.
Meanwhile Zack, like the rest of his colleagues, woke every morning praying he could keep his bulls, yearlings, and breeding cows alive until a drill struck new water or the clouds burst. God knew, he didn't want to sell his herds for two dollars a head, which was the offer some speculators were making to desperate cattlemen who'd already driven their steers to market and were now facing the loss of their breeders and calves.
When the conversation turned to Old One Toe, Zack found himself sympathizing with his sheep-raising neighbors.
"Senorita McShane," Vasquez said, fiddling with his coffee cup. He leaned sideways, as if to confer with her privately. "You have been kind to send my little Pedro the potassium gargle for his quinsy, and I will repay you for the quinine powder and the doctor's fee, but..." He took a long, shuddering breath before continuing in a hush. "It is my sad duty to ask once again for your favor. My cousin Esteban, you see, has been mauled by el diablo and I am without the means to—to pay for his stone marker."
Vasquez had practically whispered this last piece of information, but everyone had heard. Silence fell like a thunderclap over the table. Bailey's shocked gaze darted to Mac, and he looked just as horrified as she was by the news.
"Benito," she said gently, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. When did this happen?"
The young man's face twisted with grief. "It was yesterday, senorita, on Senor Cole's hacienda. El diablo, the one you call Old One Toe, left his tracks in Esteban's blood. There were several sheep carcasses, along with the dog's..." Vasquez shuddered, raising moist eyes to Bailey's. "La puma es loco, I think. Or else, like el diablo, he taunts us."
Zack bit his tongue on an oath. Damn that cougar, would it take a thunderbolt from heaven to kill him?
"I'm sorry too, lad," McTavish said quietly. "I know ye were close to yer cousin. I hate to press ye, but I have to know. Did Cole say how it happened?"
"No, senor. Only that Esteban's rifle was not fired, and that the dog's entrails were, uh—" He glanced uncomfortably at Bailey. "He died trying to protect his master, we think."
"Damnation." Bailey drummed her fingers on the table. "It was bad enough when One Toe killed just sheep—"
"And cattle," Zack interjected grimly, no longer willing to sit in silence. "If man-killing isn't incentive to bring that bastard in, I don't know what is. Tell your cousin's family," he continued, addressing Vasquez, "and Rob Cole too, that they can count on me and my Winchester if they need us."
Vasquez dropped his eyes. "Gracias, senor."
"That's very generous of you, Zack." Bailey gave him a strained but warm smile. "It's nice to have a cattleman on our side for a change."
Zack fidgeted at her gratitude. He'd only done what came naturally. He hadn't thought of his offer as siding with the sheepmen, but rather as the humane thing every man should do. Still, it was nice to see her eyes go all misty soft.
McTavish cleared his throat. "I'll talk to Cole about the headstone. I'm sure between our two ranches we can come up with something special to remember Esteban."
"Senor Cole wishes to form another hunting party," Vasquez said, "but I wish to bag el diablo myself." His fist clenched with his first real show of vehemence. "Only then will Esteban be avenged."
Mac and Bailey exchanged worried looks.
"Well, that's certainly something to talk about," she said carefully. "In the meantime, I think it would be wise to pair up the McShane flocks so at least two men stand watch over each. Benito, can you help Mac get word to the outlying pastures?"
"Sí, senorita," Vasquez said more docilely.
The pastores rose, hats in hand. Murmuring their thank-yous and good-nights, they began to file from the dining room. Vasquez took one of the lanterns to light their way. Rather than fall in behind his men, though, McTavish hesitated, his brow creasing as his gaze traveled from Zack, who had made no effort to exit, and Bailey, who was shoving the last helping of sweet potato pie his way. Zack had the unpleasant notion that McTavish had shotguns on his mind when the Scot's eyes bored into his.
"I willna be gone long, lass, you can count on that," he said darkly.
"Oh, don't worry about me, Mac." She winked at Zack. "If any predators come this way, I'll just sic Pokey on them—if Jerky hasn't fed him so much he can't walk, that is." Her grin faded, and her tone grew somber when she added, "Give my condolences to Mrs. Vasquez, will you? And the Coles too?"
"Aye, lass."
Nodding curtly to Zack, McTavish strode from the room. The banging of the front door was muffled by a low growl of thunder.
Zack looked down at the pie wedge, then up at Bailey, whose lamp-lit eyes glowed an expectant periwinkle blue.
"Well? You're not going to make me explain to Jerky why your plate isn't scraped clean, are you?"
"Heaven forbid." He smiled, forestalling his better sense, which told him to call it a night and follow the men. "I reckon Jerky tans hides, eh?"
"Shoot. He stuffs 'em."
She grinned. He might have grinned back, except that he was suddenly and forcefully aware that he was alone with her. Completely alone.
And the lights were low enough for sparking.
In a jangle of nerves, his mouth dried and his palms grew sticky. He reminded himself, as he reached awkwardly for his fork, that he wasn't courting Bailey McShane. He was eating her hired hand's grub.
Still, the bashful eighteen-year-old in him couldn't be put at ease. His affair with Marybeth Clemens had started out this way: just the two of them sitting at a dimly lit dinner table, with a second helping of pie waiting on his plate. He wasn't even sure he'd finished that oozing slab of cherries....
"So what did you think of Jerky's lamb chops?"
He started. He might have jumped a mile at Bailey's question if his knees hadn't banged the table.
"Uh," he mumbled around his fork, chewing hurriedly and gulping down a piece big enough to choke a horse. "They were good."
"Ever eat sheep before?"
"Nope."
She was silent a moment, as if waiting for him to elaborate.
"Think you will again?"
His face heated beneath her gaze, so he carefully kept his eyes on his plate. "Hard to say," he managed to get out after another swallow.
"Why's that?"
He fidgeted. Usually she was full of her own opinions. Why had she developed this sudden interest in his?
"I reckon 'cause I don't come by them too often."
She propped her elb
ow on the table and her chin in her hand. "You could change that, you know."
He groaned inwardly. Was she making some kind of invitation? He couldn't rightly remember, but it seemed like Marybeth had said something similar right before she'd sidled up to his chair and dropped a hand on his knee.
Damn, he thought. Why hadn't he made a break for it when he'd had the chance?
Leery of making the same mistake, he decided the safest answer to give Bailey was a noncommittal shrug.
She drummed her fingers on the table again.
After an endless minute of silence, she blurted out, "Vasquez shouldn't go cougar hunting alone. It's too dangerous now that One Toe's a man killer."
When he neither agreed nor disagreed, she prompted impatiently, "What do you think?"
He toyed with his fork. "Same as you, I reckon."
"Why's that?"
He ventured a glance at her. She was frowning. Hell, he thought she'd wanted him to agree. He wished he had just one quarter of Wes's experience with women. Maybe then he'd understand them better.
"Well, he's got that boy back home with quinsy..."
Bailey nodded eagerly, as if to encourage him. "And?"
He grimaced. How many reasons did the woman need? "And... there'll be no one to tend his flock," he finished, hoping this answer would satisfy her so he could escape back into silence.
She cocked her head, staring at him for a good long spell. Her eyebrows were furrowed so thoughtfully, she looked as if she were reading his mind, learning his secret dread. That idea was enough to make his Adam's apple bob a time or two. He wished she'd ask another question. Or that he could think of some topic to distract her from her scrutiny. He racked his brain.
"Uh..." Weather is always safe. "Think it'll rain?"
She laughed, bell-like peals of mirth that danced deliciously down his spine, shooting shivers to his toes and a flush to his cheeks.
"What?" he demanded suspiciously.
"Zachariah Rawlins, I think I finally figured you out."
"Yeah?" He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. "What's there to figure?"
"Oh, I don't know." She was smiling again—grinning actually, kind of like the Cheshire cat. "You thirsty?"
Momentarily distracted, he glanced at his empty cup. Between all his jawing and all that pie, he sure could use a swig of bellywash. "Yeah. I reckon."
He reached for the coffeepot, but she snatched it away. "Forget that sissy stuff." With a thoroughly indecent smirk, she jumped up to drag a bottle from the bottom cabinet of what should have been her china cupboard.
"Here." Straddling the back of her chair like a boy, she plunked the jug down between them. "You need this even more than I do."
He blinked at the three black X's painted across the jug's belly. "You don't mean—"
"Sure I do." She popped out the cork and poured him a shot, stopping precisely at two fingers' worth, as if she had the natural-born instincts of a barkeep. "Jerky makes the best white lightning in the county."
"I don't suppose he drinks it too," Zack said dryly.
"Of course he does."
"No wonder he's stranger than a sidesaddle on a sow."
She chuckled, shaking her head at him. "You big baby. A little moonshine won't kill you. Go on, drink it. It's high time you started loosening up."
His flush was on the rise again, so he cocked an eyebrow, taking refuse in sternness. "I don't drink with ladies."
"Well, that shouldn't stop you tonight, since I've never claimed to be one."
She poured herself a shot, gulped it down in one swallow, and slammed her cup back on the table. Reaching to pour herself another, she raised her eyebrows at him.
"Am I gonna have to spoon-feed you, cowpoke?"
He shook his head, uncertain whether to be annoyed, amused, or concerned. "Bailey, you're only half my size, and you couldn't possibly keep up with me if I decide to—"
"The hell I can't. Talk's cheap, pard, so put up or shut up. 'Course, if you're afraid Little Miss Bo Peep might show you up..."
He snorted. "Girl, you don't have a prayer."
"Yeah?" She jabbed his cup closer with her forefinger. "So quit stalling."
He couldn't quite swallow his smile. The little minx was so damned sure of herself, sitting over there with that mischievous glint in her eye and that curl coiling so jauntily on her forehead.
Besides, how powerful could Jerky's moonshine be if Bailey had tossed back a belt without batting an eye? Maybe she'd stop pestering him with challenges if he humored her for a spell before riding home. Maybe she'd even stop bragging like some adolescent schoolboy hell-bent on proving herself, and start acting like a proper female for a change.
She raised her cup. "To your health, neighbor," she said solemnly.
"To your health."
He tossed back the shot and nearly died. Fire burned a path from his gullet to his gut; his tongue burst into flames; and his ears, he was certain, blew plumes of smoke. It was all he could do not to cough and sputter as the busthead went down.
Bailey thumped him helpfully between his shoulder blades. "Good stuff, eh?"
He wheezed, and she chuckled.
"There, there. You feel better now, don't you?"
He had to squint in order to glare through his watering eyes. "You sure there's no rat poison in this?"
She wore a look of affronted innocence. "Now, would I be drinking from the same jug if I wanted to poison you, cowpoke?"
He muttered an oath and wrapped his forefinger around the silver-dollar-sized handle.
"Careful, Zack," she warned silkily. "A little busthead goes a long way, and I wouldn't want you riding out of here on a sow with a sidesaddle."
"Bailey, that tongue of yours is meaner than a mule on a sawdust diet." He swallowed another round and grimaced, much to her unabashed amusement. "You drink with all your guests?" he asked, managing not to wheeze this time.
"Nope. Just the bashful ones."
He knew he'd turned beet red. "The hell you say."
She gave him a few consoling pats on the forearm. "Aw, don't feel bad, neighbor. Even I was bashful once."
"Once?" He hiked a dubious eyebrow.
"Sure." She started pouring the next round. "It was my thirteenth birthday, and Caitlin sewed me my first party dress. It was a godawful thing, with ruffles and lace and sissy little flowers embroidered on the back ribbons."
She made a face, and Zack chuckled at the irony. His niece, Megan, would give her eyeteeth to wear a dress like that, and she was only seven.
"Anyway, Caitlin was so damned proud of ragging me out that she invited the preacher and half his congregation to come see. She knew all my hiding places too—up in the apple tree, down in the sheep-dipping vats, out under the back porch—so I couldn't elude her for more than a quarter of an hour at a time. She threatened to hogtie me to the front gate if I didn't stand still and look pretty."
"So what did you do?" he asked, propping his elbow on the table.
She donned a smile far sweeter than any fallen angel's. "I sent Boo to roll in the mud, and I let him jump all over me."
"Bailey," he chided, shaking his head.
"Well, it was better than dressing Boo up in the ghastly thing—which I would have done, too, except I figured my best friend deserved more respect than that, even if he was a hound."
At the sound of Zack's rich, warm laughter, Bailey felt her defensiveness melt away. She laughed, flushed and exhilarated by her small triumph. The moonshine was actually working! It was breaking down Zack's tendency to be terse. Better yet, it was keeping their conversation from deteriorating into the usual argument. They seemed to be chatting good-naturedly for once, like real compadres.
The idea appealed so much to Bailey, she wanted to dance on the table. Friends were hard to come by when you were female and raised sheep. Maybe she could get Zack to like her enough to call again. She didn't dare hope for anything more than companionship, but at least as friends they could hav
e some fun together, like steal honey out from under some queen bee's nose or go coon hunting by moonlight.
"I'm sure sorry I missed seeing you in that party dress," he said, his elbow sliding the tiniest bit closer to her place setting.
A strand of chestnut hair spilled across his forehead, and she watched, fascinated, as the dancing lamplight struck sparks of auburn from it. He'd combed his work-roughened fingers through the wavy mass, much as her fingers were itching to do. The tan on his hands was only a shade lighter than the color of his eyes, which at the moment were crinkled and shimmering with mirth. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach did a dizzying flip as she realized she wouldn't have to reach very far if she wanted to touch his cheek, stroke his hair, trace his lips....
She decided she needed another drink to drown these female urgings. She'd worked hard to make Zack respect her, and she didn't want to change his mind by betraying her inexperience at sparking.
Of course, if he gave her some kind of sign that he might actually like her to pet him, well... that would be different.
"All right, Bailey McShane, 'fess up. I've never, in the nine years I've known you, caught you wearing a dress. How come?"
"Hate 'em," she answered promptly after her gulp.
"Why's that?"
She shrugged with a passable show of nonchalance. "I don't cotton to she-stuff."
"Yeah?" he said softly, his gaze mesmerizing in its quest for truth. "Your cousin did. And your mama did too, as I understand it."
"Well, I'm not like them." She winced. She hadn't meant to snap at him, even if he had compared her with Lucinda. "Besides," she said more congenially, "bad things always happen when I wear a dress."
"Like what?"
One corner of her mouth twitched in a mirthless smile. Well, there'd been the time when she was eight years old, and Billy Dean Logan had grabbed her skirts, trying to drop a fishing worm down her bloomers. Nick and Nat had beat the tar out of him for it too.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 14