"Him too."
She pressed her lips together. Could he have given her a vaguer answer? Damn, but he really was starting to talk like a politician.
"Well, it's your funeral. I sure would hate to see Rotterdam reelected, though. Even in wet years, he was stirring up trouble between our two sides."
"We're a community, Bailey, not 'two sides.' "
"Tell that to Rotterdam."
He was quiet for a while, as if digesting her answer. Finally, he tilted back his head to gaze at her.
"Who do you think burned your line shack?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me it does."
She sighed. Only twenty-four hours had passed since he'd bedded her, and he was already getting territorial about her spread. She wished it didn't hurt so much, knowing even her land was more valuable to him than she was. She wished she didn't care that her precious childhood dream-mate was like all her other suitors.
"Contrary to what the Rotterdams claim, I don't point my finger just to blow off steam. When I have proof, I'll let you know."
"That's mighty admirable."
The approval in his voice sent a traitorous rush of pleasure from her head to her toes. She had to remind herself sternly that he admired her enterprise, not her.
"Maybe," she answered. "I just figure it's good business. You never want to slander a man who could help put money in your pockets. Besides, Daddy always told me a man's name was hard to clear once it got tainted. I've spent my whole life under a tainted name—my mother's. I know the hardships shame and scandal cause, and I wouldn't wish them on anyone."
Zack blinked, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was a disconcerting sensation to feel that molten gaze of his pouring into hers. She couldn't tell if he was relieved, gratified, or simply confused.
"Is that why you won't marry me?" he asked, his tone somewhere between anxious and wistful.
"I told you why I won't marry you."
A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally his lips thinned into a line, and he bowed his head, knocking pebbles out from under his crossed legs with agitated hands. "What about McTavish? Why won't you marry him?"
She bristled. "My relationship with Mac is none of your—"
"He loves you."
She stiffened. The lump growing in her throat threatened to suffocate her.
"I think," she said hoarsely, "you're mistaking fatherly affection for something more."
"Maybe. Or maybe you don't want to see the something more."
She swallowed hard.
"That's why he didn't ride with you today, isn't it?" Zack asked harshly. "He found out about you and me."
"No! Mac doesn't love me that way. He just wants to protect me. And keep me safe. And..."
"And?"
Her eyes blurred. And I don't love him like I love you!
But she couldn't say the words. She felt guilty simply thinking the words. Mac was her self-appointed guardian, and he wanted to marry her because her safety meant more to him than his own happiness did. She felt lower than a snake's belly for dreaming of something greater, a man who would love her more than life, a husband who would cherish her not because it was his duty, but because he simply could not help himself.
Dashing away tears, she slung her rifle over her shoulder and vaulted across the boulder to the trail.
"This is supposed to be a watch, dammit," she growled. "How am I supposed to hear a cougar sneak up on me if I have to sit here listening to you jaw?"
Chapter 12
That night was perhaps the longest one of Zack's life. He didn't dare close his eyes, even after his and Bailey's watch ended, despite his lack of sleep the night before. He sat grimly gulping a fresh batch of coffee, watching Bailey snooze beneath the diamond field of the Texas sky. Her ability to rest so peacefully while he was wound tighter than an eight-day clock only fueled his brain's fever. He worried she was biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to sneak off and find herself some dastardly mistletoe or cotton plant. Hell, just about any green, leafy thing looked dangerous to him now.
After all her talk about not wishing a tainted name on anyone, he was convinced she would do something rash. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow. But the day would come soon. She knew what it was like to suffer the sins of the parents, so it only made sense she would try to rid herself of his seed.
Zack didn't see things like she did, though. He couldn't pretend to understand the unkindnesses she'd suffered at her mother's hands, but since he'd grown up missing the love of any parent, Bailey was going to have a heap of trouble convincing him that being born was worse than not being born at all.
Cord, Aunt Lally, and Uncle Seth had done their best to raise him, and Zack liked to think he'd turned out pretty well. He knew firsthand that other kinds of love could make up for the lack of love from a mother or father. He wasn't saying Cord's love had made the hurt any easier, but a child could overcome the obstacle and turn out stronger for it.
Besides, he wanted his child. He wanted to be a good father too. The very idea of Bailey rejecting his proposal while McTavish lurked on her property, wearing her down day after day with his own offers of marriage, made Zack crazier than a locoed calf. He actually considered the idea of stampeding Bailey into a shotgun wedding. He just wished he could remember a single instance when the groom had dragged the bride to the altar, not the other way around.
The scrabbling of loosened pebbles stole his attention away from Bailey. Setting down his cup, he strained his eyes and ears to pierce the pervasive shadows of cliff and trees. Daybreak was no more than an indigo streak in the inky blackness of the east, and he had to rely on his instincts more than his senses to search for threats beyond the firelight.
The breathless hush of pre-dawn wrapped around him like a mantle. The silence rolled on, broken only by the splash of water over limestone. He wasn't entirely at ease, though, and he found himself rising with his rifle, if for no other reason than to walk off his agitation. After all, Rob and his hound were up on the cliff, keeping their eyes peeled for cougars, coyotes, and desperadoes. Zack might not be on the best of terms with the Woolgrowers' vice president, but he trusted the man not to nod off during a vigil. A sheepherder with a spread as prosperous as Rob's didn't accumulate capital by snoozing while a predator attacked his flocks.
Still, the woods were dark and sprawling, and Rob had only two eyes....
A quick glance at the bedrolls confirmed that the noises hadn't come from there. The men were asleep, their hounds along with them. Bailey had spread her blankets apart from the others, and when she shifted position, muttering and thrashing in some dream, Zack tensed. He had a choice, then, and he reluctantly decided to leave her unwatched. With Rob perched overhead, surely she and the baby would be safe for the two or three minutes it would take him to check the horses.
He walked silently downwind. Boss nickered, nuzzling his shoulder as he stooped to check the hobbles. Straightening, Zack gave the gelding an affectionate nose rub. The night was quieter than usual. Even the incessant chirp of the cicadas had grown intermittent, which disturbed him. Then again, he was pretty jittery after all the java he'd been drinking. The animals' senses were far keener than his, and if none of the dogs and horses were alarmed, he was probably overreacting.
After stepping discreetly into the brush for a few minutes to relieve himself, Zack circled back through the trees, the dying fire acting as his homing beacon. He stepped into the circle of light and released his breath in relief. Then he glanced around.
It took exactly two heartbeats to realize Bailey was gone.
Dammit!
His eyes narrowed, raking the shadows. He had the thoroughly irrational thought that she'd been playing opossum all night long, that in fact she'd somehow made those scrabbling noises to lure him away so she could escape.
He promptly told himself he was an idiot, that she'd probably had to visit the bushes herself, then his sense of anxiety returned
even stronger. She hadn't taken her rifle.
Gripping his own Winchester in a nearly bloodless fist, he wound hurriedly through the trees, making as little sound as possible so he could listen as he headed east toward the trickling creek. Only about eight hours had passed since he'd washed off his trail dust there, yet already the babble of water sounded less enthusiastic, as if its source was drying up.
A dull red glow was edging upward from the horizon, making his eyes more useful now, and he paused to catch his breath in a grouping of live oaks. He was just another long shadow in an army of tree-trunk silhouettes, and the creek, or, rather, the storm runoff, lay just ahead, a silvery thread that tumbled over luminescent clumps of limestone.
Bailey knelt at the edge of the water. She was splashing her face, so she probably hadn't heard his approach through the brush. He frowned despite his relief. Since he'd already seen her naked, sprawled out dead to the world on his chest with her ivory buttocks gleaming in the firelight, he wondered if the usual protocols were in order. Under normal circumstances, he would turn his back if he'd stumbled across a lady in the midst of her bath. But this was Bailey, they'd been lovers, and dammit, she'd taken off her six-shooter.
For safety's sake, part of him wished she would buckle her gun belt back on. The other part—the no-good, low-down part—wanted nothing more than to watch her peel off every other stitch of clothing and sit down in the water. The current probably wasn't deep enough to cover her thighs. He imagined her sitting with her legs spread and glistening, splashing water against her breasts so that droplets dribbled from her puckered nipples. He was sure the heat of dawn had little to do with the sudden moisture on his brow.
She looked furtively behind her, then began unbuttoning her shirt. His mouth went dry. He stood rooted to the spot, half dreading and half delighting in his fantasy coming to life. God, she was such a trial. He licked his lips and cast an uneasy glance around him. What if someone saw her? What if someone saw him? He was bulging hard enough to burst his jeans.
He squeezed his eyes closed and drew a shaky breath. With his heart crashing against his ribs, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. He didn't know what was worse, hearing her muffled splashes above the chaos of his pulse, or picturing what she was doing and what body part was exposed while she did it. He wished he didn't know what she felt like, all hot and slick around him. He wished he'd never tasted the moonshine on her lips or inhaled the fresh scent of rain on her wind-tangled hair.
He wanted to love her so much, he ached with a pain that transcended anything physical. But then, what good would loving her do? She'd made it offensively clear his only value to her was his stamina. He had never used a woman's body like the women he'd cared about had used his, and the wounded, bleeding part of him didn't know if it could ever forgive, much less forget. Especially Bailey.
The splashing had ceased, and he dared to crack open an eye. Her shirt had slid down her arms, and he treated himself to a visual feast of her bared shoulder blades and the sheer muslin of her chemise, rippling with every movement of her slender back.
She had tossed her mane over her head and was braiding the strands back together. She couldn't possibly see him with that curtain of corn silk swaying before her face, and he longed to tiptoe over and touch his mouth to the fading love nip he'd left on the nape of her neck. He wondered if she even knew his lips had branded her as his own, because when she flopped her braid back into place, his mark was thoroughly concealed, much to his perverse irritation.
She pulled her shirt back onto her shoulders and fastened the buttons. She was just beginning to rise, when something caught her eye. Squatting, she ran her fingertips over the earth near the creek. She gazed to her left—to the north—and then stood, shaking dirt clumps from her hand. Her profile looked eager against the eastern backdrop of ivory rock and orange sky. She strapped on her gun belt, and that did little to reassure him, because she began walking rapidly away from the camp, her gaze on the ground as she followed the runoff.
He bit back an oath. Now what was she up to?
He shadowed her through the trees for fifty yards before she squatted again, this time before a house-sized boulder with a feisty cedar clinging to its flat top. The rock was part of a landslide so ancient that wind, rain, and vegetation had begun to fuse it back to the cliff face.
As she squinted eastward toward the limestone ledges above her, he figured this was a good time to make his presence known.
He stepped forward, praying he'd loosened his chaps enough to disguise his bulge within their shadow. "Bailey."
She jumped up, spinning toward him almost guiltily. "Gawd a'mighty. Is that you, Rawlins? You scared the devil out of me. What are you doing, following me?"
Halting five feet before her, he hoped the sky wasn't yet bright enough to light his telltale blush. "You left without your rifle. I was worried."
She pressed her lips together. "For heaven's sake, I've got my six-shooter."
"I can see that now."
"I'm not helpless, you know."
"I know, but—"
"You wouldn't have shadowed Rob or Jesse that way."
He blew out his breath. The fact that she was right only added to his annoyance. He should have realized she wouldn't care that he'd been worried. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Starting another argument."
"I'm not the one starting anything! You've been staring and glaring at me ever since you set out on this hunt. When I came out here hoping for a little privacy, you followed me to stare some more. Hell, you've turned into a regular peeping Tom. Didn't you see enough of me the other night?"
He stiffened. The truth of her words stung almost beyond bearing. He'd be damned, though, before he'd confess to his crimes. Besides, they weren't exactly crimes. He'd been looking out for his baby.
"Not so loud. You want the whole camp to hear?"
"Makes no difference to me." Her chin jutted. "I'm not ashamed of what we did."
He clenched his jaw and refrained from telling her she should be. Obviously, guilt was his problem, not hers.
For what seemed like an eternity, they locked stares. He was dimly aware of the sounds of the rousing camp behind him. A frying pan clanked; a hound whined eagerly; a pastore grunted, calling out a morning greeting in Spanish. The smell of burning cedar was pungent in the air. It mingled with the aroma of coffee.
He was aware, too, of her delicately curved frame, backlit against the dusky apricot of dawn and crowned by the brightest of the night stars still glimmering in the indigo above her. He felt the traitorous throbbing of his arousal, even though he was angry enough—and hurt enough—to resist it more staunchly than he would have resisted the sale of his soul. She had no right to stand there, oblivious to the torture she caused him.
But, God, she was beautiful. And her babies would be beautiful too....
She was the first to break their stare. She turned abruptly, her cheeks tinged a pale pink, and hunched her shoulders almost protectively as she squatted, huddling over whatever had first brought her to this spot.
"I found some tracks," she muttered. "But I don't think they're One Toe's."
He drew a ragged, sobering breath. Good. Cougars. He would have talked about anything just then to avoid a public discussion about making love to her. "Mating" she'd called it, he remembered irritably.
Setting his jaw, he stalked closer and lowered himself to one knee. "Let's see."
Bailey held her breath, doing her best not to cringe when Zack's radiant heat gusted over her. He was too close to avoid, too distant to touch. She could have thrown herself into his arms, but that wouldn't have brought him any nearer. He was like some ancient god who'd been forged in fire and hardened to bronze. Every muscle was taut and chiseled; every feature was harsh with judgment. She had to dig her fingers into her sleeves to keep from reaching for him.
She'd nearly embarrassed herself the night before, when she'd awakened to find his lava-hot
gaze spilling over her, setting her skin aflame. His effect on her was unlike anything she'd ever known, and she wanted to explore it further. She wanted to drag him into the bushes, tear the clothes from his body, rub him and kiss him until he begged to be inside her. She wanted him to want her as he had in all the feverish fantasies she'd dreamed the night before.
His wanting wasn't enough, though. Not without his love. So why wouldn't he just go away and leave her alone?
She tried to concentrate on the tracks. It wasn't easy with his thigh mere inches from hers. Her mind kept whirring back, thinking of how he'd touched her, thinking of things he'd said. All his talk of babies had ripped open a Pandora's box inside her. Despite her every attempt to live in blissful denial, she was worried. No, scared. She didn't want a baby yet, even if it was Zack's. She didn't want to raise a child with all the anger and resentment with which she'd been raised. God knew, she didn't want to be anything like the mother she'd known.
Something stole into her peripheral vision. She glanced up sharply, and her mouth went dry. On the edge of the boulder above them, a young lioness stood twitching the black tip of her tail. Bailey blinked, too stunned for a moment to think. Topaz eyes, narrow with warning, stared first at her, then at Zack. The cat's ears folded back.
A rustling came from the bushes behind her, and the cougar's head jerked around. A short, guttural alarm rumbled in her throat. Zack looked up, cursing at the sound. He leveled his rifle, and Bailey caught a glimpse of three sets of inquisitive eyes peeking at them through the greenery. She caught her breath.
"Zack, no!"
She shoved the Winchester off its bead even as she drew her own .45, instinctively fearing the cougar's retaliation. Zack's cartridge went wide, and the lioness quailed at the report. She whirled and bounded past her den, and three spotted cubs fled their camouflage, tumbling all over themselves in their desperation to keep up with her. Bailey heard a kittenish mew, the scrabbling of dislodged pebbles beneath their paws, and the alarm cry of a wild turkey as it fled from their path.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 21