Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  "Poor Bailey saw it all," he continued grimly. "They used her like a weapon, they did. And that's why I canna argue when she says she'll marry for love and nothing less. Ye've got yer work cut out for ye, lad, if ye want to convince that girl to be yer bride."

  Truer words were never spoken, Zack mused sadly, unrolling the bale to stretch out a second length of wire. He'd heard an occasional horror story about Patrick McShane's marriage, but he'd always figured the gossips had embellished the details to snipe at his Yankee wife.

  Besides, Lucinda had left her husband and daughter at least three years before the Rawlins family had settled in this county. Never much interested in gossip, Zack was even less interested in gossip about people he hadn't met.

  "I'm glad you were there to comfort Bailey all those years," he said. "You mean the world to her."

  "Aye, well..." McTavish cleared his throat. The back of his neck turned redder than his hair. "There are those who mean more to her." He tossed Zack a fleeting look. "Raise that wire higher, would ye?"

  As McTavish's hammer tapped the staples in place, Zack had a moment to wonder whom the Scot meant. Nick Rotterdam seemed the most obvious answer, and Zack scowled. Why else would Bailey go to such lengths to defend the bastard who'd bragged one night at the Bullwhip Saloon that she was going to become his wife because she "had" to?

  If Zack ever got his hands on Nick, he swore he'd beat him senseless. In fact, he wished Nick had left his other gauntlet near the scene of the crime, so there'd be an immediate excuse to ride to the neighboring spread and start swinging his fists.

  "I can promise you one thing, McTavish," he said, "I'm not giving up on marriage like Bailey's parents did. The future doesn't have to repeat the past, and I'm damned sure I don't want to spend my life fighting with the mother of my child. After all, arguments just don't flare up by themselves; someone has to choose to strike the tinder. Bailey and I can learn to walk the middle ground."

  "There's a narrow path on that middle ground, which makes it tough to tread," McTavish said dryly. "Bailey is never likely to become the obedient, soft-spoken bride. Always in the thick of the fray, that's our Bailey, speaking her mind and thumbing her nose at whatever the old hens might think. She's a woman who can make her own way without anyone's help.

  "But she's not a loner in her bones, lad," he added almost wistfully, "and there's a place by her side for a man with a strong heart and a gentle hand." McTavish's smile was laced with melancholy. "Like as not, ye'll fit."

  Zack fidgeted, unsure what bothered him more, the flicker of raw hurt across McTavish's features or the idea of taking a disobedient bride.

  He wasn't in the habit of shouting orders at women; he respected them too much for that. But he did have certain expectations of how married life should be. The husband was the leader, the protector, the provider; the wife was the nurturer, the healer, the child-raiser. As strong-willed as Fancy and Rorie both were, they seemed to understand—and enjoy—their wifely roles. Surely Bailey could also come to accept her place as a Rawlins wife.

  McTavish rose, mopping his brow with a bandanna.

  "Looks like we're finished here, lad," he said, stuffing the bandanna back inside his rear pocket. "That bale needs to be hoisted back onto the wagon."

  Zack helped the other man maneuver the prickly wire. "Any ideas who caused the damage here?"

  "Aye, a few."

  Nodding a curt thank-you for the assistance, McTavish crossed to the front of the wagon and climbed onto the driver's seat. "I'll drive by the tree for Ramirez. If ye've a mind to learn more about fence stringing today, mount up."

  Zack frowned. Clearly, the sheepman wasn't ready to trust him, despite his grudging acceptance of a cowboy apprentice.

  "Who do you think burned the line shack?" Zack asked bluntly.

  McTavish busied himself with the reins, his eyes lowered and his expression wry. "Ye're a smart businessman. There're a lot of smart businessmen in this county. Problem is, Bailey willna marry for profit. So who do ye think stands to gain the most if her cut fences, a few burned buildings, and her frightened pastores convince her a woman can't run a ranch, and she decides to put her prime pasturage up for sale?"

  McTavish slapped the reins across his horse's neck. "Giddyap."

  Zack's jaw twitched as the wagon rolled away from him, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  Only one name came to mind.

  Hank Rotterdam.

  Chapter 14

  For the first five days of Zack's stay, Bailey felt as if she were walking a tightrope. She'd asked Mac what had passed between him and the cattle rancher, but in his usual way, he'd said little, except to assure her he would abide by her wishes.

  Figuring Zack's lips might be easier to pry open, she'd cornered him by the pump he'd been repairing and demanded to know what the two men had talked about. He'd answered with the oh-so comforting, "You, mostly."

  She'd nearly pitched a fit right then and there when he'd refused to elaborate. No amount of begging or bribery could move him to confess either. Hell, ten yoke of oxen probably couldn't have done that. The man was more like Mac than either one of them realized, and they were both driving her crazy. She didn't know which was worse, feeling the tension sizzle between the two men or worrying that they'd resolve it and gang up on her.

  She groaned silently. The last thing she needed was two bullheaded men telling her what they thought was right.

  She tried to go about her daily chores as if nothing had changed, but Zack made it awfully hard. Every time she walked to the barn, or visited the well, or gazed out on a pasture, she caught glimpses of his roughrider's frame as he worked beside Mac.

  With each passing sunset, and without her knowing how, his presence pervaded more of her home, from the stall in the barn, where he neatly rolled his blankets; to the kitchen washtub, where he stacked his well-scraped dishes; to the dust on the back porch, where he left boot prints much larger than Mac's. She couldn't feed the dogs after the evening meal without spying the spurs he'd courteously hung on the peg outside the door. And each night, when she retreated gratefully to the shower bath to wash off the day's dust, his earthy sandalwood essence hung in the air, a tantalizing testimonial to the naked flesh he'd sponged before her arrival.

  Seeing so much—or, rather, so little—of Zack had her as horny as Buttercup must have been the night she'd escaped. If it weren't for Mac, she would have marched down to the barn and demanded Zack put an end to their ridiculous sexual standoff right there in the straw. It wasn't as if she had anything to lose.

  Except, perhaps, Mac.

  As high as the stakes were, Bailey didn't know how much longer she could toe the line to make the two men in her life happy. She'd never had much patience, and curbing her tongue in consideration of everyone else's feelings was beginning to test her reserves.

  Take Friday, for instance. As much as she would have liked to track One Toe so she could keep her five-hundred-dollar prize, she was stuck tending her breeders in the damnable heat. Mac had driven to town for supplies, to pick up the mail, and to do whatever else Mac did on his afternoon off in bustling Bandera. Considering the cowboy he was leaving behind on the premises, Mac had been reluctant to go, but he'd been even more reluctant, in light of their vandalism troubles, to abandon her without a rifle-toting watchdog. So, climbing into the wagon, he'd tossed a dour glance Zack's way and promised to be back before nightfall.

  Judging by the position of the sun, Bailey figured he'd left her and Zack a good seven hours to avoid sparring.

  She didn't think she was going to last that long.

  "No offense," Zack began, which she knew was immediate trouble, "but whatever possessed you to call your Merino stud Grumbles? I mean, Pokey for the puppy was bad enough. No self-respecting males would want to be called names like that."

  She tossed him a withering look. He'd accompanied her on her watering rounds during the hottest time of the day, which also happened to be the shortest time of her temper.
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  "Grumbles suits him, if you haven't noticed."

  "Sure, but it's kind of a... well, a girly name. Now, don't get me wrong, I think Violet is a fine name for your favorite ewe. But Grumbles? Why don't you change it to Butch or Brute if he's so cantankerous?"

  Or Zack? she wanted to retort.

  "Brute. Hmm. That's certainly something to consider."

  He shook his head in mild exasperation. "Personally, I don't cotton to naming livestock. I give all mine a number."

  So I'm damned if I agree with you, and damned if I don't?

  "Numbers keep me and the boys from getting too fond of them, if you know what I mean," he added solemnly.

  "That's one of the differences between us sheepherders and you cattlemen. We shear our herds; we don't slaughter them."

  "You slaughter the males to cull the flock. And your pastores consider baby goat a delicacy."

  "Well, yes, of course, but—" She bit her tongue. Patience, Bailey. She drew a steadying breath. "I name only my favorites. The others are all numbered and ear-notched, just like your steers."

  "Glad to hear it."

  Arrogant cuss.

  Rather than make her feel better, though, nasty thoughts only made her feel artificial, like one of those fawning, eyelash-fluttering belles who hid the viper in her tongue until some unsuspecting beau had wed her. The last thing she wanted was to become an imitation of her mother, but Zack had made her promise to "meet him halfway."

  They drove in silence for a while. It wasn't completely companionable, but at least they weren't arguing when he reined in at the pen of the yearling ewes. It was the smallest enclosure in the canyon and, unfortunately, the farthest one from the house, but she'd taken special pains to protect it from predators by purchasing two Great Pyrenees pups from Mac's Basque brother-in-law. The guard dogs had thrived out there all by themselves and looked like a couple of half-grown polar bears with their thick coats of fur.

  They loosed a series of deep, resonant barks, and the ewes milled in consternation.

  Jumping down from the wagon bed, Pris eyed the guard dogs with a mixture of wariness and respect. Although they had learned to tolerate her and her herding tactics as necessary evils, they were a good hundred pounds heavier than she. Pris had learned the hard way not to nip too many of their beloved charges.

  Pokey had no such frame of reference. He belly-flopped out of the back of the wagon and raced to the barbed wire, his tail wagging in time to the brash arfs he hurled at her bellwether, a castrated ram that Bailey had trained to lead the ewes into other pens when culling was necessary. The big black male baaed in indignation, the dogs raced ferociously to his rescue, and Bailey paled as Pokey tried to crawl under the fence. She swooped down on the puppy like a duck on a June bug and hauled him up by the scruff of his neck.

  "Very bad, Pokey!"

  Holding him at eye level, she gave him a glare and a good, hard shake. He squirmed, trying to lick her nose.

  Zack chuckled. "Fearless little whelp."

  "You wouldn't be laughing if 'Young Fearless' here got swallowed in one gulp! Those Pyrenees are wilder than Dodge City on a Saturday night. They see more sheep than they do herders, and they treat the ewes like part of their pack."

  Zack's eyes still glowed with mirth. "Reckon I'll have to tie Pokey to the wheel spokes, then, to keep him from being a snack."

  He held out his hands, and she stuffed the writhing pup into his arms. The brush of his fingertips heated her pulse to the same simmering stew it had been in just minutes earlier, when the wagon had bounced into a rut and she'd almost toppled between his thighs. What was worse than having him push her so gallantly aside then was watching him smile and cuddle Pokey against his broad chest now. The interaction between man and pup reminded her of a proud papa with his infant son.

  The similarity was poignant enough to be unnerving. Bailey wondered yet again what it would be like to have Zack's baby.

  She turned her back on him before he could notice her flaming face. God help her, that was the last thing she had time for right now. Making babies was fun. Having babies was work, even more work than ranching, if Caitlin's letters were any indication. Bailey couldn't consider such a distraction until she got her spread out of danger from this drought. And One Toe's ornery hide tacked up over her mantel.

  She walked hurriedly to the rear of the wagon, too flustered for the moment to think twice about heaving a sack of grain onto her shoulder.

  "Whoa, girl." Zack straightened from tethering a very vocal, very unhappy Pokey. "What do you think you're doing?"

  He reached across her arms, pressing his hand down onto the bag before she could lift a single burlapped corner.

  Oh, yeah, she thought. Zack was the man. Therefore, he did the lifting. He'd made that point perfectly clear at the billy goat pen.

  She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and locked stares with him. "For heaven's sake, Zack, we're going to be unloading this wagon all day if you have to make every trip to the pens by yourself. Besides, I can lift one little bitty grain sack."

  "That little bitty grain sack weighs close to forty pounds."

  "Well, I must be used to it, 'cause I can carry a grain sack and a water bucket in my other hand at the same time."

  "Over my dead body. Give the sack here."

  Her bottom lip jutted.

  When he effortlessly hoisted a bag onto each brawny shoulder, she made a face at him. He glanced up sharply, catching her in the act, and she blushed.

  "I'm not an invalid, you know," she said sullenly.

  His lips twitched, belying his stern tone. "Thank God for that. You're too stubborn to let anyone help you do anything."

  I am not! Rotten cowpoke. She raised her chin a notch. "Are you going to let me help you do anything?"

  "Sure. Open the gate."

  She stomped ahead of him to the fenced-off troughs in the main enclosure, muttering, "Men." If she hadn't been so annoyed with Zack, she might have been amused by the eagerness with which Pris trotted at her side. No doubt Pris was in collie heaven with a whole flock of ewes to herd and no yapping, frolicking puppy to chase the silly beasts to the rear of the holding pen. The sooner Pokey went on a hunting trip to learn his true vocation, Bailey mused, the better.

  A bell clanged as her wether bleated, bounding fearfully away from the inner gate.

  "Hush, Titan. Hush, Thor." She glared at the two guard dogs, who were wagging their tails at her and snarling their suspicions at Zack.

  He shook his head as she called to them. "And I suppose you called that black sheep over there Bah-Bah?"

  Ooh. She wanted to box his ears. "I'll have you know I named the wether Farley. It means 'from the sheep meadow.' "

  "Farley?" Zack actually snickered.

  "Well, I think Boss is a lousy name for a horse."

  "You would." He was still smirking when he broke open the first bag and started pouring grain into the troughs. "Remind me not to let you name any boys we might have."

  Boys? Her pulse skyrocketed in a giddy way. He'd most definitely used the plural. More than one child meant more than one mating—usually.

  She stole a hungry, longing glance at his profile and promptly stepped on Pris's paw. The collie yiked, and Bailey muttered an oath.

  "Everything all right over there?" Zack called as she headed for the inner gate.

  "Just dandy," she growled, chagrined by the look her dog sent her. He's only a male. And a cowboy at that, those brown eyes accused.

  "The gate didn't latch." Still busy pouring, Zack jerked his head toward the outer fence.

  "Don't worry. The sheep won't try to escape. They're too stupid."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Nothing's that stupid."

  "As I said, you have a lot to learn about sheep."

  She smiled a little, remembering how her mother had taken her to task as a child for being "thoughtless and careless" when she'd left the ewes' gate open. Not that her mother cared one whit about losing a breeder or
a lamb. She'd just liked telling her daughter how useless she was.

  Not one little woolly had ventured out into the great unknown, though. As far as the sheep were concerned, their world was clearly defined.

  "Now, goats," Bailey added, "are another matter entirely. They're smart little buggers, and they'll storm any gate, locked or otherwise. Bucks are the worst, but the does egg them on, sauntering up to the fence to shake their tails in the poor old boys' faces. Last breeding season, I locked my stud up with seventy-five does, but apparently they weren't enough, because when he was finished, that old rascal tried to get into the smaller pen of nannies next door."

  "Seventy-five?" Zack was gaping. "You're pulling my leg, right? 'Cause my best bull can service only thirty cows."

  "Sorry, cowboy. Bulls aren't in the same league as billy goats. Why, down in Mexico, my pastores tell me it's not uncommon for a buck to be loosed among a herd of a hundred females."

  Zack turned a bright, endearing red, and it was her turn to laugh.

  "Surely, you've heard the saying 'randy as a goat.' "

  "Bailey," he warned gruffly.

  She smirked and winked down at Pris. Score one for the helpless little lady.

  "All right, girl," she told the collie. "Time to work."

  Her paw forgotten, Pris frisked like an impatient pup while Bailey called off the grudging guard dogs. With the menace at bay, Pris barely waited for the gate to swing wide enough to let her snout pass before she wriggled the rest of her body inside the holding pen. Bailey couldn't help but grin. Border collies lived for moments like these.

  "There!" she called, pointing, and Pris flanked the skittish yearlings. They bleated, colliding in a loose formation, but they seemed reluctant to approach the big, tall stranger with the shadowed eyes and white teeth. Apparently the silly beasts preferred to starve to death than risk being eaten by a man bearing food.

  "Come around!" Again and again, Bailey called the commands, more to impress Zack than because Pris needed the guidance. The collie did herself proud, snapping, charging, and swerving. At last even the recalcitrant wether was packed into the flock, and a hundred ewes were crammed into the smaller pen with Pris tidying up the formation's rear.