That maneuver cut off Pris from Bailey and Zack at the entrance, or so it would seem. As the leaders jostled for food, the collie jumped up on the backs of the ewes at the flock's tightly wedged center and nimbly walked across the fleecy, surging wave of rumps to reach the outer gate.
Zack's jaw dropped. Bailey smiled smugly.
"Pris figured that shortcut out all by herself. She's one smart dog."
"I'll say."
His compliment sent a honeyed warmth spreading through her, and she had to press her lips together to keep from beaming. After all, he hadn't complimented her; he'd complimented her dog. Still, as he moved to stand beside her, she felt as proud as any mother whose child had been lavished with praise.
"I plan on breeding Pris next spring. Maybe I can return the favor—of Pokey, I mean."
His lips quirked. "Now, that would take some doing, returning a big favor like that."
She knew he was teasing, but she couldn't think of a clever rebuttal. She was too busy enjoying the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when they were full of mirth.
Pris trotted between them. Plopping her haunches down on her mistress's boots, she raised a paw to Bailey's thigh as if to say, Why aren't we leaving yet?
Bailey sighed. Pris could be so impatient when she ran out of sheep to bully. "We have to carry water to the pens next. And then feed Titan and Thor."
Zack did a poor job of hiding his grimace at the dogs' names, and she tossed him a withering look.
He chuckled, turning toward the wagon. "Wes used to tell me I was never going to find a sweetheart unless I stopped treating work like a religion," he said over his shoulder. "I reckon he never counted on me finding a sweetheart whose work ethic puts mine to shame. What do you like to do when your chores are through?"
From his tone, she couldn't tell if she was in for a browbeating or praise. "Why?" she asked warily, falling into step beside him.
"Well, remember last Sunday when we agreed to spend time together? It seems to me I've spent more hours alone with McTavish than with you. I kind of think he prefers it that way. Maybe you do too, since you jump about ten feet in the air whenever I walk into a room."
She blushed furiously to realize he'd noticed. "It's Mac, not you, who has me jumping," she retorted lamely. "I feel bad whenever he comes around the corner and has to find us together."
"It's high time he gets used to it, Bailey, although I have to admit," he added, glancing pointedly at her from under lowering eyebrows, "his bird-dogging us hasn't been comfortable for me either. That's why I've been waiting all week for him to leave us alone long enough so we could get to know each other like we planned. You know, while we're doing something else besides watering sheep."
"Something else?" Crossing to the other side of the wagon, she fought down a frisson of panic. Without work to distract her thoughts and hands, she wasn't sure she could spend time with Zack. Not without feeling awkward and inadequate, and as randy as her Angora stud. "What... did you have in mind?"
He sidestepped a whining, peevish Pokey and lifted two sloshing buckets from the wagon bed. "Well, there's that traveling theater troop that's set up a tent near the fairgrounds. Rorie told me they're enacting Shenandoah on the weeknights, and The Taming of the Shrew on the weekends. I thought the Shakespearean one might be especially good for us to see," he added, darting a furtive glance her way.
Bailey fidgeted. She never had liked sitting still for more than twenty minutes, especially in a theater, since stage dramas reminded her too much of all the melodramatic fits her mother used to throw.
Besides, Shakespearean language was nothing less than a mystery to her. Wasn't a shrew like a mole? And who in their right mind would want to tame a mole, much less watch a play about one?
"I thought you wanted to do something before Mac got home," she reminded him with statesmanlike diplomacy.
"Hmm." He frowned at her as she grabbed for the half-filled bucket of dogs' food. She'd deliberately waited until his hands were full so he couldn't snatch her prize away. Still, she thought it prudent to keep the wagon bed between them as she hurried along its length to the pens.
"We could go berrying," he called.
"Berrying?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "If I'm going to go to the time and trouble of tramping through the underbrush in this consarned heat, I'm going to hunt me a decent meal."
He did a poor job of hiding his smile as he splashed water over the ewes' heads into the trough. "Somehow, I didn't figure you for the berry-picking type. All right. Let's hear your ideas."
She sniffed. She didn't know where Zack got his sense of fun, but frankly, she could come up with a whole slew of ideas better than berries and shrews!
She raised the lid of the self-feeding bin Mac had constructed for the dogs and dumped the contents of her bucket inside.
"How about fishing?" she said.
"Fishing? You mean you and me? Together?"
"What's wrong with that?"
He looked stunned. Shaking his head, he reached for the second bucket and began to pour. "Nothing, except..."
She planted a hand on her hip. "Except what?"
He cleared his throat. "Now, Bailey, don't get your britches in a knot."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"Look." His expression turned sheepish. "Fishing's just something I'm used to doing with Wes and Cord, okay?"
"So you'll get used to doing it with me."
He ducked his head, but not before she saw his grimace.
"Wouldn't you rather do something wom—er, I mean, something courting couples like to do?" he amended hastily.
"Like what, smacking lips the way you and Caitlin used to do under the crab apple tree?"
He looked properly chagrined—for a whole heartbeat. Then his low, rich rumble of mirth caught her completely off guard. She fumed, not sure which bothered her more, her discomfiture or his dimples' alarming ability to soothe her indignation.
"I'll have you know, Zachariah Rawlins, I'm good at it."
"Good at what, kissing?"
"No, fishing!"
"Oh." His eyes danced, and he looked like he might laugh at her again. "Being a gentleman, I reckon it's my duty to let the lady have her choice, then."
She glared back, but it was useless. She suspected she'd lost her battle.
Pris, seeing they were ready to leave, bounded up from the shade of the wagon and leapt into the bed. Zack gathered his buckets and untethered Pokey while Bailey secured both gates.
When she crossed to the passenger's side of the wagon, he was waiting there to hand her up to her seat. It was a courtesy she wasn't sure she'd ever get used to. She'd quickly learned not to refuse it, though, so she wouldn't have to waste half the afternoon arguing with him that she was more than capable of climbing into a buckboard without assistance.
Besides, the clasp of his warm, work-roughened fingers felt good against her skin. She wished he'd touch her in other places too. She wished he'd taste her mouth with his tongue, drag her hips hard against his, slide his palms between her jeans and the naked, goose-prickling flesh of her buttocks....
Unlike her, she noticed with a blistering sense of disappointment, he didn't seem in the least bit moved by the touch of their hands. In fact, while she sat there, reliving forbidden memories of their volcanic combustion on the night of the storm, he was shading his eyes and gazing in bemusement toward the next paddock.
At first, she thought he was staring at the baby goat in the tree. Hurt and disgruntled, she nevertheless admitted to herself that she'd been bemused, too, the first time she saw a kid climb the flat, horizontal limb of a live oak to nibble its leaves. Adult goats were nimble, but apparently their hooves couldn't cleave to tree trunks the way kids' could.
Then Zack pointed to the enclosure beyond the goats' paddock, where the spring lambs were munching grasses beside their ewes.
"Isn't that Buttercup?" he asked in an incredulous voice.
Bailey's spirits deflated an
other notch to realize he was admiring her stupid cow. Why she'd ever hoped he might someday look at her with such enthusiasm was beyond her comprehension. After all, he hadn't made one ungentlemanly move to kiss, much less seduce her, since he'd spread his bedroll in her barn.
"Yeah." She tried not to sound childish. "So?"
"She's grazing with all those sheep!"
Bailey sighed. Watching Buttercup eat shoulder to shoulder with a flock of ewes was hardly her idea of entertainment. She was beginning to worry she and Zack had absolutely nothing in common, except, of course, the fear that she was pregnant.
"Since we don't have any other cows," she explained with painstaking patience, "Mac likes to put Buttercup out to pasture with the ewes. He thinks it keeps her from getting lonely, not to mention ornery. Both breeds are herding creatures, after all."
Zack started. Then he grew strangely still. A slow, speculative smile creased his face.
"They are both herding breeds, aren't they?" he murmured. "Damn. Why didn't I think of that?"
Chapter 15
Zack's mind whirred. He was so busy thinking about cows and ewes, and the possibility of grazing them on the same range, he hardly said two words to Bailey as he drove her to the fishing hole. He was so preoccupied with his ideas and plans, particularly to solve the cattleman-sheep rancher feud, he didn't think to protest when she stomped off with her tackle box and bait, leaving Pokey and the mule to keep him company.
By the time he realized her smoldering hour of silence had more to do with anger than the time-honored agreement among anglers not to scare off fish, he felt guilty. He hadn't paid much attention to her since their arrival, but judging by the sizzle in the air after each scowl she tossed him, she'd been focusing plenty on him.
He sighed, reeling in his line. For the first time in two months, thoughts of Bailey McShane hadn't been burning up his brain, and a part of him wanted to rail at the unfairness of her ire. He'd practically had to twist her arm to join him in some kind of courting activity, and when she'd grudgingly agreed, she'd chosen fishing of all things, not because she wanted to spend time with him, but because she was "good at it." Hell, couldn't they enjoy each other's company just once without competing?
Gathering his equipment, he steeled himself against a display of irritation and strolled to her shady patch of grass. Pokey trotted at his heels.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Nope."
"I reckon they're not biting today."
"Does this mean you're giving up?"
He bit back his retort, reminding himself he was there to make peace.
"Nope," he finally said.
He took the liberty of stretching out beside her, but Pokey wriggled between them, flouncing belly-down on the grass with a sigh. Bailey looked at the puppy wedged so contentedly between their hips, and the sulky cast to her features softened. For a moment, as her gaze rose to his, he glimpsed the warmth he'd been longing to see.
A vision flashed before his eyes, one of a sleepy toddler with golden ringlets, her little head resting on Bailey's knee, her tiny hand clutching his thumb. His throat tightened. What if there really was no baby? What if Bailey wasn't pregnant?
She blushed and glanced away.
Disconcerted by his train of thoughts, thoughts he preferred not to entertain, he tried to make up for the awkward lapse of silence. "I think Pokey's growing fond of you."
"That's hard to believe, since he spends all his time with you."
He pressed his lips together. So much for nostalgia and small talk.
"All right, Bailey. You're stoked up hotter than the coals in a depot stove, and I want to know why."
Her shoulders tensed, and her bottom lip jutted.
"'Cause you dragged me all the way out here to sit and wait for some stupid catfish to bite, when I could be hunting One Toe or doing a million other things back at the ranch."
"Fishing was your idea, as I recall."
"Yeah, well..." She blew out her breath. "I thought you liked to fish."
He arched a brow at her. She'd suggested fishing to please him? Even though the fate of her five hundred dollars still hung in the balance?
A guilty pleasure stole through him to know she had put time with him ahead of her ranching concerns. But then, she hadn't always been all business. He remembered a half dozen times during summers past when a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old Bailey had appeared out of nowhere, whooping and hollering, and charged her pony into the water. She'd scared off the fish and doused him with spray, just to see him throw down his pole in disgust and threaten to drag her and her pony both over his knee. Wes used to think she was a hoot.
Come to think of it, Wes had been right.
"I do like to fish," Zack said. "I thought you did too."
"Only when they're biting," she admitted sullenly.
He thought better of letting her see him smile. Apparently Bailey had less patience than his ten-year-old nephew, Topher.
"Do you want to leave, then?"
She fidgeted, glancing furtively his way. "Do you?"
The tug on his lips was more insistent this time, and he couldn't quite hide his smile. She really was trying to be considerate, bless her tomboy's soul.
He tried another tactic.
"What if I told you I don't care about fishing as long as I get to hold your hand?"
This time, her head shot full around, and she narrowed her eyes. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because we're courting now."
His words seemed to catch her off guard, although for the life of him, he didn't know why. Hadn't he made his intentions plain?
"I don't know," she said warily. "What comes after hand-holding?"
"Talking, I reckon."
"And then what?"
"I don't know. What would you like to happen?"
She bit her lip and looked away. "I'm not good at flirting, so stop it."
He wanted to chuckle, but didn't dare.
"Bailey, this is hardly flirting."
She peeked over her shoulder at him. "It's not?"
"No, it's not." The girl was lucky Wes had never cut loose on her. "I'm just trying to get a straight answer from you about what you like to do for fun."
"Oh." She looked a good deal less panicked. "Same as you, I reckon. Hunting, fishing, riding, shooting..."
"Shooting?"
She nodded. "Target practice."
"Oh."
Considering her temper, he wasn't sure he would ever suggest shooting as an outing.
"You never answered my other question," he reminded her after a minute of silence passed. "Are you going to let me hold your hand?"
She chewed on her bottom lip again before she slowly, even reluctantly, surrendered her fingers.
"I've never really been courted by a serious beau," she said. "Most all of them come snooping around 'cause they want my land. Nick included."
Her confession surprised him. She'd never considered McTavish a serious beau?
Veiling his curiosity beneath half-lowered eyelids, Zack tried to put her at ease. "I haven't courted all that many women, so I reckon that makes us even."
"Honest?"
"Honest."
She gave him a shy, grateful smile, and his heart skipped a beat. He was glad he hadn't put her back on the defensive. Maybe, for now, he should just be happy she'd placed him in the category of serious beau.
As the silence stretched comfortably between them, he found he liked holding her hand on his knee while Pokey snoozed under the shade of their arms. He liked the idea that she could sit quietly by his side without worrying about the breeze mussing her hair, or the sun freckling her complexion, or the mud staining her boots beyond recognition. It was kind of nice doing something out of the ordinary with a woman, something that he liked to do too. God knew, he could survive 'til the end of his days without picking another blasted berry or watching another second-rate performance of Shakespeare.
He did have to admit, though, h
e was a little disappointed that Bailey hadn't included dancing on her list of favorite pastimes. Since he was bound and determined to prove he still had a gentlemanly bone in his body, despite the way he'd stolen her innocence on the night of the storm, dancing was his only socially acceptable option for getting close to her again.
And heaven help him, he wanted to get close to her. A whole lot closer than they were now.
Earlier, when she'd thrown kissing at him like a gauntlet, he'd been sorely tempted to take up the challenge. He'd known better than to trust himself to stop at one little peck, though. Before he'd met Bailey McShane, he'd never needed female companionship more than once a month, mainly because he'd learned to harness his pecker as a matter of mind over body.
During the past week, however, he'd been mortified by what he secretly feared had developed into a chronic case of lust. Why even now the temptation of her leg stretched so close to his was wreaking havoc on his self-restraint. Each time the breeze wafted her lemony-orange soap scent his way, or the sun glanced off the spun-gold hair that fell across the sweet swell of her breast, his loins ached for him to draw her nearer. Pokey wasn't much of a deterrent either. Forget the crab apple tree she'd suggested earlier. He wanted to push her down onto the grassy bank and make wild, wanton love to her until the sheep came home.
He shook his head in a mixture of amusement and discomfort as his thoughts, once again, stampeded south.
"I was wondering"—he glanced at her profile with its lightly freckled, kissable nose—"if you'd like to go to the Harvest Hoedown with me at the end of the month?"
Bailey, who'd been sitting peacefully, reveling in one of their rare stretches of accord, tensed like a bowstring.
"Hoedown?" she repeated weakly. Her heart gave a mighty wump against her ribs.
"Sure. Drought or no drought, I figure we'll have lots to celebrate."
A lump rose to her throat as she tried to fathom his reasoning. Did he mean the baby?
She imagined how she would feel standing before him, telling him about a child that was becoming more and more real to her each day. Sometimes she would lie awake at night, wondering what to call it if it proved to be the girl he'd said he wanted; and if it was a boy, how she could convince Zack to let her name it after her father.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 25