Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  She lost count of the number of times he ignited her. Match, firecracker, exploding star—she did justice to each one. Somewhere along the way, she lost all sanity, all inhibition, and started screaming his name. She felt his hands quake on her thighs; soon, there was only one hand and his mouth, which eventually tore itself free to make its own guttural sound of pleasure.

  She collapsed, her lungs heaving like a bellows, and he slumped across her, his unfastened buckle and the open buttons of his fly branding her stomach. She was too exhausted to protest.

  He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dropped his head close to her ear. "Bailey." She could barely make out his words between his shuddering breaths. "No more... arguments. They hurt... too much. Promise."

  She squeezed her eyes closed. Please, Zack, ask me anything but that....

  "Promise," he whispered again, rubbing his stubbled chin against her cheek.

  Nodding reluctantly, she turned her head to hide the tear on her cheek. He sighed. It was a gusty, contented sound, draining the last vestige of tension from his body. Rolling to his side, he cradled her against his chest and smoothed the tangles from her hair.

  "I won't let the Rotterdams bully you anymore. I'll find a way. I'll keep you safe. Trust me."

  Biting her tongue on her worry, she said nothing. She couldn't.

  She'd promised.

  Chapter 17

  Zack kept his promise too. Before nightfall, he announced his plan: He would try to interest Hank in the experiment he and Bailey were running in the northeast pasture.

  "We've got proof that sheep graze a whole lot less than cattle, and drink about one third of the water," Zack explained, cinching Boss for a ride to the Sherridan homestead, where the Rotterdarns had pitched their camp. "Hank was a businessman before he became an anti-woolly politician. I think he'll be interested in our pasture rotations. If not, well..." He shrugged. "There's always Judge Larabee's court."

  Bailey shifted from foot to foot, not at all sure she wanted Zack charging off to do battle for her when his feelings were still running so high. What if negotiations with the Rotterdarns broke down and became threats? What if gunshots were exchanged?

  "Zack, I'm worried." There, she thought. That wasn't an argument. "Can't this talk with Hank wait until tomorrow?"

  He grinned, flashing devilish dimples. "Naw. I'd rather have something to celebrate tonight."

  Heat flooded her from head to toe. "Be serious."

  "Always," he said huskily, pulling her hard and fast against him.

  She couldn't quell the tremor of excitement that raced to her knees. God help her, she liked when he grabbed her like that, grinding his hips against hers as if he couldn't get close enough, kissing her as if he were starved for the taste of her mouth.

  "Besides," he murmured, his voice throbbing through and around her, "I have an errand to run"—he interrupted himself, mating his tongue with hers—"before the general store closes."

  He released her, and it was all she could do not to ooze into a puddle on the drive. His slitted eyes smoldered in that fiery, passionate way she'd come to associate with the leashed volcano inside him. She licked her lips, wondering how she could ever have considered him shy.

  He swung into the saddle, all grace and gentility again when he tipped his hat. "Get some rest," he drawled, spurring Boss toward the bridge.

  She drew a ragged breath, and her lips curved in a dreamy smile.

  It wasn't until he was out of shouting distance that she cursed herself.

  Idiot. She'd meant to remind him that if Nick and Amaryllis were still a couple, the likelihood of Judge Larabee's impartiality was slim.

  That evening, after reporting the day's events to Mac, Bailey did a good deal of personal browbeating. Mac had asked her why she'd let Zack take control of business negotiations with Hank, and she'd blushed furiously, unable to tell him Zack's kisses had turned her brain to mashed potatoes. She had also declined to admit that her femininity's unabashed response to Zack's masculinity was one of the most exhilarating experiences she'd ever known.

  She would rather have died before admitting such a thing to Zack either. Unfortunately, he would have had to be deaf, blind, and dumb not to realize the power he wielded over her. Her fully awakened womanhood was anything but subtle.

  She wished she was more experienced in sexual matters. She wished she understood how he manipulated her desire so easily, because there was another side of her, the outraged, thoroughly male side, that was disgusted by what it considered her newfound weakness. Mac would never have used her desire as unscrupulously as Zack had. She was quite certain that mating with Mac would have been a gentle, chivalrous affair, not a battle of wills. Her masculine side warned her silly, infatuated feminine side to take care, lest Zack dominate her with his love play.

  But oh, merciful heaven, the inequality was so divine....

  Shortly after nightfall, Zack returned with an eager Hank to discuss the possibility of a sheep-goat-cattle partnership, which proved, in Hank's mind, to be the elimination of all fences. Negotiations broke down somewhere around two o'clock in the morning, when Bailey refused to consider an arrangement in which her "partners" had license to drive their cattle all over her range at will.

  Disgruntled, Hank rode off, and a disappointed Zack retired to the barn. Bailey was hard-pressed to disguise her own disappointment. Apparently Zack had never had time to make his urgent purchase in town.

  * * *

  "Are you sure you have to be gone a whole week, Zack?" Bailey asked uneasily, torn between wanting him by her side and wanting him farther away than Dallas. Her monthly cycle was due to start Friday, and Saturday, unfortunately, was the night of the Harvest Hoedown. Her damned body kept better time than a clock, and she didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified that she'd have her answer inside a week.

  Zack nodded, his jaw set. He stood strapping his saddlebags onto Boss, who was impatiently stomping the dust off the barnyard.

  "After our meeting last night with Hank, I figure we'll just be wasting our time trying to talk sense into him," Zack said grimly. "I'm going to ride out to Red Calloway's spread, and then visit a couple of the other cattlemen on the board. Maybe they'll see to reason, and we can put the pressure on ol' Hank."

  "But what about the Woolgrowers meeting on Friday night?" she reminded him. By the time he rode around the county, drumming up support from the cattlemen and a few of the more influential sheep ranchers, Zack really would be gone all week. Still, if she could get him to come home on Friday, she hoped to announce the news of their baby as soon as she knew the verdict. "You'll want Mac to stand by you when you talk to the board, I'm sure."

  His gaze darted her way almost guiltily before he frowned, concentrating again on his buckles and straps. "I haven't forgotten. Mac can meet me there if he's of the same mind. In the meantime, Wes and Cord will be taking turns checking on the cattle. And on Hank. You'll be safe here with Mac and my brothers. I don't reckon Hank will be causing you trouble for a while anyway, not after he got the water he's been after."

  She sighed. She wasn't worried about Hank, her safety, the drought, or the damned cattle. Was it too much to ask that Zack might be worried about the same thing she was? Her possible pregnancy?

  She couldn't believe he had forgotten what this week meant to them both. Was he just assuming the worst until she told him differently? Or was he deliberately escaping the tedious wait, because he couldn't bear to spend his last week of freedom holed up here with her?

  Damn him and everything else. Why did her first dress, her first dance, and her first pregnancy all have to wreak havoc on her at once? Or maybe she'd have to deal with only two supreme disasters by Saturday night.

  Her gut clenched at the thought. Having Zack's baby... not having Zack's baby. Either way, her world would be changed forever. She wasn't sure she was prepared. She wasn't sure she could go blithely about her everyday chores when her own personal Waterloo was looming on the hori
zon.

  "Isn't there some way you could come home on Friday?" she asked plaintively, cringing at the sound. She hated her weakness, but she needed some kind of reassurance, some kind of sign from him that when her life crashed down around her, he would be nearby to help shoulder the weight. "We could have dinner, and then you and Mac could ride together to the meeting—"

  "Let's not argue about this, Bailey."

  She winced at his crisp tone. No, of course not. She should have known better. It was Zack's way or no way.

  Besides, this wasn't really his home, was it?

  She swallowed hard. She wanted to tell him she'd miss him, that she couldn't bear for him to ride out of her life for a week, much less for the rest of her days. She didn't know how he'd come to mean so much to her in such a short time. With his strong will and his gentle hands, he'd carved a place for himself on her ranch and inside her heart.

  But maybe she'd always secretly loved him. Maybe the feelings had started on that Saturday night long ago, when he'd caught her swinging on the gate, waiting eagerly to pass judgment on Caitlin's new beau.

  "Well, I reckon that's it, then." He turned to her, his packing finished, and tipped back his hat with his thumb. In the golden brilliance of the morning sun, he looked like he was made of bronze and copper, his cheeks sporting the tiniest hint of chestnut stubble to match the gleaming curl that spilled across his brow. He smiled at her, a flash of dazzling teeth and disarming dimples, and his eyes took on an earthy glow.

  She knew that look. She knew that smile. She gazed upon him as dispassionately as her twisting heart would let her.

  "I reckon this is good-bye," he prompted when she made no move to obey his silent summons. He held out his arms.

  Her throat constricted.

  She imprinted his image on her memory for all the days to come: the white, breeze-riffled shirt; the fluttering red bandanna; the faded jeans and weathered chaps; the sun-darkened hands. They reached for her as if they actually cared about what they were leaving behind. She wondered if his heart did too.

  She drew a ragged breath. This might be the last time he'll ever offer to hold you, her female side screamed. What are you waiting for? Run to him. Kiss him! Plant your memory on his lips and his brain. Make him want to come back, baby or no.

  She blinked against the sting of tears. She wanted him to come back, yes, but not because she gave him sexual favors.

  "Have a safe journey, Zack," she said quietly, and turned to walk away.

  * * *

  The cramping began late Thursday.

  At first, Bailey tried to ignore the telltale sign. She told herself she'd just strained a muscle reaching into the sheep-dipping vat to haul out Pokey, who, clumsy little mischief-maker that he was, had toppled into it.

  Then, when the pains returned after dinner, she desperately tried to convince herself she was suffering a stomachache from her own attempts to cook chili. After all, pinto beans were notoriously rough to digest.

  By dawn on Friday, though, all the excuses, all the rationalizations, were futile wastes of energy. The proof could no longer be denied. Old faithful had come right on time.

  White-lipped and red-eyed, she stared at her naked reflection in her full-length mirror. The tears she had shed at the first sign of spotting had left her looking wan, ghostly pale. She barely recognized herself. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different. She wasn't a mother.

  She'd lost Zack.

  How could her body do this to her? The one thing it was good for—the only thing—was making babies, and it had failed to hold Zack's seed. She wanted to scream and rant. She wanted to throw things, shoot things, break the damned mirror—anything that would take away the agonizing knowledge that tomorrow, when he returned to take her dancing, she would have to set him free.

  He doesn't have to know right away, a nasty little voice whispered inside her. If the dance goes especially well, maybe, just maybe, he'll want to mate with you again. Then you'd have him for at least another month....

  She shuddered. God forgive her. Even her mother hadn't stooped that low.

  "It's over," she told her reflection, ignoring the fresh tears as they rolled down her face. "He's no fool, and neither are you. You both deserve better."

  You both deserve love.

  She turned away on shaking legs. A sob bubbled up in her throat, and even the hand she pressed to her mouth couldn't stifle the sound.

  She heard a worried whine.

  "Pokey," she whispered brokenly.

  The puppy's ears pricked. He scrambled out of the lumpy depression that had engulfed him on Boo's old, fur-sprinkled pillow, and hurried toward her, his tail wagging. She curled her toes against the floorboards when she saw his soulful gaze fixed so anxiously on her face. Without Zack to distract him these last five days, the puppy had finally started coming to her for love.

  Stooping, she pulled the baby into her arms and buried her face in his fur. "You're all I have left of him now," she whispered thickly.

  He whimpered and tried to lick her cheek.

  On tremulous legs, she began pacing, trying to form a coherent plan. Pokey's furry warmth was a comfort against her breasts, but even he couldn't take the aching loneliness away. Zack's presence still haunted her room. She gazed glassily around her at the discoloration on the floorboards, where she had stood dripping beside him the night of the storm; at the blackened hearth, where the ashes still remained from the fire he'd lighted to warm her; at the rumpled linens of the bed, where he'd loved her so thoroughly that she'd thought heaven couldn't compare to the sheer pleasure of his possession.

  And yet his possession had never taken hold. For the first time in her life, she asked God why she couldn't have been more of a woman.

  He gave her no answer.

  Dashing away fresh tears, she halted before her rocker. Her porcelain doll was waiting there in its petticoats and lace, waiting patiently, as it had done these past fourteen years, for her to give it the attention her father used to deny her. She smiled mirthlessly, setting Pokey down to pick up the doll. Its china-blue eyes and blond ringlets could just as easily have been hers at an earlier age.

  Mac had gifted her with the doll on her eighth birthday, the same birthday on which her daddy had given her boy-sized chaps and spurs. Mac had never said so, but she knew he'd saved for months to buy her the peaches-and-cream porcelain creation that most eight-year-old girls would have killed for. Someday, he'd told her gravely, after she was finished being her daddy's boy, he would like to see her wear a dress like her baby doll wore.

  She blinked tearfully over the doll's head at the newly sewn columbine-blue dress hanging in her open armoire. It was the dancing gown she'd had fashioned to please Zack. Maybe she should have fashioned it to please Mac instead.

  Regrets and wishes, hopes and failures, a hundred jumbled memories of childhood tumbled through her mind. Throughout all the joys and sorrows, Mac had stood beside her. Maybe she should have listened to common sense, not her silly heart, and accepted his proposal.

  Mac was a good man. A kind man. When Zack left her, Mac would still be her rock, her adviser, her friend. A woman could do worse than share her bed with her best friend.

  A woman could do worse than marry Mac.

  The day inched by, hour after hour of unbearable heat and hellish loneliness. After a late lunch, she dragged herself outside to sit in the shade of the back porch, waiting for what seemed like forever for Mac to return from his weekly visit to the post office and general store. He was late. She was nervous. The combination was making her stomach roil.

  Again and again she went over the speech she'd prepared. She'd come to her senses. She'd been living a pipe dream. She wanted to accept his proposal, if he was still willing to have her as his wife. The reason to marry Zack no longer existed.

  She'd never proposed a business arrangement quite like this, but her friendship with Mac was a loving one, and she was sure he'd see the sense of her plan. He respected he
r. He valued her opinion. He treated her like an equal rather than a conquest. She felt certain she could get used to him as her partner in bed, just as she had learned to accept him in business. After all, she'd lived her entire twenty-two years with him. She knew what to expect.

  The sun limned the canyon, turning the walls a fiery orange-red, and Bailey spied the first puffs of dust that heralded a visitor. Soon her mule's plodding silhouette could be detected along with the bump and sway of a buckboard.

  Mac was coming home. He was almost there.

  Restlessly, she wandered toward the barn, Pokey trotting in her wake. Their passage distracted Pris from her daily harassing of the geese, and she caught up with them at the bridge. Bailey tried to imagine the rest of her life: rocking on the back porch, waiting for Mac. She wondered if he'd ever chase her through the rain. She wondered if they'd have children....

  "Whoa."

  She waved as he reined in and waited for him to step to the ground. Dust covered every inch of his thickset frame. He slapped a layer or two off with his hat.

  "Is everything all right, lass?" he asked, alerted to her unease, no doubt, by the uncharacteristic wringing of her hands. She hastily stuck them inside her back pockets.

  "Yep." She pasted on a smile. "Are you hungry?"

  "A wee bit."

  When he circled around the mule and rested his hand on its sweaty neck, she tried for the time being not to think how little his pluglike fingers resembled Zack's.

  "A letter was posted to ye."

  "It was?" Momentarily distracted from her proposition and her nerves, she eagerly stepped forward. "Did it come from Kansas City?"

  "Actually..." He leaned over the driver's seat to rummage in his carpetbag. When he straightened, he was holding an envelope. "It came from Boston."

  Lucinda. Bailey stiffened.

  "You know better than to bring her trash back here," she said through clenched teeth.

  "She's written ye a dozen letters over as many months, lass. Ye really should think about opening one."

  Bailey snorted. As if she cared what was happening in her mother's life. Lucinda had a lot of nerve writing letters.