Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  "What if she's sick? And trying to make peace?" Mac prompted, pushing the letter toward her again.

  "That's what doctors and priests are for," Bailey retorted. "Get rid of it."

  Mac cocked his head, his gray eyes wise and discerning. "I'll put it in the box with all the rest."

  "Makes no difference to me."

  He nodded, but a mirthless smile curved his lips as he unhitched the mule and led her inside the barn.

  Bailey fidgeted, her outrage ebbing as quickly as the tidal wave had struck. Marriage was just another business arrangement, she told herself staunchly. Nothing more, nothing less.

  "Mac?" She followed him into the barn, wishing she weren't so damned nervous. Better yet, she wished she had more time before the Woolgrowers meeting to sit with Mac and discreetly broach the subject. Just how did one propose to a man anyway?

  "Do... you have time for dinner before the meeting?" she asked, praying that Zack wouldn't change his mind and return a day early to ride with Mac, before she could properly frame her marriage question.

  "I willna be going to the meeting, lass." His gaze slid toward her before he hung the feed bag for the mule. "I have to be about my packing."

  "Packing?"

  "Aye. I'll be leaving in the morning."

  Her brows knitted. He'd never said anything about leaving. "For where?"

  "Maggie's ranch. It seems the Rio Grande hasn't been quite as good to that Basque husband of hers as they were hoping. His consumption is getting worse."

  Bailey sucked in her breath. "Oh, no, Mac. Why didn't you tell me?"

  He shrugged, concentrating on the curry brush he was running over the mule's charcoal hide. "Ye had other things on yer mind."

  She felt her cheeks burn. God forgive her. Between the wire cutters, the rodeo, One Toe, and Zack, she hadn't been paying much attention to Mac of late. Now she understood why he'd been so diligent about his trips to the post office.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "I had no idea."

  "Of course not, lass. I dinna tell ye."

  "No, I mean... I'm sorry I wasn't around when you needed me."

  His brush strokes faltered for the tiniest fraction of time. Then he donned his classic Rock-of-Gibraltar expression. "There's nothing ye could have done," he said gravely. "And I willna have ye talking on the guilt."

  Dear Mac. So strong, so selfless, while she'd been a heel.

  "What can I do now?"

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Let me go."

  The quiet request hit her like a sledgehammer. There was an underlying finality in those simple words, one she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge.

  "L-let you go? Well, of course. You have to go to them. How long do you think you'll be gone?"

  "I willna be coming back, lass."

  Her knees quaked, and she dug her fingers into the stall door beside her. Surely she hadn't heard him right.

  "Is he... that bad off?"

  Mac's gaze held hers for a heartbeat, no more, before it flickered away. "Bad enough."

  She swallowed. He'd confirmed her suspicions. He wasn't leaving because of his brother-in-law. He was leaving because of Zack.

  "Mac, don't do this—"

  "It's time to go, lass. I promised ye a year. It's been two."

  "But I need you!"

  "Maggie needs me, lass. You have Zack."

  Her chin trembled. Ashamed, she hung her head. Mac doesn't deserve to be torn, she told herself harshly. You've bungled everything, and now it's time to grow up. Be a man. Face the consequences.

  "I'll miss you," she whispered.

  He crossed to her then, taking her in his burly arms and rocking her gently. His hands smoothed her back the way he used to when she was a child, crying over one of the wounds her mother's tongue had inflicted.

  "I'll miss ye too, lass," he murmured, his stubbled chin resting on her hair. "But it's for the best. Ye'll see."

  She didn't think so, but she couldn't tell him.

  "Of course," she forced out bravely.

  "I'll be back for the wedding, though." She could hear the effort he made to put some levity into his tone. "I reserve the right to give ye away."

  Her throat ached too much to speak, so she nodded, turning her face into his shoulder. It was probably best that he didn't know. There wasn't much chance of her marrying anyone now.

  Or ever.

  Chapter 18

  Zack couldn't wait to tell Bailey the good news. His week of stumping had been so fruitful, he'd gotten ten of the most prosperous rancher's names on a contract to experiment with shared-pasture rotation.

  Not everyone in the county had seen eye to eye with him, of course—most notably Hank and his pal, Red Calloway—but Zack thought ten signatures was a promising start. Desperate for a solution to their dwindling water and forage, the six cattlemen he'd recruited had been only too eager to consider an alternative to a business tradition that clearly wasn't profitable any longer. The four sheep ranchers who'd volunteered had been as eager to ensure peace for their livestock and families.

  All that remained for Zack to do was pray like hell the rains would come so any vigilante-style enforcement of the treaty's terms could be averted if, heaven forbid, some cattleman was too stubborn, too stupid, or just too ornery to abide by the cease-fire.

  It was midmorning on Saturday when Zack reached the McShane boundary line. Swinging by Bailey's southeast pasture to acquaint his brothers with the outcome of his campaign, Zack intercepted Wes, who was riding home to rendezvous with his family.

  A former Texas Ranger, Wes listened with uncharacteristic gravity to Zack's report and took note of the neighbors most likely to cause trouble if the drought continued through the fall. He promised to apprise Cord, the only man in the county who had served with the U.S. marshal's office. The three of them, Wes said, should be able to put enough pressure on Rotterdam and Calloway to toe the line.

  Then he cleared his throat.

  "You heading home or back to Bailey's?"

  Zack felt his neck warm. Actually, he thought of Bailey's spread as home.

  "I'm going to Bailey's. Why?"

  Wes fidgeted. "Well, I just thought you should know. McTavish pulled up stakes this morning."

  Zack nodded, his heart giving a guilty thump. So Mac had finally told her good-bye. He just wished the Scot had waited long enough for him to return. He didn't like the idea that Bailey had been left to grieve alone. Besides, Zack would have felt better if he could have said his farewells too.

  "How's she taking it?"

  "Not good."

  "Not good how?" Zack asked anxiously, thinking this was one hell of a time for his jaw-flapping brother to button his lips.

  Wes gazed uncomfortably over Zack's shoulder in the direction of the canyon. "I reckon she cried a spell. She looked kind of pale and hollow-eyed last time I saw her."

  "When was that?"

  "'Bout two hours ago."

  Zack grimaced. He shared Wes's discomfort when it came to women's tears. All the Rawlins men did. If Fancy and Rorie had been the manipulative kind, they could have brought their husbands to their knees using waterworks as a weapon. Zack wondered how McTavish could possibly have withstood Bailey's.

  Or maybe she hadn't bawled in front of her hired hand. Maybe she'd saved her grief for the privacy of her bedroom. Zack ached to think he hadn't been available to hold her. Knowing he'd been responsible for McTavish's decision to ride on made his guilt even worse.

  "Do you reckon going to the hoedown will make her feel better?" Zack ventured to ask, trusting in his brother's greater knowledge of women.

  "That all depends on whether she likes to dance."

  Zack considered that. Bailey had never said she didn't like to dance when he'd corralled her with his invitation. Shoot. Why shouldn't she like it? As best as he could figure, dancing, like courting, had been invented by females.

  As for him, he'd learned to two-step only when he'd realized he could get phys
ically close to a woman without risking a backside full of buckshot from her daddy's scattergun. Nowadays he was an adequate hoofer, but he wasn't half as good as Wes.

  "Rorie and Fancy like to dance," he reminded his brother defensively.

  A dreamy expression crossed Wes's face. It expanded slowly to a wicked grin. "My darlin' loves to dance."

  Zack suspected they'd somehow changed subjects. He tossed his brother a withering look. "Why don't you and Cord swing by here on your way to the fairgrounds? We'll ride together."

  "For moral support, eh?" Wes winked, turning his pony's head toward home. "Rorie will like that." His chuckle floated back to Zack, and he added, "I suspect Cord will too."

  By the time Zack reached the big house, Bailey had already cloistered herself away with dressing preparations. Either that, or she was avoiding him. He couldn't decide which. When he tracked her to her bedroom, his knock was greeted by an irritable "What?" and when he announced himself, she cracked the door open only wide enough to fix one panicky blue eye on him.

  "Can't come out. I'm, uh, busy."

  Her evasive, almost flustered tone bred an unnamable worry in him, one that helped him forget his eagerness to tell her about the rancher treaty. Deciding his good news could wait, he tried to reach out to her through her obvious upset.

  "Bailey, I heard about Mac. Are you all right?"

  She nodded vigorously.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  He frowned, trying to discern more of her face. She must have drawn the curtains, because it was uncommonly dim inside her room. "Why are you in the dark?"

  "I'm resting, all right?"

  He sighed. Obviously, she wanted no comfort from him. He didn't know why her rejection should gall him, but it did.

  "All right. I'll leave you alone. But we'll be leaving for the fairgrounds in about four hours. Cord and Wes will be swinging by—"

  "All of them? The children too?"

  He stiffened. He couldn't help it. She sounded more vexed than surprised. It was too late now to change the plan, and he wasn't going to apologize for trying to raise her spirits by including his family in their outing.

  "That's right. We'll be riding together."

  She bit her lip. "Fine."

  The door closed in his face.

  He blew out his breath. He certainly hoped her mood improved by evening.

  Sitting idle had never appealed to Zack. He spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the ranch, trying to find chores to keep his hands and mind busy. But Mac had always kept Bailey's fences, gates, and hinges in top working condition, so unless Zack wanted to ride around the pens to test the guard dogs' competency, which he didn't, there was nothing left for him to do but sit on the back porch and whittle.

  Whittling left time for thinking, though. Too much thinking. And some of his thoughts downright scared him.

  For instance, what would he do if Bailey wasn't carrying his child? It had been simpler to assume she was breeding, because his course of action would then be clear. He wouldn't have to examine his feelings about her, or having a family, or changing the direction of his life. He would just bury himself in his responsibility, as he always had, because she would need him.

  It was a funny thing, needing to be needed. Since the age of seventeen, he'd borne the primary responsibility of running the Rawlins business, and his kinfolk had come to expect certain commitments of his time and energy. They relied on him, since he didn't have a wife and children, to pick up the slack whenever his brothers were immersed in domestic affairs. Needing him, he supposed, was his kinfolk's way of loving him.

  In some ways, his business had been his salvation. In many others, it had been a burden. More times than he could count, he'd thought of leaving his brothers behind, striking out on his own, finding a place where no one made demands on him anymore.

  And yet here he sat, wishing Bailey would make some request, any request, of him.

  Sighing, he thought about the old familiar loneliness he'd felt this past week, traveling as a single man in a community of families. Each time he'd dined with the sheep and cattle ranchers who supported his plan for peace, he'd ached to watch husbands and wives share affectionate looks, tender smiles, fleeting touches. For the first time, that ache was more than a nameless unhappiness. It came with a ray of hope: Bailey.

  He recalled the afternoons when they'd worked and laughed together, holding hands in the wagon, stealing longing glances, and yearning for a deeper, more satisfying closeness.

  Unfortunately, those afternoons weren't quite as frequent as the ones in which they'd tried their damnedest to shout each other's heads off. There was no denying Bailey sparked powerful feelings in him. But how could he determine beyond a shadow of a doubt that those impassioned feelings were love?

  Disgruntled by his lack of answers, he pocketed his knife, dusted off the wood shavings, and rose to fetch the bootblack from his saddlebags. Wes and Cord should be topping the rise in their wagons within the half hour. Even with a full-blown shower, shave, and hair slicking, he wouldn't need half that time to don the new Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes he'd bought for the hoedown. Still, he wanted tonight to be especially memorable for Bailey.

  He decided to shine his spurs and bolo too.

  Twenty minutes later, idle and restless on the front porch, Zack thought he might actually send up a cheer when he saw wagons rolling down the canyon road. By the time Wes and Cord had reined in their respective horses, he was so relieved to see them that he would have kissed, hugged, and shaken the hand of every member of the group.

  But that would have taken some doing, considering his brothers' boys had already jumped down, shrieking, to chase the befuddled geese beneath the bridge, and the girls, terminally obsessed with baby anythings, were hurrying to the nearest pen to coo over Buttercup's calf.

  When Zack herded the grown-ups into the sitting room, Jerky appeared. Warm-hearted rascal that he was, he'd thought to provide a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. He banged them down on the table with his usual bark and bluster about cattlemen. Smiling to himself, Zack stepped aside to let the old sheepherder stump past him out the door.

  Just as he was turning his back again on the hallway, an urgent little "pssst" reached his ears. He glanced up over his shoulder and spied Bailey on the gallery-style landing of the stairs. She'd poked her head outside her bedroom door, her body shielded by the oakwood panel, and was gesturing frantically for him to join her. He didn't know whether to be worried or amused.

  "Excuse me a minute, folks," he said, nodding politely to his sisters-in-law before he turned to climb the stairs. Bailey disappeared again inside her bedroom.

  "Bailey?" He steeled himself against an ungentlemanly chuckle to think his brave little wildcat had holed up in her den. "What's the matter with—"

  You. His voice and footsteps faltered when he strode across the threshold. "Bailey?" he whispered, awed by the delicate sylphlike beauty who hovered nervously before the mirror. For a moment, his disbelieving eyes told him this vision couldn't be Bailey.

  A lustrous cascade of ringlets spilled down her back, their golden highlights captured in the sheen of the sapphire ribbon threading through them. Beyond her shoulder, as she faced the looking glass, he could see the reflection of a dainty bustline, pushed higher and firmer than he'd ever seen it in workshirts. It was sweetly encased in a bodice ruched between bands of blue ribbons and ivory lace, and adorned with pearls.

  The skirt that fell away from this pinafore effect was something he'd once heard Amaryllis call a princess style. On Bailey, it made her look more like a fairy princess, he decided, because its shimmering satin folds seemed to dance around her, magical rivulets of indigo and sapphire light.

  "Oh, honey," he breathed, "you look so beautiful."

  Their eyes met in the mirror. The contact was electric. A current of desire sparked in his loins, turning into a flame, heating every inch of his flesh from the inside. As he watched, a
rosy hue crept up her cheeks, and he wished fervently he'd had the good sense not to include his brothers and their children on this outing.

  Suddenly he felt awkward. Not since the night of the storm had he been so unsure of himself with Bailey. His only consolation was that she, too, seemed uncharacteristically timid. She shifted back and forth on her white kid boots like a cornered filly eager to run.

  "I managed to suck my stomach in tight enough to lace my own corset," she said petulantly. "I figured out how to roll the stockings on straight after the sixth or seventh time, and I finally got the hang of walking with the garters so they wouldn't snap my behind—"

  Zack gulped a breath. The pictures she was painting were bringing him dangerously close to a sweat. "Bailey," he cut in hoarsely, "surely you didn't call me up here to tell me all that."

  She shook her head. Sweeping her curls from her back, she pulled them all in one riotous mass across her shoulder. "I did everything else," she said, her bottom lip jutting. "But I can't button my stupid dress by myself."

  She eyed him hopefully in the mirror.

  "You mean you want me to do it?" He licked his dry lips as her ivory shoulder blades rippled beneath the gaping V of her gown. His palms grew moist. "For heaven's sake, Bailey, why didn't you call Fancy? Or Rorie?"

  "I couldn't ask them. They've never seen me naked."

  Oh, God. He hoped his pecker wasn't bulging as much as his eyes. She'd picked a fine time to turn bashful.

  Blowing out his breath, he forced himself to take a step closer. And closer still. It occurred to him that if he couldn't touch the buttons at her back without acting like a stud pony on the prod, he wouldn't be able to plant his hand on her waist for a harmless two-step.

  Her fresh, cool scent of lemon and rainwater wafted over him, making his previously dry mouth water. The temptation of all those curls, all those shimmers, was nearly too much to bear. He had satisfyingly wicked visions of grabbing her buttocks instead of the placards of her gown. How was he supposed to make his hands seal her creamy nakedness from his sight, when his fingers were itching to peel off every blessed flounce and froufrou?