"Zack?" It was Cord, calling from the bottom of the stairs. "Is everything all right up there?"
His heart jolted. "Uh, yeah. Just dandy," he called back, mortified to hear how husky his voice had become. He needed to settle his pecker down fast if he didn't want his brothers to torment him all night long. Wes and Cord might be gentlemanly enough to spare Bailey their wisecracks, but they wouldn't pass up an opportunity to rib him.
He studied her intimidatingly dainty row of buttons with a doubtful eye. Come to think of it, Cord and Wes might never get their chance. He was likely to be up here fastening her dress all night long.
When Zack's fingers touched her flesh with a raspy gentleness, Bailey gulped a shallow breath. It was all the air her corset would let her take. Despite the delicious tingles his warmth gusted over her, she was dreadfully uncomfortable and more self-conscious than she'd ever believed she could be. She felt trussed up like a turkey with her whalebone and garters. Her petticoats were hot and heavy, and she worried she would humiliate herself by falling off the dainty little heels that didn't look fit to hold a normal body's weight.
Then there'd been the nightmare of rouge. She'd looked like a Comanche on the warpath before she'd washed her face three or four times to get the waxy residue off. The powder had blotched, and the merchandiser's claims that it would erase sun freckles had been a bunch of hooey. She'd grimly washed her face yet again, wondering how much her skin could stand before it peeled off. Now she understood why Caitlin had always been late to greet her callers, and why Amaryllis walked around with such mincing footsteps. How did women manage to live their entire lives in such discomfort?
Or maybe the more important question was, why?
She bit her lip, gazing furtively through her veil of bangs at Zack in the mirror. The look on his face when he'd walked through her door had triggered an exploding heat in her belly, one that had radiated along every nerve until her legs nearly melted. Maybe that was why women went to such pains to put on masks and teeter on stilts.
She still thought it was a stupid reason to be miserable.
Zack's hands trembled, grazing her skin again. He was starting to frown, and she suspected the mutter he'd bit back wasn't another compliment.
"Did you have to get a dress with thirty buttons?" he grumbled.
"Can I help it if that's the fashion?"
They glared at each other in the mirror. Then his gaze slipped away, down the column of her neck to her bodice, and past the waterfall of silk that spilled over her hips. His features softened, and a dimple creased in the corner of his mouth.
"It was worth it," he murmured.
She swallowed, staring at her boots. She supposed she should tell him about the baby now. Get it over with before it ate a hole in her insides. She'd never been one to keep a truth from herself, or from anyone else.
But when his hands settled on her shoulders and he shifted, drawing carefully nearer, her nerve faltered. He was gazing at their reflections in a pleased kind of wonder, his unmistakable approval slowly giving way to pride. And then to something else. Something profound and heady.
For the first time in her life, Bailey felt truly valued as a woman.
The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning, leaving her dazed and a little breathless. She had always struggled to repress the female side of herself because she'd come to think of it as flawed and undesirable. But through Zack's eyes, she could see the wonder of her own beauty. She could appreciate the sacredness of her femininity because in the glowing depths of his gaze, she'd seen something worthy of admiration.
The intense intimacy of their bonding shook her. It was frightening to think how strongly her female side could rule her, wanting nothing more than to surrender right there, right then, to Zack's masculinity.
And yet, with no baby in her womb, wasn't her inner yearning the only thing that could possibly hold him to her now?
Confused, and more than a little discomfited by feelings so alien to her usual nature, she rallied her logic and attributed Zack's admiration to the dancing gown and all the other fofarraw she was wearing.
"Uh, I'm ready now," she told him. "Let's go."
Her flight to the door was barred by an elbow encased in white linen.
"Whoa, darlin'," he drawled in a smoky suitor's voice. "You don't think I'm going to let you bolt out of here without a proper escort, do you? Ma'am?"
She bit her lip. Zack never talked to her like that when she wasn't wearing ten pounds of underwear. Surely that was proof positive of the Curse of the Dress.
Then again, if dressing like a candy confection made Zack fall in love with her, maybe wearing a gown couldn't be considered such a curse after all.
She mustered her courage, trying to effuse some into her fingers. Cursed or not, if she didn't win Zack's heart by midnight, well... She'd just have to resign herself to the idea that this evening was the last she would ever spend alone with him.
A few minutes later, Bailey realized she'd been rather naive to think she might actually spend this night alone with Zack.
Children swarmed around them as they stepped off the bottom stair. Seth demanded to see the dogs his Uncle Wes had said looked like polar bears; Topher wanted to ride one. Billy, Cord's five-year-old, screeched at Zack to referee his mortal combat with Megan, who was using her longer seven-year-old's reach to grab for the last cookie. Nita, Wes's oldest girl, was bawling because she'd tripped over her skirt and splashed lemonade on her bodice. Merrilee, the only quiet one, was busy wandering from lady to lady, pressing bouquets of goldenrod into their hands.
While the adults rallied to discipline their children, Bailey wondered, between sneezes, if God might not have spared her a baby because she wasn't ready for parenthood. Training Border
Collies and breaking colts didn't look half as difficult as cowing a truculent Rawlins child.
Wes winked at her as he tossed his bellowing five-year-old nephew over his shoulder and headed for the wagons. "Good thing we left the three little ones back at the ranch with Aunt Lally, eh?"
Cord, silencing his oldest boy's strident demands to see polar bears, ordered him outside with Megan in a voice that promised dire consequences for disobedient backsides. Merrilee hurried after her younger cousins like a worried mother hen.
Rorie, pink with embarrassment, tried to distract her daughter and apologize to her hostess all at the same time. "You look lovely, Bailey. Don't you think she looks lovely, Nita?"
The fourteen-year-old sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Bailey refrained from pointing out that Zack was offering her his handkerchief.
"I guess so," the child answered sullenly. "Anyone would look lovely if they didn't have lemonade spilled all over them."
"We're not going home now, Nita, and that's final," her mother said crisply.
As Rorie marched her daughter out the door, Topher shouldered around them to get a closer view of his hostess. Cranking his neck back, he planted his hands on his hips and looked up and down Bailey's dancing dress.
"Where'd you hide your six-shooter?"
She blinked in bemusement at the ten-year-old. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your gun," he answered impatiently. "Did you hide it under your bloomers like Aunt Fancy does?"
"Topher." His face turning crimson, Zack grabbed his nephew's arm and hustled him toward the door. "Gentlemen do not ask ladies questions like that."
"Shoot. I ain't no gentleman. What's got you so lathered?"
Cord cleared his throat, looking only a shade less red than Zack, but Fancy laughed good-naturedly as she breezed after them.
"Actually it was a derringer," she whispered in Bailey's ear. "Hiding a .22 is the only thing garters are good for."
Bailey smiled a little, grateful to know she had at least one ally among the Rawlins women.
Now she was alone with the family patriarch, Cord Rawlins. She met his appraising green eyes uncertainly. She'd never had much cause to socialize with Cord since he was so m
uch older than she. When she was thirteen and had seen him ride into Bandera wearing his deputy U.S. marshal's badge, she had thought him dangerous, dashing, and the most handsome man in the county. A week or so had passed before she first laid eyes on Zack, and her opinion had turned unquestionably in his favor.
Now, at thirty-nine, Cord was still one of the most breathtaking specimens of manhood in the county. Seth looked just like his pa, she decided. Billy did too. They were a handsome breed, these Rawlins males, with their chiseled jaws and dimples.
Bailey swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what her and Zack's child might have looked like.
"Did Zack have the good sense to tell you how pretty you look tonight?" Cord asked in a rumbly voice.
She blushed and nodded, accepting his arm.
"Good." He cast her a sideways glance as they walked to the door. "He thinks the world of you, you know. He's just not good with words."
She caught her breath.
Cord smiled and patted her hand. "Don't tell him I told you so. He's so mule-headed, he'll deny it."
She blinked. Was it true? Did Zack really think the world of her?
Or was Cord confusing Zack's dedication to the child they would never have as affection for her?
As it turned out, Cord was the only adult male Topher and Billy weren't mad at, so the boys voted, two to one, to ride in his wagon. Seth, still smarting from his father's scolding, grudgingly climbed up to join them.
That arrangement left all the girls to ride with Wes and Rorie.
"There's no sense in you hitching a third wagon," Cord called to Zack. "Why don't you and Bailey ride with one of us?"
Bailey dubiously eyed the buckboards full of children. A lot of pushing and name-calling was going on in Cord's. An occasional sniffle and lots of pouting came from Wes's. She was just about to suggest to Zack he join her in the barn to saddle Sassy and Boss, when he reached for her hand.
"Let's ride with the girls," he said with one of his breathtaking smiles. "That way, I can have you all to myself."
His reasoning, so desperately wanted by her silly heart, prodded her to agree.
Big mistake.
Bailey quickly learned why Zack liked little girls. They adored him. Megan practically pounced on his lap, and Merrilee snuggled under his left arm. Nita roused herself from her sulk long enough to rail about lemonade and how it bleached dresses, so Zack gallantly told her any man with half a brain would be too dazzled by her smile to notice.
Even though he held Bailey's hand, the children were getting the lion's share of his attention. Bailey knew it was foolish, even mean-spirited, to be jealous of three little girls. But after midnight, they'd each have all the Zack they wanted, while she'd have nothing but memories.
The final straw came when Megan demanded that her uncle play his harmonica. Nita piped up eagerly, requesting the courting ballad, "Gypsy Davy," and Zack relinquished Bailey's hand to please his nieces.
During the applause, Zack gazed toward her. His contented smile seemed to say, "Isn't this fun?"
Bailey gave up any hope of winning his undivided attention after that. She scooted to the other side of the wagon, where she could stretch her legs, and gazed resignedly toward the pitched straw battle raging in the other buckboard.
Now, that looked like fun.
* * *
The hoedown was in full progress by the time Wes and Cord parked their buckboards and strolled with their eager families across the fairgrounds. In the vast show arena most commonly used for rodeos, an enormous dance floor had been erected, leaving ample room for three hundred or more hoofers. Whoops and fiddle music mingled with the sounds of stomping feet and breathless laughter. Dusty children in their Sunday best stumbled out polkas to the two-stepping beat; young rowdies spun their girls like calico tops; old-timers and married couples danced cheek to cheek in the calmer corners.
Occasionally parents dashed by, chasing sticky-fingered toddlers who'd snatched prizes from the candy-apple and caramel-corn booths. Mesquite smoke wafted up to the boundless stars from the barbecue pits, and a river of cider flowed from the barrels in the horse-drawn wagons near the entrance.
Halting beside one of the few picnic tables that was still uncluttered by bonnets, Stetsons, or baskets of food, Bailey listened with half an ear to the chattering Rawlins children, all of whom seemed more interested in eating than dancing. For the most part, her attention was on the wild shadows whirling over the sawdusted dance floor, their gyrations given extra zeal by the bobbing strings of lanterns. The energy of the violins was exhilarating, and despite her complete inexperience, she found her toe tapping to the music. She wondered how hard it could be, after birthing lambs and shearing sheep, to step with a partner in time to a dance.
She gazed hopefully at Zack. The answering glow in his eyes made her pulse trip. With a firm but patient apology to Megan about the candy-apple booth, he extricated his hand from the seven-year-old's. Megan flounced over to her father in a huff, and Zack grinned at Bailey.
"Would you like to dance?"
She nodded, too breathless to speak when his hand settled on the small of her back, guiding her lightly toward the artful chaos of boots, skirts, and spurs. A kaleidoscope of color blazed around them as he turned her into his arms. She could feel the pounding of his pulse when his fingers wrapped around hers. As she gazed into his handsome face, aflicker with the ruddy lamplight above, she was able to fool herself into believing his smile was full of tenderness, that his heart raced with the excitement of her touch. She decided this wasn't the best time to confess she was completely out of her element.
He took his first step forward. She collided with his knees. Chuckling, he shook his head. "As much as it probably galls you, Bailey, the man is supposed to lead."
"Oh, yeah." She tried to look like she knew what the devil he was talking about. Surely she could get the hang of this dancing stuff if she just bluffed her way through it. Every other woman in the room seemed to know how to hoof.
She glanced furtively at the couple whizzing past them. The female, a pretty but notoriously slow-witted belle, was giggling, spinning, and moving backward. Her movements looked effortless.
See, Bailey told herself, dancing is easy. Simpletons can do it.
"Okay." She smiled back at Zack. "I'm ready now."
He stepped forward, and she tripped over her feet.
Next, she tramped on his, and he sucked in a breath.
When she tried again, she managed two awkward steps before her thighs banged against Zack's. His arm saved her from kissing the sawdust with her backside.
The third attempt was even worse than the first, and she toppled against his chest. Biting her lip, she ventured a glance at him. He was frowning.
"I, uh, think it's these boots. I'm not used to them," she apologized.
He didn't look fooled. "Bailey, can you dance?"
She cringed at his accusatory tone. "I don't know. I never tried it before."
His jaw dropped. Comical disbelief registered on his features. In the next instant, he burst into a hearty peal of laughter, its rumble a cozy vibration against her navel.
"What so's funny?" she demanded, her cheeks burning as people around them turned to stare.
His eyes twinkled with his valiantly suppressed mirth. "You, thinking you could step out here without knowing how. I had to practice a whole year with Aunt Lally before I even thought of stepping onto real sawdust."
Her spirits deflated to think her first dance had ruined her last night with him. "A whole year?" she repeated, hard-pressed to swallow her disappointment. Damn. Maybe being female wasn't going to be as easy as she'd thought.
His expression softened. "Aw, honey." He pulled her against his chest in a sweet, comforting hug. "You're a lot less gangly than I was," he murmured, his breath gusting tingles from her ear to her toes. "And a whole lot more graceful too."
"I am?" she whispered hopefully, not caring that a dozen or so curious dancers were slowing th
eir spins so they could watch.
"Sure." He started to straighten, his lips brushing her cheek. Then they hesitated. For one tantalizing moment, they lingered over the corner of her mouth, as if he were considering giving her the answer to all her prayers and dreams. He must have remembered their audience though, because his hands abruptly swept up to her shoulders, and he set her on the balls of her feet.
"I bet it won't take nearly as long for you to catch on," he finished huskily. "After all, you've learned everything else I've taught you plenty quick."
Her insides smoked at his bawdy implication.
He chuckled, breaking the spell. "Of course, you're going to have to reconcile yourself to taking direction. Maybe that should be our first lesson on the floor, little wildcat."
She pressed her lips together. He was laughing at her again, the rotten cowpoke.
"Quit gloating."
"Oh, all right. But you have to admit, I was the model of diplomacy when you tried to stake my foot to the floor with one of those heels. C'mon." He caught her hand to lead her back to the table. "We're just in the way here—"
"Rawlins! Hold on there, son." Rob Cole hurried into the stream of dancers who were now tossing them dirty looks as they stood chatting on the dance floor. "I need to have a word with you about Hank Rotterdam."
Zack frowned. "Business can wait, Rob. I'm busy."
"Well, get unbusy. No offense, ma'am." Rob bobbed his head distractedly in her direction. "Rotterdam's out stumping, saying there's no need to sign any treaty with sheepherders. He's cooked up a scheme to make rain by firing cannons into the clouds. He says Preacher Underhill's prayer vigils aren't doing the job, and those Injun rain dancers the sodbusters hired are only kicking up more dust.
"'Course, Hank's idea is just as outlandish as last month's rain-making scam in Elodea," Rob continued. "You know the one I mean. Folks out there almost tarred and feathered that so-called university professor after they'd been hoodwinked into buying dousing rods that couldn't find a glass of water, much less an underground spring." Rob's brow furrowed in a troubled way. "The difference here, Zack, is that most of the cattlemen are so desperate, they're actually willing to listen to Hank. Red Calloway's already in Rotterdam's camp. If the rest of your board goes the same way, I guarantee you, your contract won't be worth the paper it was written on—"
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 30