Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  He threaded his fingers through her curls, lifting the heavy mass from her bowed neck. He blew a current of air across her damp skin before he massaged her knotted muscles. She whimpered.

  "I love you, Bailey." He touched his lips to her cheek, tasting a tantalizing trace of salt, feeling the pulse that skittered beneath his thumb. "I was so lonely without you this past week. I need you, honey. Don't turn me away."

  She shifted uncertainly, as if torn between resistance and surrender, when his kneading fingers moved down her back.

  "Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?"

  She sniffled, finally withdrawing a hand to peek up at him through spiky lashes. "It'd never work," she said in a childish voice.

  "Why not?"

  "'Cause we fight all the time, and we have nothing in common."

  He brushed her tears away. "We love each other. That's something."

  Her bottom lip jutted, and he rubbed his moistened forefinger against it.

  "You don't believe me?"

  She shook her head, the tip of her tongue darting out to taste the tear he'd left behind.

  "How can I prove it to you?"

  Her mouth trembled open, as if she would answer, and he cupped the back of her head, tilting it for his kiss. He felt the tremor move through her when his lips grazed hers; he felt her hesitation as his mouth gentled, coaxed, pleaded. His heart hammered so hard, he thought she must surely hear it above the rushing of the water and the singing of the crickets. Yet he willed himself to patience, fighting back the panic that threatened to steal his better sense away. He couldn't lose her, not now. Not after he'd finally found her.

  She sighed his name, half in plea, half in protest. Then her hands crept up over his shoulders, and her fingers weaved through his hair. He groaned, deepening their kiss, plundering the velvety sweetness he'd been yearning to taste all night.

  He pushed her down to the grass, fanning her hair out around her. She tasted of tears and peppermint; she smelled like citrusy sunshine. His hands shook as he touched her ravaged bodice, and he buried his mouth there, aching to repair the damage he'd been too slow to prevent. Groaning her name, he tugged on the laces of her corset, and she squirmed when he drew her nipple into his mouth.

  "Z-Zack, please. We can't d-do this," she panted. "We'll just be in the same mess we were in before."

  He growled his disappointment, licking her taut nub. She shivered beneath him in a way that made his loins throb with primal pleasure.

  "Bailey." He slowed his ragged breaths long enough to nibble her ear. "I promise, we won't. I've been to town, and I've purchased a, er, preventative I can use."

  He smoothed his hand along her hip and down her thigh, reveling in the whispery softness of the satin beneath his palm. She tensed, her fingers tightening in warning over his shoulders.

  "But I have... er, I mean, I'm—"

  "Indisposed?" he finished for her.

  She nodded miserably.

  "And that bothers you?"

  She nodded again.

  He smiled wistfully. He'd never been that finicky about lovemaking, especially if he had a sheath to wear. He reminded himself harshly, however, that since he'd been such a clodhopper the first time, he wanted the second time to be especially tender and romantic.

  "I understand. Will you let me hold you through the night, then?"

  She swallowed. "Y-you mean here?"

  "Actually..." He nuzzled the corner of her mouth. "I was thinking about taking the wagon to a hilltop I know, where we can watch the constellations spin across the sky."

  Bailey's skin flushed fever hot at the very suggestion. Her body and heart were at war with her head, because there was nothing in this world—in this universe, truthfully—that she wanted more than to watch the sun rise in Zack's arms.

  But wasn't there an inherent danger in that kind of surrender? If she yielded to her longing to be loved, to be touched, wouldn't she lose her personal freedom? Her independence?

  She struggled to sort her raging cyclone of feelings. What was the matter with her? Zack had said he loved her. Hadn't she been living for this moment? She should be blissfully happy that the man of her dreams needed and wanted her, that he'd pledged to repair their relationship and was willing to start anew.

  Instead, she was... afraid.

  The realization staggered her, rocking her whole world. Having Zack, having his love, simply weren't enough. She needed to know she could control her own destiny—as her father had. As Zack did.

  She wanted to be loved as a partner, not as a possession.

  "All right, Zack," she conceded, her heart bullying her into compliance. "I'll go stargazing with you."

  He looked so radiantly happy, she had to bite her lip to keep from promising him the moon too.

  She busied herself with her boots and shawl. Avoiding his eyes, she then rose. Her hardheaded side had decided, at least for then, to hold out against his marriage proposal. Things were moving too quickly for her peace of mind. She wasn't yet convinced of anything he'd told her. For all she knew, he'd confused love with lust.

  If Zachariah Rawlins truly loved her, if he wanted to be her man, then he would have to learn to treat her as an equal in business and in bed. He would have to let her be the woman she wanted to be, boots, spurs, and all.

  She drew a ragged breath. She wasn't demanding too much from him, was she? After all, she was only asking to be treated the way he'd always wanted her to treat him.

  As they walked arm in arm toward the wagons, she glanced hopefully at the handsome man who was smiling down at her.

  Dear God, I want this second chance so much. Please help us find a way to make it work. I'll do my part if he does his. Amen.

  Chapter 20

  The rest of that evening, Bailey's prayers seemed to be answered. Zack did his best to be a tender companion and thoughtful partner. While they cuddled under the stars, she got up her nerve to ask again about the cattleman-sheep rancher treaty and confessed how deeply her exclusion had hurt her. When she finally gave him the chance to defend himself, his patient explanation made her feel like a first-class heel, and she apologized profusely for doubting his intentions.

  The peace between them was so profound, that she was able to doze the rest of that night in his arms.

  With the amber flare of dawn behind them, Zack drove the wagon back to her spread. He helped her down to her front yard, and an awkward moment of silence passed between them. He avoided her eyes with a trace of his old shyness, dragging the reins through his fingers again and again.

  "I'll have to return Wes's wagon, of course, but... I was wondering if you wanted me to come back here this afternoon. I could, uh, help you find a new foreman."

  She winced. She'd been so consumed with grief over Mac that—ironically—she hadn't given much thought to her business and all the troubles she would have it if didn't rain soon. In fact, she was beginning to regret she'd ever staked that prize for One Toe's hide. Five hundred dollars would have gone a long way toward drilling a few more wells before autumn brought relief from the heat and, hopefully, the rain.

  "I know this is childish and terribly shortsighted," she admitted after a moment, "but I'm having a hard time accepting the idea that I have to replace Mac."

  "It's not childish, Bailey. He lived here all your life. I understand."

  "You do?"

  Zack nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "It's too soon to think about replacements, that's all."

  She stared forlornly at her bare toes. Mac had been gone for only two days, but already it felt like forever. The Rio Grande was a good week of hard riding away. He might as well have moved back to Scotland, because visiting him would be an impossibility for at least six months. Maybe longer. Assuming the drought didn't force her to sell half her livestock before September, the goats' fall shearing loomed on the horizon. In the spring, she would be consumed with lambing and kidding and another shearing for both the goats and the sheep.

&n
bsp; And, of course, she couldn't forget her vow to bag One Toe, since he was still lurking out there somewhere, only a boundary line away.

  Her shoulders slumped.

  "Would you like me to stay and help with the ranch until you've made up your mind about a foreman... and us?"

  Her chest ached as she thought of herself alone day after day, with only Jerky and the dogs for company, while she waited for Zack to pay his next weekend call as her suitor. Wouldn't they be more likely to work out their troubles together than apart?

  Thinking they might very well be laying the foundation for their future, she gathered her courage to murmur, "Yes. Please stay."

  The joy in his smile made her giddy heart trip.

  "But what about your fall roundup?" she added hastily, worried that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be strong enough to stick to her guns if he continued distracting her with his heart-melting smiles.

  "I have two brothers who can oversee my ranch hands while they mark, brand, and alter my calves," he said. "Cord and Wes owe me a vacation after the hundred or more times I've toed the line during their domestic, er, diversions.

  "Besides," he continued, his husky timbre sprinkling shivers down her spine, "those migrant Mexican shearers are due through here in the next two weeks, aren't they? I want to learn how to clip mohair—er, if you think that's a good idea," he added.

  She clasped her hands and curled her toes, so pleased by his concession to ask her advice that she wanted to burst. However, she still had reservations about his new, agreeable behavior. She didn't want him to know how easily it could wrap her around his finger.

  "If you're certain your own spread can do without you," she said in her gruffest business tone, "I sure wouldn't mind the help."

  His dimples flashed. "Fair enough. I'll, uh, just put my bedroll back in the barn, then."

  His hopeful gaze touched hers, and she felt her neck heat.

  "There's no sense in your sleeping on the ground when there's a perfectly good cot in Mac's shack."

  His breath released in a slow whisper of disappointment. He pasted on another smile. "Thanks."

  Despite her every self-assurance that she'd done the right thing, she felt like a fool for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Having Zack as her daily work companion while she tried to decide whether she wanted to surrender again as his lover created a delicious dilemma in Bailey's life. She learned he liked to laugh a whole lot more than she'd ever imagined, and that he had a playful, creative side beneath his crusty exterior.

  She'd always been one to put business before pleasure, and yet without a chaperone, it became increasingly difficult to resist temptation. She had a hard time keeping her mind on her chores whenever he bent at the waist, presenting her a pulse-stirring view of his backside, or squatted, offering an equally tantalizing view of spreading thighs and the treasure between them.

  While she stubbornly tried sleeping alone each night in the yawning emptiness of her bed, she often heard Zack's harmonica playing a soft lullaby beneath her open window. Sometimes, Pokey would scratch and whine at her door with a gift attached in carrier-pigeon fashion to his collar. Once, it was an intricately carved figurine of Boo that looked so lifelike, she cried. Another night, Zack's gift was a small jar of honey, with a piece of the comb still dripping inside it. The accompanying message read "Sweet dreams."

  By the end of that first week, Bailey was yielding to Zack's deliciously persuasive seductions. Not only was he sharing her bed at night, he was enticing her into a new, midday tradition. In honor of her pastores, he solemnly dubbed it their siesta.

  She tried not to think what Mac or her daddy would have said if they'd seen her afternoon chores go unfinished while she let Zack chase her, laughing and screaming, around the barnyard. On the rare occasions when she wouldn't let him catch her, he'd retaliate by disappearing, refusing to answer any of her calls. She'd spend an exhilarating hour or so, her heart speeding in anticipation to realize that her mate was lying somewhere in wait for her, biding his time until she wandered unwittingly into his love trap.

  Looking back on those sizzling summer romps, she couldn't remember a happier time in her life, even during a wet season. She started relenting little things, like Zack's suggestion that Pris and Pokey sleep in the hall when they made love, and his request that she wear her hair loosely tied, not in a knot. She thought to please him was the least she could do, since he tried so hard not to be overbearing when it came to running her ranch.

  Nevertheless, some dim, nameless fear stalked her through her dreams. She kept seeing herself in a struggle, trying to reach her heart's desire—a handsome, dark-eyed man with endearing dimples—and yet she always seemed to be bound to a bedpost by some invisible rope or shackle.

  She didn't know what the vision meant, but it disturbed her enough to lose sleep.

  * * *

  The countywide thirst for water was reaching alarming proportions. Ranchers and farmers were willing to do just about anything for water. To Zack's irritation, their attention turned to Hank Rotterdam's desperate, last-minute bid to win votes before the October board election. Not only were most of the cattlemen listening to his cannon idea, the sheepherders and sodbusters were too.

  A few more levelheaded souls, like Rob Cole, Judge Larabee, and Zack's brothers, publicly argued against a full-scale revolt from Zack's treaty. They pointed out that even if Rotterdam's artillery bombardments did produce better results than the prayer vigils and rain dances, neighborly cooperation among sheepherders and cattlemen was vital to ensure a lasting peace throughout Bandera County.

  They were talking pretty much to themselves, though.

  Doing his level best to push his campaign concerns from his mind, Zack reminded himself he had bigger problems closer to home. The drought was putting Bailey on edge, and she worried incessantly about her ability to water her livestock. Her business pressures were putting a tremendous strain on her patience, which made peaceful living a challenge—to say the least. To watch her agonize over concerns that most women never contemplated made him feel helpless, even useless. He wanted so badly to make things right for her, but he couldn't. The best he could do was try to shield her from some of the frustration and the pain.

  That's why he decided not to tell her about One Toe's raid.

  Squatting beside the migrant Mexican shearer who had discovered the cat's half-eaten cabrito feast, Zack gazed narrowly at the telltale paw prints and the four butchered doe goats the cougar had slaughtered for spite. One Toe had been clever enough to raid a pen too far from the house to risk gunfire, yet close enough to the yearling ewes' pen to give their guard dogs conniption fits. Now Zack understood why his dreams had been haunted by howling hounds.

  He muttered an oath, half in anger, half in guilt. Bailey, being the wildcat that she was, had worn him out the night before in the best way a man could possibly get tired, and he'd slept like a log, oblivious to the cougar attack.

  Then again, who would have thought One Toe would dare to come down into the canyon, where Bailey kept her breeders, her kids, and her lambs? The cat had whole pastures worth of adult livestock up in the mesquite and the shin oak to stalk.

  Zack felt like a complete failure. He was supposed to be protecting Bailey and her livestock, not relying on the canyon walls to do it.

  "Not a word of this to the senorita, Pancho," he told the head shearer, who had accompanied him to the pens to view stock.

  "Sí, senor." The Mexican's eyes were disapproving above his drooping mustachio. "But she will miss these four, no?"

  Zack ground his teeth. He hoped not. He rarely realized when a couple of cows were missing from a roundup until the final count was in. Bailey's final doe count wouldn't occur until the following evening. By that time, he hoped to have the carnage removed. Then when he told her the bad news, she wouldn't run out and aggravate herself by looking at it.

  He blew out his breath. He just hoped those does weren't among the ones
that Bailey had named, like pets.

  "The senorita has too much on her mind right now, Pancho, to frighten her with worries of cougars. Do you understand?"

  The man shrugged, raising his sombrero to adjust the bandanna he wore over his head. Zack suspected that Pancho thought he was a cabrito-hating gringo and that his loyalty was to Bailey.

  As it should be, Zack reminded himself.

  Still, it was hard to get used to the idea that he was less than a boss and more than a foreman. Just what the hell was he on this spread? Bailey hadn't said she would marry him, and he'd asked for her answer three weeks ago.

  Maybe it was time to discuss matrimony again.

  That night, while the shearers furtively removed the goat carcasses, Zack sat over a half-eaten plate of cabrito and fidgeted while Bailey heaped praises on him.

  "You sure showed that old billy goat who was boss," she crowed, her eyes shining with a glow that transcended the dining room's oil lamps. "Poor Wildhorn never knew what hit him. Mac's the only man who could ever get a rope around that devil. The shearers refused to try after the first couple of seasons, 'cause Wildhorn flat out gored two of them. I think Pancho looks at you as a kind of hero now. Not a bad day's work, compadre, considering how much Pancho dislikes gringo cowboys."

  Avoiding her gaze, Zack pushed his plate away. "I did only what comes natural."

  "You're too modest by far." She chuckled, a rare and sweet sound these days. "I've never seen a greenhorn catch on to clipping quite as fast as you did. Shoot, by week's end, you'll be bagging almost as much mohair as I do. And you know I can't let that happen. Reckon I'll just have to stay on my toes."

  He couldn't help but smile at her teasing. "Reckon you will," he murmured, reaching for her hand.

  She grinned, curling her fingers through his and cupping her chin in her palm. "Did you see poor Pancho when Hank's cannon went off this afternoon? He jumped so hard, he nearly put his shoulders through the top of his sombrero. That must've been one helluva way to wake up from a siesta."