Zack nodded distractedly. He was thinking the artillery blasts were worse than thunder. Wes and Cord, Rob Cole, and a couple of farmers to the east of Rotterdam's spread were petitioning Judge Larabee to make Hank move Old Reb to an unpopulated part of the county. The noise was stampeding their livestock. After ten days of earth-quaking blasts, not a single raindrop had fallen, and the novelty was wearing thin.
"Speaking of siestas," Bailey purred, rising and trying to tug him to his feet, "I think we're due for one."
He gazed into her sun-bronzed face, with its tawny eyebrows and catlike smile, and her feral beauty called to him in a deeply primitive way. He liked when she was the aggressor. He liked it a lot.
All his shearing successes aside, though, he wasn't feeling particularly good about his failure to protect her livestock. "Bailey, we need to talk."
She flashed him a positively wicked grin and caught his other hand. "It can wait," she drawled, succeeding in pulling him from his chair. "It's time I showed you just how proud I am of you."
"Uh, that's probably not a good idea, what with the shearers outside and—"
"Forget them." She rubbed herself against his hips and weaved a hand through his hair. Tugging his head down for her kiss, she whispered, "I want you."
Her husky words shivered through him. His feelings of failure began to subside when he touched her lips with his own and tasted her eager response. It was easy to get lost in her desire, in the need it fanned in him. It was easy to forget the inappropriateness of reaching down to grasp her buttocks, lifting her hips higher while Jerky fed the dogs in the kitchen.
Zack felt the rush of her pulse, the thunder of his own. Confidence surged through him when she plunged her tongue into his mouth.
Pushing her shoulders into the wall, he relished the way she squirmed to get closer. He'd never needed to teach Bailey much; she'd always surrendered to her instincts. And what her instincts led her to do invariably drove him wild.
She hiked herself up, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he groaned when she pulled him between her thighs, moving with an urgency that made him curse the restraint of clothes. He kneaded her buttocks in time to her rhythm, and her breathing grew more shallow.
"Take me here," she whispered, "on the table."
His eyes slitted, and his brain spun with the temptation.
"Can't do that." He heaved himself away from the wall, carrying her with him to the stairs, and her laughter was a throaty rumble in his ear.
"You know you'd like it."
"There are five migrant Mexicans camping outside who could peek in the window and carry tales."
"Not to mention what Jerky would say." Her teeth fastened on his ear. "Aw, you didn't get shy on me again, did you, darlin'?"
She was goading him, the little hellcat. He chuckled, tingling to the roots of his hair as her hot breath blew inside his ear. "One of these days I just might take you up on that table thing."
"Promises, promises."
He kicked the door closed and toppled with her onto the bed. She squealed, trying to roll away and claim the upper berth, but he was faster, pinning her with his weight.
"Hey! No fair. I started this, Zachariah Rawlins—"
He fastened his mouth over hers, sliding a hand between them and wrestling with her jeans. "And I'm going to finish it," he growled, finding her pulsing center, feeling it hot and wet and welcoming as it wrapped around his finger. She arched and shuddered, and he plunged again.
"Zack," she gasped, writhing as if torn between the pleasure he would give her and her determination to be the conqueror. He knew she'd just torment him if he gave her the upper hand. They'd played this game before.
"I want—"
"Hmm?" he taunted, stroking the places he knew she liked best.
She sighed, then she whimpered, her fingers clawing his shoulders. He reveled in the yowls and growls she made when he unleashed her femaleness. He loved when she tossed her head and pitched beneath him, consumed by her own need, taking him to heights he'd never dreamed of.
"I want... to do... the loving," she panted, licking her lips, the gleam in her eye promising a retribution worth dying for.
He reached rather feverishly for his own jeans. "Why?" he whispered. "Don't I make you feel good?"
"Yes, but—"
He slipped his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his finger. "Don't you like when I love you so you don't have to think about business? So all you have to do is be my woman?"
A gunshot cut off her answer. A second report bounced off the canyon walls and shook the windows. Their bodies tensed as they listened, straining with every nerve and fiber.
"What was that?" she asked, her breaths mingling with his.
"I don't know."
Their eyes locked, and the worry he saw in hers made him curse himself all over again for failing to protect her spread. Easing from her length, he slapped his buckle back into place, and threw open the door, running for his rifle. Within heartbeats, he heard her footfalls behind him on the stairs.
The shearers were all awake and armed. Beneath the slice of the harvest moon, their stubbled faces were tense, either with unease or frustration, as they peered at the ghostly fleeced shadows in the livestock pens. The guard dogs were barking furiously.
"Pancho," Zack called, sliding to a halt beside the burly Mexican. "What the hell's going on?"
"El diablo, senor," the shearer said grimly. "He had a taste for more cabrito but dined instead on camera."
"What?" Somewhat disheveled but properly buttoned, Bailey caught up with Zack and shook his arm. "What did he say?"
Zack turned away, too guilty to face her. Jerky, who was carrying a lantern, emerged with Pris from the rams' pen. Pokey was snuffling and growling in their wakes.
"Two yearlings dead." Grunting, Jerky halted and reached unceremoniously for Zack's rifle. "Gimme yer gun. Gotta shoot Grumbles."
"What?" Bailey wedged herself between Jerky and the Winchester. "Why?"
"Damned cougar ripped his guts out."
Her face turned ashen. She pivoted as if to run for the gate, but Zack grabbed her arm.
"Hold on, Bailey. You don't need to see that."
"Don't tell me what I need!" she fired back, and twisted free. Pokey and Pris bounded after her. Zack cursed, giving chase.
The ram was in bad shape, all right. Wheezing, he lay apart from the younger males, all of whom had packed into a huddle as far from their fallen leader as they could get. They were eerily quiet, unlike the cattle that would have been mooing and milling in terror on Zack's ranch. He remembered something Mac had told him: "When the flock falls silent, ye know there's trouble, lad. Sheep willna bleat when they're scared. They stand like stones, hoping the predator willna notice them."
"Grumbles," Bailey murmured, dropping to her knees and placing a hand on her beloved stud's horn. "Jerky, bring me the lantern!"
"Aw, hell," the old man groused, stalking through the gate. "A thousand dollars or not, I told you he ain't worth savin'."
Zack's jaw hardened with his shame. In the stark light of the lamp, he could see that Jerky's prognosis was grimly accurate. But the lamp bared other truths too. Cougar paws had tracked through the blood.
"One Toe, you bastard," Bailey sputtered. She glanced up at Pancho, who'd followed Jerky into the pen. "Did you shoot him?"
"I do not think so, senorita. My men, we were, uh..." His gaze darted uncomfortably toward Zack. "We were busy when el diablo struck."
"Busy? Doing what?"
The Mexican fidgeted under her piercing stare. Zack sighed, sparing the man a lie.
"They were removing four doe carcasses at my command," he said quietly. "One Toe struck the goats last night."
Bailey's breath whistled through her teeth. To her credit, she didn't explode with the outrage that darkened her face. "Jerky, put the ram out of its misery, please. Zack, I'd like a private word with you."
He nodded tersely, handing over his wea
pon as Bailey marched stiff-backed and tight-lipped out of the enclosure. When the report ricocheted off the canyon walls, her stride faltered, but she continued onward to the house without looking back.
Silent, seething, she held open the door to the porch and gestured him inside. He cooperated, moving past her with a worried glance into her eyes. He was relieved to see anger, not tears.
He faced her in the sitting room. "I know what you're going to say—"
"Do you?" she bit out, crossing to the one dimly burning lamp on the wall and turning up its wick. Her features leapt into harsh relief, as if they'd been hammered out of bronze. "Actually, I don't think you do. I don't think you know me well enough to guess."
"All right." He perched on the arm of the settee. He didn't know why his heart was pounding so fast. It wasn't as if she could fire him. "I won't read your mind. Tell me."
"I want you to get busy tracking One Toe tomorrow. I'll oversee the shearing."
His breath released in a rush. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he'd been holding it. "That's all?"
"That's all."
He eyed her narrowly. He'd gotten off too easily. "Then what?"
"Shoot him, of course. I'll have my hands full here. Think you can manage that?"
"I reckon so," he said cautiously.
"Good. Then, good night."
She started walking to the hallway. He blocked her way.
"Wait a minute. I know you're spitting mad. I feel responsible for what happened. I tried to tell you earlier tonight about One Toe, but you kept distracting me. Not that I'm complaining..."
He knew he'd said the wrong thing when she stopped dead in her tracks. The look she gave him had the force of an iron fist.
"You see, you don't know me." One corner of her mouth curled faintly. "I'm not blaming you for the cougar's return, Zack. That would be foolish. But keeping the report of the predation from me, that was inexcusable. You deliberately undermined my leadership in the eyes of those shearers."
"No, Bailey, I was trying to protect you—"
"Don't give me that crap," she flared, her metallic facade finally cracking. "That wasn't protection, that was out-and-out sedition. To say I'm spitting mad wouldn't do my feelings justice. You showed a complete lack of faith in my ability to make business decisions.
"Well, I've got news for you, Zack. Female or not, I'm no man's lackey. And if you don't like the idea of me being your equal in bed, in business, and in every other conceivable place, then you might as well pack your bags and get the hell off my range!"
He stiffened. Her words had cut. Cut deeply. All he'd ever tried to do was keep her from the pain she would feel if she saw what that cougar had done to her prized animals.
"I'm sorry," he said curtly. "That was never my intention."
"Perhaps not. And yet you continue to try to run this ranch. What's the matter, Zack? Can't you bear for your woman, your wife, to handle her own affairs? To have her independence? Tell the truth, please! Break my heart now, because I can't keep holding on, waiting for you to see me as an asset instead of a burden."
He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and his heart ached so much, he thought it might crumble into the churning acid of his gut.
"Bailey, you're not a burden. If you were, I wouldn't want to spend the rest of my days as your husband." He tore his gaze away from hers and stared miserably over her shoulder. "And I'm not trying to take over your business. It's just that I don't know how to behave with you. You say you love me, but there doesn't seem to be a place for me here."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't... I mean, you never..." He blew out his breath and ran a rough hand through his hair. Finally, he shrugged.
"You don't ever seem to need me," he said in a low, hollow voice.
She sighed, and a long while passed. He could hear the clock in the hall ticking away his confidence as he waited, endlessly, for her answer.
Finally, he heard the floorboards creak as she shifted, continuing to stand her ground a foot or more away.
"Zack, of course I need you." Her tone was quieter now, a delicate balance between exasperated and beseeching. "I need your support, your advice, your comfort when I'm upset. What I don't need is a struggle for control. We're two headstrong people. You keep saying you don't want to argue, and yet everything you say challenges everything I try to be. Don't you understand? I want a man to stand beside me, not on top of me."
He stole a glance at her. She looked calmer, less tense. He was glad to see that, but he wasn't sure he understood what she was objecting to. If anyone did the challenging in this relationship, that person was Bailey.
Still, he did have a modicum of sensitivity. He figured now was not the time to point out that fact. He wanted to make peace, not war.
He stepped forward, bridging the distance they'd somehow created. He sensed rather than saw her quiver, like some wild thing poised for flight. Tenderly, he reached a hand to cup her cheek. Her pulse skittered as he lowered his head.
"Zack—"
When she turned her face away, he raised his other hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek, gentling her for his kiss. He was stunned when she tasted like fresh tears.
"Stop it!" She threw her arms out, knocking his away.
"Bailey—"
"No!" She backed away from him like a caged animal, her chest heaving, her breathing shallow. "I won't let you trick me like that anymore!"
He gaped, dumbfounded. Now what was the woman prattling about?
"Trick you? How am I tricking you?"
"Y-you seduce me, and then you use sex to control me."
"Oh, for heaven's sake—"
"That's exactly what you do. Don't deny it! You did it in the line shack, you tried it at the hoedown, and now you're doing it again!"
"Bailey, what I'm trying to do is show you I love you, for God's sake."
"Well, if you loved me, you'd find some other way to make peace. Sex doesn't make our problems go away, it makes them worse. Just because you're feeling all satisfied after we make love doesn't mean I'm as happy as a clam!"
He dropped his fists to his hips. "Now see here, Bailey. I've never forced you to do anything you didn't want to do."
"I'm not saying you did!"
"Then just what the hell are you saying?"
She made an exasperated sound. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said?"
"Yes, I've listened. And frankly, I'm tired of listening. When are you going to take a little portion of the blame?"
"Me?"
"That's right. I figure the problem isn't me trying to control you. I figure the real problem is you're too damned scared to be a woman."
"That's not true!"
"Yeah?" He snorted. "How many times have you avoided feminine things? Jewelry, dresses, dancing, courting? You're scared to hold babies, and you'd rather starve than cook. Even in bed you argue instead of surrendering to the pleasure I'm trying to give you."
Her chin trembled. "That's not fair. I—I'm trying to pleasure you too."
"Well, that may be. But the fact of the matter is, Bailey, you're afraid of becoming what you already are. Like it or not, you live inside a woman's body. So stop punishing me for accepting the truth you'd rather deny."
Bailey choked, her vision blurring. His words had triggered a deep, hidden fear inside her. She didn't want to hear the truth. She didn't want to feel it.
"You're wrong!" she flung back. "And what's worse, you don't really care! Because if you did, you'd stop trying to force me into being your idea of a woman."
Blinking back tears, she bolted past him.
"Bailey—"
She reached the stairs and ran for her room, slamming the door closed behind her. Panting on the threshold, she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. It was in that moment that she realized—to her supreme mortification—that she'd just become the very thing she'd always tried desperately not to be:
Her mother.
A creak on the s
tairs jolted her back to her surroundings. She quailed to hear his steady, purposeful bootfalls ringing closer in the hall. She dived for the key and turned it in the lock.
"Bailey."
His voice was quiet, laced with a thread of iron. It wasn't her father's voice, charged with rage and acrimony. The realization only made her more heartsick, more miserable. She pressed her hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. Why was this happening to her and Zack? They loved each other, didn't they?
"Bailey," he said again. "I don't like when you lock doors on me."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Then will you open up, please?"
She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed. "I—I can't. I want to think about what you said."
He was silent for a moment on the other side of the door. "Bailey, I love you."
"I love you too," she said hoarsely.
"Then let me in. Not just into the room, sweetheart. Let me into your life."
Tears burned twin trails down her cheeks. She trembled, her fingers twitching over the key as she ached to obey his husky, persuasive plea. The female side of her wanted nothing more than to throw back the door and launch herself into his arms.
But her male side knew what would happen next. She'd swallow her resentments. She'd knuckle under, and they'd make love. In the morning, Zack would blissfully go about his day, thinking she was content and he was pardoned. Meanwhile, not a single damned thing would have been solved.
This pattern had to end. Either Zack accepted her on her own terms, or she sent him packing for good.
Please, God, make him understand. I do need him. It's just not the way he's used to being needed.
"Zack," she ventured, struggling to keep the anxiety from her tone, "I can't do what you ask. And I can't accept your marriage proposal until this issue is resolved. Please, try to understand..."
The leather of his boots creaked. She caught her breath, her gaze riveted in morbid fascination on the doorknob.
It never turned.
Instead, she heard the floorboards groan as he walked wordlessly down the hall. The banging of the front door filled her with a sick sense of dread.
Anxiously, she ran to the window, peering past the curtains. She saw his silhouette striding across the yard. Jerky caught up with him, several short words were exchanged, then Zack took his Winchester into the barn. Boss emerged minutes later, a bedroll and two saddlebags bulging behind his master's ramrod-straight spine.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 34