Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  His throat worked for a moment. He looked angry—no, hurt. She couldn't tell. She reached a shaking hand to touch him, to steal some small degree of comfort, when suddenly his head snapped back around, and he was facing her again. She flinched, retreating a step before the raw emotion etched into his features.

  Then her attention was snatched away by a thick, gray-black plume that was spiraling into the southeastern sky beyond his shoulder.

  Dread coiled like a sickness in her gut. Whatever he would have said in that instant was lost.

  "Dear God," she breathed.

  He frowned, and she pointed a quaking finger.

  "Zack, look. Smoke! It's coming from the direction of the house!"

  Chapter 22

  The look on Bailey's face was almost too much for Zack to bear. As hurt as he was over her rejection the night before, he knew Bailey was suffering even more to see her ranch besieged by wildfire.

  Running beside her to the horses, he shoved down his own pain and resurrected his anger—mostly at himself. Somehow, circumstances had conspired against him again. Her home, their home, was in danger. With that heart-wrenching realization came the knowledge that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to spare her from the agony of watching her world turn to ashes.

  They spurred their horses to a dead run beneath the lash and rumble of the threatening storm. Even so, nearly twenty minutes passed before they reached the belching bowels of hell that had once been a pastoral canyon. Zack choked back a curse. From their vantage point on the cliff, he could see the flaming walls of her barn, its silo, and the towering inferno that had been a windmill. Lightning must have struck its blades, because they still showered sparks. Rings of fire devoured the dry grasses, pinning her livestock in their pens. He shuddered to hear the terrified bleating of the goats. The sheep huddled in macabre silence.

  "Stay here, where it's safe!" he shouted, spurring Boss toward the path.

  "I can't! The animals!"

  "Dammit, Bailey, for once don't argue."

  Bailey swallowed, watching fearfully as Zack and his gelding were swallowed by the smoke. Pokey whimpered in her arms. She could feel the puppy's heart beating even faster than hers, and she sickened to think of her kids and lambs, her ewes and does, trapped in enclosures that she's built to keep them safe.

  The irony made her squirm with guilt.

  Zack couldn't possibly free all those goats and sheep by himself. She couldn't sit there. She had to do something.

  After tethering Pokey beneath the shade of a sumac, she mouthed a prayer and spurred Sassy toward the nightmare below.

  In the distance, through the billowing walls of smoke, she spied a wizened, gnomelike man and the collie that were valiantly trying to rally the sheep. In her excitement, Pris's sharp barks were more high-pitched than usual, and Jerky's calls were sprinkled with hacking coughs. Pancho's sombrero bobbed near the barn as he chased Buttercup and the mule across the bridge to the yard beyond. Only the house stood untouched by the conflagration, wrapped as it was by the bend in the stream. One errant spark, one fickle breeze, and Bailey knew her home would be razed.

  Dear God, what have I done to deserve this?

  With shaking hands she wrestled Sassy to a halt and tied her, snorting and stomping, as close to the house as she dared. Zack had already dismounted and was sprinting across the bridge with his bandanna tied across his nose and mouth. Bailey thought to do the same, until she remembered she had dropped her neckerchief in the dry creek bed when she'd been running from One Toe. She muttered an oath. She didn't have time to get a new one.

  "Jerky!" she shouted above a particularly ominous roll of thunder. Lightning sizzled and flashed. A cloud, fat and heavy with rain, loomed grayer than the smoke swirling over her canyon. Why wouldn't the damned thing burst? "Jerky, set those Angora bucks free!"

  She couldn't tell if he heard her or not. He and Pris were in the stud rams' pen, trying to drive out the stupefied yearlings. Her eyes stinging from the smoke, she dodged patches of fire, keeping her head ducked and her sleeve across her nose as she raced toward her prize goats. With Grumbles gone, Wildhorn and his sons were the most valuable animals in the pens.

  Coughing, she blinked back tears as she struggled with the latches on the outer and inner enclosures. The bucks milled in consternation, pressing up against the gate. The added crush of terrified bodies slammed the barrier back, throwing Bailey off balance. She cried out as the bucks charged, pinning her between the gate and slashing barbed wire.

  "Bailey!" It was Zack's voice, raised in near panic. "Bailey, look out!"

  A foreboding creaking suddenly gave way to the splintering of wood. Bailey glanced up in time to see the windmill uproot itself, toppling in flames. She could do little more than scream, throwing her arms over her head. The tower crashed, miraculously bouncing off the fence, not her. Embers showered the enclosure. Walls of fire whooshed skyward. She was trapped with her bucks.

  Sobbing, she struggled to push the gate forward. Flames greedily consumed the grass behind her; the windmill belched fire, ringing the outer enclosure. As Wildhorn galloped madly past, the yearlings retreated, pressing against the gate. Bailey gagged at the stench of their singed fleeces, but she knew the goats were in less danger of burning than of suffocating in the smoke. Mohair, like wool, was practically fire resistant.

  "Bailey!"

  "I'm here, Zack!"

  He materialized, running, a dark and glistening arrow that ripped through the smoke. Somehow he'd crossed hell to reach her island of death. Now he was beating a path through the bucks with a stick.

  "Hold on, baby! Hold on!"

  With superhuman strength, he plowed the gate through the crush of goats, freeing her from the fence. She staggered forward, slashed and blood-splattered, and he dragged her to his side.

  "Thank God," he choked. "You're alive." He crushed her against his sodden length. She felt his tremor, the hammering of his heart. Then something wet and woolly descended over her head.

  "Quick! Wrap yourself in my saddle blanket."

  She barely had time to protest before her feet left the ground. His shoulder slammed into her chest, knocking the wind from her for the second time that day. Hanging upside down, her head somewhere near his spine, she wheezed out a protest as he plowed through the goats.

  "Zack—"

  "Keep your head down!"

  The smoke and heat intensified. She realized he was charging the outer ring of fire, and she quailed, uncertain whether to cower or flail. She could see nothing but the ever-brightening gloom beyond the blanket. Somehow, that was more frightening than witnessing the entire holocaust.

  "Zack, put me down!" she called in rising fear.

  "Quit squirming!"

  Thunder boomed. The earth heaved. Zack staggered, his heart slamming so hard into his ribs, he could almost feel it bleed. The smoke, the smell of scorched mohair—both were suffocating even to him, and he wasn't swaddled in woolen darkness. "We're almost there, Bailey. Hang on."

  He ducked his head, gulping a breath to storm the final gate of hell. He could see little except a swirl of red, gray, and yellow. Cinders landed, making sizzling sounds on his precious load. He cursed the drought, the dry storm. He cursed himself for not being able to run faster when he banged his knees on broken timber and tripped over ruts in the yard.

  Suddenly the air grew cooler. The smoke became lighter. They'd made it through the blaze.

  He blinked the sting from his eyes. Vaguely, through the waves of heat, he could make out Pancho and Jerky, waiting near the big house. Taking the quickest route, Zack scrambled down the bank and plunged into the stream. Spray showered him; mud sucked him down. Bailey began writhing once more.

  "Where are you going?" Her voice was muffled, but her fright rang loud in his ear. "We can't leave the sheep!"

  "It's too late for them."

  "No!"

  "You'll only get yourself killed."

  "You have no right to keep
me from them!"

  "I'm sorry," he ground out, barely keeping his balance as she kicked helplessly in his grasp. "You can curse me if you like, but I won't stand by and watch you burn."

  He struggled up the far bank. Pris whined, and Jerky muttered something like a prayer, his voice too raw from smoke to make the words intelligible.

  Suddenly Zack was pelted by wetness. Big, fat drops of rain fell faster until they cascaded in torrents, drenching his jeans, soaking his shirt and hair.

  Too little, too late, dammit. Ob, God, Bailey, I'm so sorry.

  His throat constricting, he climbed the porch steps and set her on her feet. She shoved blindly at his chest, trying to put distance between them as she tugged the blanket off her head.

  When she stared through the veil of the storm, the horror on her face made his heart wrench.

  From the barnyard to the rear of the box canyon, everything on the far side of the stream was ablaze. Engulfed by flames were the barn where he'd helped her save her cow; the enclosure where he'd ribbed her about her livestock's names; the bridge over which he'd chased her, laughing, the first night they'd made love.

  "Don't look," he said hoarsely, catching her arm and turning her away from the inferno. The cows and Sassy, Pris and the mule, all cowered safely near the walls of the house. The rest of her animals cried piteously, trapped in their pens or against the limestone walls of the canyon.

  Bailey covered her ears. Judging by the way she screwed up her face, she hadn't shut out the bleating.

  "Senorita, we did what we could...." Pancho's voice trailed off.

  Pris pushed her paw against Bailey's thigh; Jerky cleared his throat.

  "The rain'll save the house," the cook said in a low, gruff voice. "That's a blessing. "

  "How can you say that?" Bailey's voice cracked. "There's nothing blessed about this!"

  Her face was so white, Zack feared she might faint.

  "Bailey, you need to sit down—"

  "Don't tell me what I need!" She turned on him, her eyes huge and watery. "That's how all this started: you telling me how I should be. If you hadn't ridden away last night, I wouldn't have gone out looking for you. I would have been here, and I could have stopped the fire!"

  He drew a sharp breath, too stunned to comprehend her attack. "There's nothing you could have done, Bailey."

  "You can't know that! Damn your arrogance. How dare you throw me over your shoulder and keep me from saving my sheep?"

  Pancho coughed delicately. Jerky scuffed his toe against the floorboards.

  Zack stood stone still. Every muscle in his frame strained to hold on to his fragile self-control. She'd flayed him alive last night with her tongue; she'd shut him out; she'd sent him away. Now, after he'd risked life and limb for her, she was spitting at him like a cornered wildcat. Had it ever occurred to her that he might have died in that blaze, trying to save her ungrateful hide?

  "I made sure you stayed alive, Bailey. I'm not going to apologize for that."

  "Of course not, Zack." Tears were streaming down her face. "It's either your way or no way. You're always so certain you know what's best!"

  His jaw started twitching. When she spun away, as if to dash off the porch and run into the yard, he closed hard fingers around her arm. "You're not going out there again, Bailey."

  She twisted, then tugged. A sob hiccupped from her throat. "Let me be! Damn you, is it too much to ask, on the worst day of my life, that you might understand? I've lost everything! Boo and Mac, Grumbles and the sheep, the goats, the ranch, my father—everything! Everything I've ever worked for. Everything that means anything to me!"

  He felt the sting of those words all the way to his soul.

  "I see."

  She dashed away tears, and he dropped his hand.

  Something gray and cold swept through him, mercilessly numbing the pain. He loved her ranch. He'd worked for it too. The only difference, he supposed, was that he didn't place it above her in his affections.

  His bitterness threatened to choke him.

  At last the truth was out. He should have seen it coming. Hadn't she delayed for three weeks in giving him an answer to his marriage proposal?

  In some dark, cobwebbed corner of his being, he realized that a fear had taken root after his other failed courtships. He'd come to believe he couldn't make a woman fall in love with him. He'd come to believe he wasn't good enough, charming enough, heroic enough to be loved. He supposed that was why he'd been so desperate to make Bailey need him.

  Well, he'd failed on all accounts this time.

  Maybe it was for the best. He'd grown weary of arguing. Standing alone in her grief, Bailey was beyond reach, beyond reason. If she preferred loneliness over him, so be it. He didn't have to stick around and let her carve out his heart. He didn't have to plead for her forgiveness, beg for her hand in marriage. Love had its limits.

  He'd reached his.

  "I'll send my men to help clear the carnage," he said. "If you like, I'll speak to Cord about making a place for you in his home. The stench will be overwhelming here until the carcasses are removed."

  Bailey blinked. Anger no longer rode the crest of her grief, but as her rage ebbed, she felt as if she'd been pounded against the rocks and left to drown. To lose her ranch was to lose her freedom. In a society where a woman was the possession of her husband under the law, the only things Bailey had standing between her and oppression were her livestock and her eight thousand acres.

  Even so, she shouldn't have lashed out at Zack. He wasn't her enemy.

  "Zack, I'm sorry. I—"

  He stepped past her into the rain. "I've had enough, Bailey."

  She was too dazed to comprehend until he strode toward his horse. A tendril of dread wrapped around her heart.

  "Wait!" She hurried after him, heedless of the slashing raindrops that plastered her hair and rolled down her collar. "Wh-where are you going?"

  "You asked to be left alone. I'm obliging."

  He swung into the saddle.

  "I didn't mean you should leave!"

  He was turning Boss's head around. She tried to reach his reins, but her boots slid in the mud.

  "Wait! When will you be back?"

  He hesitated, rainwater sheeting from his hat brim, Boss prancing nervously beneath him. His features were stark, unnaturally pale. She tried to see his eyes, but no light flickered there.

  "What would be the point? We've both been mistaken to call this thing that we have 'love.' Love would have held us together during a crisis like this. But I can't think of a time when we've been further apart."

  She gaped.

  He tipped his hat.

  "Good-bye, Bailey."

  "No! I said I was sorry. Zack, please! Don't leave me."

  Boss broke into a canter.

  "Zack!"

  His spine grew more rigid at her cry.

  "Zack, you're all I have left!"

  Thunder rumbled; the wind snatched her words away. All her pleas, all her apologies, were useless.

  He was gone.

  * * *

  The rain pummeled the ground for three days and three nights. Bailey watched it forlornly from the sitting room in Cord Rawlins's home. She'd gone there not so much because of the stench near her homestead, which was undeniable, or the flooding, which had always been more of a problem than any drought on her flat canyon floor.

  No, she'd gone there out of loneliness. And the cherished hope that she might see Zack.

  He never appeared, though. He never came home. Although none of his kinfolk seemed particularly concerned by his absence—they confided he liked his solitude—Bailey conjured all manner of disasters because he'd ridden off in a hail of lightning and rain.

  Besides, he'd been so blisteringly angry. He hadn't been thinking straight, and she clung to that thought, hoping he'd spent the last few days holed up somewhere to ride out the storm and calm down.

  On the fourth evening of rain, Bailey's worst fears for Zack's safety were
relieved by Seth. Defying the bedtime rules and earning his mother's censure, the nine-year-old grumbled all the way up the stairs that he was going to hide out with his Uncle Zack in the Reedstrom Hotel so he, too, wouldn't be pestered by women.

  Rorie and Fancy looked as surprised by Seth's revelation as Bailey had been. But before their womenfolk could question them, Wes and Cord suddenly remembered they had to muck stalls and bolted out the door.

  Too relieved by the news of Zack's safety to want to throttle his brothers—at least for the moment—Bailey paced beside the sitting room window, waiting impatiently for the next lull in the downpour. Rorie perched on a rustic cowhide settee, rocking Little Wes and Sarah in the same cradle. Fancy sat in an armchair, reading aloud W. R. Alger's The Friendship of Women, until Aunt Lally jumped up with an oath and hurried to the kitchen to rescue her burning pies.

  Her reading interrupted, Fancy set the book aside and looked at Bailey. "You've been pacing and muttering most of the night now. You aren't planning what I think you're planning, are you?"

  Bailey's chin rose with determination. "I can't let Zack ride out of my life. I have to make him change his mind."

  "So you're going to hit him with a club and drag him off to your cave, is that it?"

  Bailey winced. "Well... he is my man."

  Fancy sighed, shaking her head. "Bailey, Bailey, Bailey. Wooing a man requires tact. Some finesse. Zack's as stubborn as you are. If you start butting heads again, you'll do more harm than good."

  "I have to agree," Rorie said. "There are other ways besides arguing to earn the respect you want from your man."

  Bailey shifted from foot to foot. "There are?"

  Fancy smiled, a mischievous glint lighting her violet eyes. "Oh, most certainly. We are the cleverer sex, after all."

  Bailey could heartily agree with that. Postponing her hastily made plan to dash off into the stormy night and beat down Zack's door, she dragged a cane chair into a pool of lamplight and joined the older, wiser women at the far side of the sitting room.