Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  Feeling strangely displaced, Bailey wandered between the sycamore tree—where the women were gossiping as they guarded their baked goods from wide-eyed youngsters—and the wooden frames of her new smokehouse, toolshed, and barn, where the men were laughing as they rubbed elbows. She kept hoping a black gelding would top the rim of the canyon, or she'd hear a whiskey-smooth, bass voice calling out her name. But the river of volunteers had dwindled to a trickle now. The last arrivals, the Rotterdams, came around eleven o'clock, herding a fine Berkshire sow and five half-grown shoats.

  Bailey intercepted Hank near her well while the twins fenced the hogs inside one of the pens that Rob and Jesse Cole had finished stringing. The fifty or so yearling goats that had outclimbed the fire and her twenty surviving breeding ewes would have to be culled from Vasquez's flocks after the volunteers finished raising her buildings.

  "Mornin', Miss Bailey." Hank greeted her with uncharacteristic humility. His deep blue eyes scanned the charred grounds, the barren orchard, and the flurry of activity taking place in the new barnyard. "I'm mighty sorry to see my storm brought you so much trouble."

  Bailey arched her eyebrows as the twins joined them. "Your storm?"

  "Pa claims his cannon brought the rain," Nat explained with careful gravity.

  Hank snorted. "'Claims' nothing, boy. Old Reb took only a week to warm up to her job, not like all those upstart pretenders who've been humbugging this county since last autumn. But go ahead, have your doubts. You won't be so quick to thumb your nose at my cannon when a Rotterdam sits in the governor's mansion."

  Nat looked to his brother for support. Nick rolled his eyes as if to say, "I'll believe it when I see it."

  Bailey hid her smile. Hank wasn't the only one taking credit for the end of the drought. Preacher Underwood's congregation boasted that their six months of prayers had been answered, while the Indian rain dancers claimed that their lifelong influence with the Great Spirit had done the trick.

  "Well, I'm glad you came by, Hank," she told him solemnly. "It means a lot."

  He reddened, giving her shoulder an awkward pat. "Seemed like the least I could do, ma'am, after you were so generous with your water. Folks around these parts ain't forgotten how you've always been ready to lend a hand to those in need. I know the Rotterdarns and McShanes have had some, er, misunderstandings in the past, but that's all behind us now, right, neighbor?"

  Bailey blinked the sting from her eyes. Her daddy would have been dumbfounded to hear the Rotterdam patriarch say such a thing. "Reckon so, Hank."

  Nick grinned, elbowing her in the ribs. "We figured you'd get plenty of bull from that sweetheart of yours, so we went ahead and brought you some pork."

  "Yeah, in honor of your rodeo," Nat chimed in. He leaned toward her and whispered, "I still say you were the better pig herder."

  Bailey managed a weak laugh. She didn't seem able to pass more than a minute or two without someone reminding her of Zack... and the love she'd apparently lost.

  Hank's cagey eyes were studying her. "You haven't heard from him, have you."

  She sighed. "No. Have you?"

  "No, ma'am, I haven't." Hank's brow furrowed. "Seems strange though. He used to want that presidential office plenty bad."

  "Someone oughta tan Rawlins's hide for running out on you," Nat grumbled.

  "Yeah. Want us to do it?" Nick asked hopefully.

  "Naw." She forced a smile. "Amaryllis would have my head if you showed up at the altar with a broken nose."

  "Shoot. I ain't asked her to marry me yet."

  Nat snorted. "Don't think I'm going to stand in for you this time."

  Hank chuckled. "I reckon what my boys are trying to say, Miss Bailey, is that you're still welcome to become a Rotterdam."

  Her vision blurred. "Thanks," she murmured hoarsely.

  Three great bear hugs ensued, then the Rotterdams—her nemeses, her neighbors, her friends—ambled off to pick up hammers and help her rebuild her life.

  A life, she conceded despondently, that wouldn't have much purpose without Zack.

  The day wore on. With every inch that the sun slid closer to the canyon rim, her heart sank nearer to the breaking point. Zack didn't appear. He didn't send word. No one seemed to know where he was.

  I guess he was right, she thought. I guess our love isn't strong enough to survive crisis.

  Cord and Wes exchanged dark looks as they helped their wives load the last of their sleepy children into the wagonbeds. The Rawlins clan was the last to leave as the sun dipped behind the canyon.

  Cord cleared his throat. "You sure you don't want us to stay, Miss Bailey? I mean, there's still plenty of work we can do, even though we got the buildings up and most of the pens fenced."

  "That won't be necessary," she said firmly. "You've been more than neighborly already, and I won't forget how kind your family has been to me. But it's time I started picking up the pieces on my own. Like I always have." Her smile was wan. "Besides, your children are tired. They need their rest."

  Fancy fidgeted, looking to Rorie for support. "Bailey, I'm sure Zack was just delayed."

  "Of course," Rorie said quickly. "I'm sure he would have wanted to be here to help you raise your barn. He cares about you."

  Bailey kept her smile fixed as she clasped each of their hands. "Thank you. And thank you for your help. Have a safe journey home."

  Not until they stopped waving and the wagons rolled out of sight did she let a tear spill past her lashes.

  God, it was lonely here. She'd never realized just how lonely, because in days gone by, she'd always had some chore or business problem to distract her from the price she'd paid for her independence. Now she wished with all her heart that she had more than a cook and some dogs to come home to. She wished she had a family like the Rawlinses. She wished she had Zack.

  Wandering aimlessly, she walked around her new buildings with their fragrant cedar and shiny tin roofs. Buttercup and her calf looked content in their mangers; Sassy and the mule happily munched oats in their stalls.

  With Mac gone and Zack never likely to return, Bailey supposed she had to face facts. She would have to hire on a foreman. Jerky had done what he could, of course, but he was no longer up to the backbreaking labor. Even now she suspected he was dozing to the lullabies of the crickets on the back porch with the dogs. He'd had a full day. So had Pris and Pokey. They'd eaten twice their weight in food.

  Her smile faded as she rounded the corner and approached her new bridge. Her own pastores had laid the timbers. They'd each offered her their best half-breed rams to start studding her stock over again. Their generosity had moved her deeply, but she'd declined. She wanted full-blooded merinos. Rambouillets would be better, but God only knew how she would find the money to buy them. It would take every penny she owned just to pay a good foreman and buy winter grain.

  It was times like these when she wished she had someone to talk to. Someone to love. She desperately wished she could let herself cry on the shoulder of a person who wouldn't expect her to be strong and unemotional, like a boss. She thought of her mother. She wished now that she'd read Lucinda's letters before they'd burned along with Mac's shack. It would have been nice to have family again.

  Maybe, just maybe, it was time to write to Lucinda and bury the hatchet. After all, if she could make peace with her mother, surely there was hope for a truce between her and Zack. She just prayed it wouldn't be twenty-two years in the making, like hers and Lucinda's.

  Wearily, Bailey walked toward the house. No lamps burned in the windows, but a quarter moon was rising fast through the deepening indigo of the heavens. The walls of the canyon loomed over her, great jagged cliffs of ebony shadow. From the path came a flicker of white, catching her eye.

  She frowned, squinting into the quickly fading twilight. She heard the faint scrabble of hooves, an indignant baaing, and the resonant barking of a dog. She sighed. Another sheepherder was coming to pay his respects. She supposed she should be grateful for the company, b
ut disappointment gripped her instead. She'd have to be strong for a little while longer. She'd have to stave off the brunt of her tears.

  Wiping the dampness from her cheeks, she marshalled her courage and dragged her feet toward the pass that dumped out onto her driveway. She thought it strange that the hat on the herder's head looked more like a Stetson than a sombrero. She thought it stranger still that he should travel on horseback rather than on foot, and that he held a coil of rope in his hands to swat his recalcitrant charges. His dog was too large for a Border Collie; still, other breeds could be trained to herd sheep. This one didn't look particularly helpful though, the way it trotted at the center of the fleecy formation.

  In fact, the closer they came, the less her guest and his dog looked like a well-precisioned team. She began to suspect neither knew much about sheep. She began to suspect...

  The herder was Zack!

  With an unladylike whoop, she threw off her hat and raced across the blackened earth toward the great, prancing gelding and the cowboy on his back. The half-dozen sheep ran amok at her approach, but she didn't care. She could sic Pris on them later.

  "Zack, you came home!"

  He caught her in mid-jump, sweeping her up before him onto Boss's back. His face was solemn as she threw her arms around his neck, knocking his hat from his brow. "Reckon I did."

  Uncertainly, she blinked into his unwavering stare, waiting for the warmth to fire in his eyes. Her heart hammered so hard, she was certain he must hear it above her shuddering breaths. "Are—are you here to stay?"

  Boss shifted beneath her, patiently walking the ram and its trailing brood toward an open pen.

  "That all depends." Zack's dimples creased so fleetingly, she wasn't sure she'd seen them. "Seems like we've got a heap of making up to do."

  She bit her lip, uncertain what to make of this response. "We can work things out, Zack. I know we can. I love you, and... and I want to be your wife."

  "Made up your mind, then, did you?"

  She swallowed. He looked so grave. Maybe he hadn't changed his mind after all. Maybe he was only paying a neighborly call to bring her a few sheep.

  Nervously, she glanced at the animals now huddled inside the safety of a pen. In the moonlight, with their smooth bodies and broad chests, they bore more than a passing resemblance to—

  "Rambouillets," she whispered. Her heart kicked hard. "You bought me rambouillets?" She searched his face for some hint of his motive. "But they're considered the best in the world."

  "That's what Mac said." The corner of Zack's mouth quirked. "I figured he could teach me a thing or two about the breed."

  "You—you went to see Mac?"

  "Uh-huh."

  She blinked up into his eyes, two bottomless pools of molasses, and her mind reeled to know that he'd journeyed all the way to visit Mac. Had the two men she loved most in the world made peace? Surely Zack wouldn't have traveled all the way from the Rio Grande valley to Bandera with six sheep—rambouillet sheep, no less—if he didn't want to make amends with her too.

  As if guessing her train of thought, he smoothed his features into stoic lines. "Now, then. In honor of the McShane family tradition of naming breeders instead of notching them, I have a couple of new arrivals for you to meet. That strapping young stud over there is Champ. And that's Bonnie, Bessie, Beulah, Belle, and Bernadine," he continued, pointing out each of the ewes in turn.

  "Uh... you named a ewe Bernadine?" The French equivalent for brave as a bear? She couldn't keep her nose from wrinkling.

  "Got a problem with that?"

  "Nope," she answered hastily. I'll just call her Nadine.

  "Good. Now, this here oversized, slobbering eyesore," he drawled, his voice a delicious rumble in her ear, "is what you'd call their guard dog. The cur scares the living daylights out of coyotes, but he doesn't have a lick of sense when it comes to droving—er, herding," Zack corrected himself. He cast her a sideways look. "I would've named him Boo, but I figured that name's gone down in history. So I dubbed him Cur Mudgeon."

  "Curmudgeon," she repeated carefully, gazing down with some bemusement on the younger, uglier cousin of her own dearly departed hound. Poor pup. We'll find you a decent name soon.

  The beast licked its chops.

  "He looks hungry," she noted.

  "Naw. He always looks like that. It's part of his strategy for scaring off varmints."

  "I see," she said, matching his grave tone and hiding her smile. After three weeks of herding, her cattleman had apparently grown attached to his hoofed locusts and their canine defender. She desperately wanted to believe Zack's growing fondness for sheep was a good sign.

  He dismounted, helping her down from his horse. The heat of his hands on her waist shot a crackling response down every nerve. It was a heady, bittersweet sensation, and her fingers trembled on his shoulders as he let her slide to the ground. Why was he stalling? Why wouldn't he tell her whether he wanted to take her as his wife?

  "Come see the sheep," he said in a husky murmur, taking her hand and leading her to the pen.

  "But—"

  "I want to make sure you approve. I'm still green at judging woollies."

  She trailed after him, for once in her life more interested in romance than business. "Can't this wait till the sun's up?"

  "Nope."

  She stifled her sigh and pressed past him. The females were relatively tame. They let her move among them, running her hands over their backs as she inspected the weight and texture of their fleeces. They were beautiful animals, no doubt the pride and joy of Mac and his brother-in-law. Now they were Zack's.

  She glanced his way. He instantly hid his grin. Folding his arms, he jerked his head toward the ram. A strange premonition danced through her insides. Her pulse quickening, she turned toward Champ.

  That's when she spied the sheen of something satiny tied around his neck. She hadn't noticed the bow behind his horns before... or the small scroll of paper attached to the ribbon. Her hands shaking, she stooped to retrieve it from the ram, who snorted and trotted off, greatly relieved to be free of his red noose.

  The message was brief, but it brought a mist to her eyes. She tried to focus on the words again in the last fading rays of twilight: "I'm your wedding gift, if you'll still have a bullheaded cowboy as your man."

  "Oh, Zack." Her throat constricted. She couldn't say a single thing more. All she could do was stand there helplessly nodding, his proposal clutched to her chest.

  His arms closed around her, and his warm, earthy chuckle resonated through every fiber of her being. "Don't tell me you're actually giving me the last word."

  When she laughed, she tasted tears. "That would be a first, wouldn't it?"

  "Uh-huh." His hands smoothed over her back, drawing her closer. For a precious moment, the only sound she heard was the rushing cadence of his heart.

  "Bailey, I'm sorry." His voice sounded strangely hushed above her head. "I should never have walked out on you. Not when you needed me—"

  "It's behind us now, Zack. You came back. That's all that matters."

  He swallowed. The tension slowly eased from his shoulders, and he nuzzled her hair.

  "I tried to get here sooner. I never realized sheep would take so damned long to walk here from the train depot."

  She giggled into his shoulder.

  "I missed you," he whispered against her ear.

  She slipped her arms around his waist. "I missed you too."

  "I should have known I couldn't live without you, Bailey. When I nearly lost you twice in one day, I think I must have gone mad."

  A lump rose to her throat. "I did lose you, Zack. And it was the single most awful feeling in the world. I... didn't think I could go on without you."

  He cupped her cheek in his palm, raising her head. She was surprised, and deeply moved, to see the moistness in his eyes.

  "Honey, you'll never have to be alone again if you don't want to be. I know I've made mistakes. I may never fully understand all the
things you feel, or even how you think, but I'm trying. I swear I am. The important thing is, I know I love you. I want to be what you need." His thumb brushed in gentle entreaty over her lips. "What you want."

  She felt the giddy rush of feeling, smoky warm, sweetly feminine. For once, she didn't mind. On this night she was glad to be a woman. A woman in love with her man.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed up into the soulful eyes of the lover who had seen beyond her bluster, daring to cherish the truth of who she was; the mate who had gifted her with his friendship and his heart so she could find the courage to be what she'd always secretly wanted to be: whole.

  "So," she said, her skin tingling beneath his caress, "how are we going to settle that cattleman-sheep rancher rodeo?"

  "You mean the contest?"

  "Sure. I figure you're the winner, since you rode out and shot Old One Toe."

  An endearing dimple flirted with the corner of his mouth. "I did, didn't I?"

  "Yep. And since you bagged that cat, I reckon we'll have to say the cattlemen won."

  "Hmm." He slanted her a mischievous look. "Can't say I agree with you there."

  "No?"

  He shook his head. "Seeing as how I'm a cattle, goat, and sheep rancher now, I reckon both sides will just have to settle for a draw."

  "That's right sporting of you."

  "Naw. I still want my prize."

  "Do you now?" She arched an eyebrow at his half-serious tone. "I'm a little short on cash at the moment."

  "Now that's a downright shame." His lashes drifted lower, and his voice dropped to a throbbing murmur. "Maybe we could work something out in trade."

  "You mean a compromise?"

  "You could call it that."

  A lovely shiver of anticipation tiptoed down her spine. "What did you have in mind?"