Not that what she thought had ever mattered to him. No, he wasn't courting her. He was courting Amaryllis Larabee.
Pushing such disappointments from her mind, Bailey halted by Boo's tail, prepared to do battle. "That's right, neighbor. It's me. And I'd be much obliged if you'd get the hell out of my way."
Boo didn't waste time on such social niceties. With a ferocious woof, he hurtled past Zack's legs and charged his quarry's den. Bailey heard a crash and a shriek—most likely the whore's—a couple of thuds—probably Nick's sloppily aimed boots—and a barrage of oaths. Then she glimpsed Nick's flanneled length shooting like a flame through the open window. He landed with precarious grace on a convenient oak branch.
"Ha! Stupid mutt!" he jeered. "Can't catch me now, can ya? Go ahead, then, jump. Jump on out after me, mutt!"
Boo was barking wildly, his forepaws scraping at the window ledge, and Bailey narrowed her eyes as Nick broke off a twig to further torment her dog.
"That does it, Rotten-damn."
She tried to shove past Zack as easily as she had the barkeep, but the fortress of muscle barring her way didn't yield. She found herself gazing up his imposing length, past his broad shoulders and the stubbled square of his jaw. Not for the first time did she wish her McShane family ancestors had taken more care to breed their offspring for height.
"Begging your pardon, Miss McShane," Zack said with thinly veiled irritation. He pulled her shotgun from her hands. "Your scattergun is going to get someone hurt."
"Someone already got hurt—to the tune of five hundred dollars." She tried unsuccessfully to wrest the muzzle free. "A gang of wire cutters paid my range a call tonight. One of the bastards left this glove behind, and the scent led Boo to Nick."
To Zack's credit, he didn't reject her story outright. A muscle along his jawline began to twitch, and he shifted his gaze to Nick's kinfolk, seated below them. When he returned the full intensity of his sun-crinkled eyes back to her, he didn't look quite so accusing.
"So you're planning on filling Nick's hide full of buckshot, is that it?"
She couldn't help but blush. Not for the first time did she wonder if Zack had heard the rumors about her and Nick. When she was eleven, ten-year-old "Ick" had dropped his britches behind the schoolhouse and demanded she admire his pecker. He must have never forgiven her for being more impressed with her daddy's stud ram, because on her twenty-first birthday, when she'd gone to him for "lessons," he'd brayed to the entire county that he'd rolled her in the hay. Nothing had been further from the truth—she'd lost her nerve and her dinner—but she let most folks think what they liked, since the rumors helped drive away her more undesirable suitors.
Not that Zack would have been an undesirable suitor, she mused wistfully. She just couldn't let him know how desirable he was. After all, he'd never lavished any of his dimpled smiles on her. He had Amaryllis, the county's favorite belle, while she, Bailey, had the perennial disfavor of the gossips. No one ever linked Saint Zack's name with sordid behavior; he stood too straight and narrow beneath his halo.
She blew out her breath. The one time she actually attracted the man's attention, she was up to her eyeballs in controversy. She just wouldn't have any luck if it wasn't rotten.
"I figure I have more reasons than most for wanting to plug Nick Rotterdam," she answered sullenly.
Tamping down his embarrassment at having a female catch him in a whore's room—even if he had been buying information about a suspected rustler, not sex—Zack gazed down at the pint-sized wildcat with the forthright blue eyes and the endearingly freckled nose and wished for at least the hundredth time she was anyone but Caitlin McShane's cousin. Although he couldn't blame Bailey for the blood running through her veins, he couldn't trust her with that legacy either. He'd vowed on his mother's own Bible never to make the mistake of caring for a McShane woman again.
Maybe that was why Bailey chapped his hide whenever he couldn't avoid her outright. God knew, the girl and that hound of hers had been a thorn in his side ever since he'd first set foot in Bandera County.
"Miss McShane—"
"Stop calling me that! You know my name."
He glanced uncomfortably at the grinning cowboys below, watching his predicament with such amusement. He couldn't very well invite her into the room for a more private discussion, and she didn't look inclined to accompany him downstairs peaceably.
"Where's McTavish?" he demanded with a good deal less aplomb. "Your man should be handling your ranching problems, not you."
"Mac isn't my 'man,' he's my foreman. And I'm perfectly capable of handling my ranch and my business."
Zack grimaced to hear her voice rise above the frenzied barking behind him. Obviously, he'd touched another nerve. How was he supposed to know McTavish had had the good sense not to offer for the little spitfire? Zack couldn't blame the Scot, but if Bailey kept chasing away suitors at this rate, he was never going to have a levelheaded, reasonable man as his neighbor.
He groaned inwardly at the thought.
"Look, Bailey." He lapsed into such familiarity only under duress. "You're doing your cause more harm than good by chasing Nick through the, uh, heifer corral with a shotgun."
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
"Let's go downstairs."
She planted a fist on either hip. "The last time I agreed to cooperate with you, Mr. Cattlemen's president, some idiot cowpoke built a campfire in my northwestern pasture and nearly started a wildfire. I'm all for neighborly relations, letting you cattlemen drive your steers through my mountain pass on your way to market, but not when you're cavalier about the privilege."
"And what does that incident have to do with getting you out of a whorehouse in one piece?"
That question tripped her up—a rare coup. He'd learned from painful experience that Bailey's tongue could flay a man alive, and he had enough trouble talking socially to women without exposing himself to one of her verbal floggings.
"I've got my hound. And my shotgun." Her gaze was defiant despite the fact that she had neither safety precaution at the moment. "I'm not in any danger here."
He resisted a glance at her shapely, denim-sheathed legs. "If you think you're safe dressed in those duds in a saloon full of randy cowboys, you're too naive for your own good. Now, do you want to get to the bottom of this glove matter, or don't you?"
She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again, as if thinking better of her response. "I reckon I'd be safe from you anyway," she grumbled, and whistled at her hound. "Boo! Come."
With her canine champion panting worshipfully at her heels, Bailey preceded him down the hall. They passed Nat Rotterdam on the stairs. The wiseacre smirked, no doubt on his way to rescue his twin's clothes, but Zack ignored the younger man. Hank was the Rotterdam to reckon with.
In fact, as Hank watched their approach, his expression was so openly speculative that Zack wondered if the wily old politician was concocting some sordid rumor about them to foil Zack's reelection hopes.
"What do you know about the glove Bailey found on her range?" Zack demanded the minute his boots reached the taproom floor.
Hank leaned his girth back in his chair and propped his boots up on the table. "Shoot, is that why the little lady's been waving that riding gauntlet under our noses?" Shaking his head, he turned his attention to Bailey. "You gotta know, sugar, if me or my boys had seen any gunny-sackers scaring your sheep or cutting your fences, why, we'd have been the first to tan those polecats' hides. Sorry to hear we weren't able to lend you a neighborly hand. But me and the boys have been, uh, branding heifers here all night long."
"That's right," a half dozen cowboys chimed in loyally.
Zack frowned, wondering if Hank had paid for his alibi. He liked to think his northern neighbor had more scruples than that, since Hank had taken him under his wing nine years ago. At seventeen, Zack had been reeling under the responsibility of establishing his family's cattle business in Bandera, and Hank had generously lent a hand. At the t
ime, Zack's older brother, Cord, had been busy with his duties as deputy U.S. marshal, and his kid brother, Wes, had been more interested in ladies than steers.
Bailey, however, appeared less inclined to give Hank the benefit of the doubt. She folded her arms across her chest. "Oh, so I suppose Nick's gauntlet just magically appeared by the pile of ashes that was once my fence post?"
Hank raised a work-roughened hand. "Now, calm down, Bailey. Nick's saddlebags got stolen 'bout a week ago, and he lost a sight more than an old riding glove. Just 'cause that hound of yours treed my boy doesn't make Nick your wire cutter. That cur dog's had it in for Nick ever since he went and tied a couple of tin cans to Boo's tail."
Boo growled at his nemesis's name. Bailey blew an errant, wheat-colored curl off her forehead. "I don't believe you, Hank."
"Well, now, honey, that's just 'cause you're upset. Why don't you let one of my boys take you home and see you get there safe. Shoot. You know as well as I do you wouldn't be having all these troubles if you had a husband to take care of you and run your spread."
"You son of a—" Bailey's chest heaved. When she rounded on Zack, he could see desperation warring with the outrage in her eyes. "Are you going to let him get away with this—this blackmail?"
Zack fidgeted. Personally, he thought Hank's observation held a ring of truth. It wasn't that Bailey didn't have a good head for business to go with her lion's heart. She did. The problem was, these were hard times. And hard times could be perilous for a lone woman.
"I'm sorry, Bailey, but I have to agree with Hank. Your sheep and your fences wouldn't be such easy targets if you had more men to protect them."
She gaped. "So you're saying I deserved to have my ranch raided? Because I'm a woman?"
"No, dammit. Don't put words in my mouth. I'm saying you can't fight wire cutters and gunnysackers by yourself."
"Now, hold on there, Zack," Hank interrupted, lacing his fingers across his belly. "We cattlemen have certain rights too. Like the right to water our stock. And the right to drive our steers across an open range. You can't go siding with the little lamb lady that way, unless, of course"—he flashed an oily smile—"you're siding against us cattlemen."
Zack felt his hackles rise. Was it his imagination, or had Hank been waiting for this opportunity all night long?
"I'm on the side of justice, Rotterdam," he said tersely.
A rumble of dissatisfaction circled the saloon.
"Hell, Rawlins," Nick called down, shoving his shirttail into his jeans as he leaned over the balcony railing. "When Pa was president of the Cattlemen's Association, the sheepherders and the cowboys got along real fine. There wasn't any gunnysacking or wire cutting going on. 'Course, in them days womenfolk knew their places. You might find one in the hayloft, but you sure wouldn't find one in the shearing barn."
The cowboys guffawed.
Bailey grew stiffer than a new rawhide rope. "Like I've always said, Nick, anytime you want to try and prove you're a better rancher than me, I'd be happy to prove you wrong."
"Aw, Bailey. You'd just embarrass yourself, hon." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Why don't you let me take you home, where we can, uh, spend the night patching things up, okay?"
The others whistled, but Zack was glad when Boo flashed his fangs. The second Nick put a foot on the stairs, the hound erupted into a snarling, barking menace. Nick retreated hastily, but Bailey raised her chin, her eyes kindling for battle. Zack suspected all hell would break loose if he didn't get her out of the saloon.
"C'mon, Bailey," he murmured in her ear. "You can't win. It's time you went home. I'll see you there."
She wrenched her elbow out of his grasp. "I don't need some man telling me when it's time to go home!"
"Hear that, boys?" Hank called to his audience. "Miss Bailey just showed young Rawlins who wears the pants."
"Don't think I'm finished with you yet, Hank."
Her sally drew whoops from the men. Zack took one look at Hank's reddened face, and he knew, Boo or no Boo, Bailey was courting disaster. He caught hold of her arm again, more firmly this time, and began dragging her past the counter.
"I think you do need a man to tell you when it's time to go home," he said grimly.
"Hey!" Twisting in his grasp, she tried to dig her heels into the floor.
Zack held on and kept walking.
"What do you think you're doing?" she panted, stumbling after him to a round of applause.
"Saving your ungrateful little hide."
Boo bounded after them, growling uncertainly.
"I don't recall asking for your help, Zachariah Rawlins, so you can take your misguided chivalry someplace else! I can fight my own battles."
"I'm sure you'd like to think so," he muttered. "No wonder they say sheepherders are crazy. Didn't your daddy ever teach you not to goad a man in public?"
"My daddy taught me how to protect myself." She was still struggling as he flung open the swinging doors. "I'm not afraid of a little showdown."
"'Course not. No man in his right mind would challenge a woman to a showdown."
"Ha! What you're really saying is men are scared to challenge women. Just like Nick was."
He shook his head, finally freeing her in the street. "Trust me, Bailey. Nick and the rest of the Rotterdams aren't scared of you."
He took care to block her access to the saloon as she glared up at him, her breath ragged and her hat askew on her fist-thick braid of tawny hair. He tried not to notice how the swath of lantern light from the saloon made her look pale and so vulnerably alone that his arms ached to shield her from the brutal realities of the life she had chosen. The last thing he needed was to have someone link his name romantically with a lady sheepherder's. He was supposed to be courting the county judge's daughter.
"Now, you listen to me," he said gruffly. "I know you're smart. Smarter than a fox. But you're not acting that way. You need to think things through. Do you have any other proof the Rotterdams were on your property tonight?"
That question knocked some of the wind out of her. She adjusted her Stetson and squared her shoulders, but her hand trembled when it fell, seeking Boo's head as if seeking moral support. "No, but cattlemen have lynched sheepherders on less proof than a glove."
"What are you after, a range war?"
"No! Of course not! I just want to be left in peace. I have as much right to raise sheep as you and Hank Rotterdam have to raise steers."
"No one's contesting your right to run your daddy's business, Bailey."
"The business is mine, dammit! I run the McShane ranch. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"
He suspected she was launching a new attack in an old battle. Doing his best to ignore her bait, he returned the conversation to the subject at hand.
"I'm no law wrangler, but it seems to me if that glove's the only proof you've got, then you don't have much of a case. Most of the waddies who ride from cattle outfit to cattle outfit looking for work wear gloves like that. So what it boils down to is your word against Hank's. And right now, Hank and the twins have alibis."
She looked stricken. "You think I'm lying?"
He silently cursed those ocean-sized blue eyes and the way they could pull at his heartstrings. Of course he didn't think she was lying. But she might have leapt to an unfounded conclusion. Allegations and accusations were constantly flying between the sheepherders and the cattlemen. As president of the board, it was his job to represent the cattlemen. He wasn't completely insensitive to the sheepherders' plight, though. And he was far from immune to damsels in distress.
He chose his next words carefully. Standing within earshot of the cattlemen's favorite watering hole, he was all too keenly aware he might have an audience in the overhead windows, inside the doors, or even among the transient waddies who were strolling toward the saloon. He wasn't ready to throw away his political career by publicly siding with a sheepherder—unless she had irrefutable evidence against one of the cattlemen.
"What I think," h
e said firmly, "is that this heat's making folks do regrettable things. But even the drought doesn't make vigilante justice right or lawful. All of us ranchers need patience."
Bailey's hopes crumbled. She was used to Nick's brand of bigotry, but Zack's hurt more than she'd ever dreamed possible.
"It's all very well for you to talk about patience," she said bitterly. "No one's preying on your ranch. The governor made fence cutting and sheep killing a felony crime this past January. The crimes still go on, and yet not a single damned cowboy has been arrested in this county. We Woolgrowers are sick and tired of you officers in the Cattlemen's Association giving a wink and a nod to gunnysackers."
He hardened his jaw. "I don't take accusations like that lightly."
"Yeah? So prove it."
His eyes narrowed. Bailey forced herself to brave that blistering stare, even though the heartbeats between them knelled impossibly loud in the lengthening silence. She was beginning to think maybe, just maybe, she had been a bit rash to provoke the Cattlemen's president when someone shouted her name. She muttered an oath, recognizing the voice of her foreman, Iain McTavish, as two shadowy figures hurried along the street toward her.
"Praise God, lass, ye scared the life out of me," Mac said breathlessly as he and his companion reached her side. "When the barkeep told me ye hadn't set foot in the Curly Horn, I began to think some harm had befallen ye."
Bailey sighed. She'd wondered how long it would take her foreman to track her down if she bypassed the Woolgrowers' favorite saloon. Sometimes his instincts were better than a bloodhound's.
Joining Mac was Rob Cole, vice president of the Woolgrowers' Association. They flanked her protectively, their shotguns clenched in their fists, but Zack didn't look the least bit intimidated by the older sheepmen. If anything, he was the foreboding one, standing silhouetted in the Bullwhip's lantern light with his face chiseled by shafts of shadow. When he folded his arms, pinning Bailey's scattergun securely beneath his sleeve, she tried not to notice the tantalizing scent of leather that wafted from his duster. His pose conveyed his intention not to fight.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 2
