Mac raised his bushy eyebrows at her.
"I'm not leaping to conclusions," she said defensively, "I'm looking at the facts. Bandera cattlemen have experience cutting barbed wire. They hardly ever string it."
Mac's expression turned wry as he shook his head. Setting aside his hammer, he reached for a bucket of grease. She handed him a brush.
"And then there's Octavio Ramirez—you know, Billy Chilton's new foreman," she continued excitedly. "I heard he won a gold buckle last year busting broncs in Mexico City. That means we sheepherders might actually have a contender who can beat Nick."
Mac snorted. "Ye wouldna be dealing with gossips, gunnysackers, or rodeos if ye would have let me handle that upstart as I'd wanted to."
She flinched at his tone. She should have known better than to speak Nick's name. Now she was in for a McTavish lecture, the kind that had made even her daddy squirm.
"That lad needs a couple of good swift kicks in the pants," Mac growled, jabbing his pipe stem in the air for emphasis, "preferably from a man who knows how to wear his. There oughta be a law in this land against what he did to ye. Why, back in Scotland—"
"Now, Mac," she interrupted gently, "we've already been through this. First of all, Nick and I never... er, mated." We have, however, seen each other as naked as jaybirds, which, I'm sorry to say, was my idea, not his. "Secondly, my reputation couldn't be any more tarnished than it already is." Thanks to my mother's legacy, and how I choose to live. "Thirdly, I have a lot fewer snake oil salesmen beating down my door, professing their undying love for me, when all they really love is my land. I have Nick to thank for that."
"Maybe," Mac muttered. "But that bastard had no right saying the two of ye were to be wed."
"You're right," she said soothingly, still regretting how deeply the news had shocked and hurt Mac. "And I like to think I put an end to that rumor." A rumor that, ironically, Nick had spread because he thought he was doing the right thing. However, as she'd expected, no one had been more surprised or relieved than Nick when she'd dug him from his hole and set him free.
Mac's jaw hardened. Rising abruptly, he knocked the tobacco from his pipe bowl with sharp, fierce whacks against the wagon.
"The fact is, lass," he said, "I blame myself for what happened to ye. When you came to me all those months ago, wanting me to..." His face reddened. "Uh, that is to say, wanting to become a woman, I didn't handle ye the best way. I should have been more understanding, but I was just so surprised, ye see—"
"I know," she said quickly, her stomach clenching at the memory. Asking Mac to show her what she was missing, what all the cowboys joked about and what the sheep and cattle, hell, even the birds and the bees all seemed to know except her... well, that had been her most stupid idea ever.
No, she took that back. Her most stupid idea had been seeking out Nick in an insulted huff after Mac had turned her down. When push came to shove, she hadn't been able to mate with Nick, and she'd slinked out of the hayloft hating herself and her weakness, but most of all, hating the burden of her femaleness.
"Ye came to me because ye trusted me," Mac said, his ham-sized fist white around the pipe bowl, "and I let ye down. Now Nick Rotterdam's mouth will keep any decent man from asking for ye—"
"You asked for me," she reminded him lightly, hoping to relieve the mounting tension between them.
Instead, his gaze melded with hers, and the usual warmth there seemed to rise a couple of degrees.
"Aye, lass. And my offer still stands."
She drew in a sharp breath, not prepared to see, not wanting to see, what she imagined she saw kindling in the depths of his lonely eyes.
Oh, damn, she thought, swallowing hard. He really was serious.
Chapter 4
All of Bandera County must have turned out for the Independence Day Rodeo. The usual events—roping, riding, broncing, and racing—were of course among the attractions, but the main draw for this year's phenomenal crowd, as Bailey well knew, was the long-awaited competition between the sheepherders and cattle ranchers.
The grandstands were filled with cowboys, sheepmen, farmers, and townsfolk, each group assembled in its own loosely defined cheering section. A few early-morning arrivals had rigged canopies over their buckboards and jockeyed them into a ringside view; food and craft vendors had staked tents beneath the live oak trees beside the alarmingly low Medina River. Other than the occasional lady's parasol, however, little else offered relief from the sun.
The shadeless location, coupled with the blistering heat, made barrels of whiskey extremely popular throughout the long day. Sheep and cattle ranchers alike fell under the rotgut's allure, and more than one drunken fistfight erupted near the livestock pens behind the arena. Nick proved to be the vendors' biggest customer, and Hank had to heave his firstborn into the river to soak some sense into him, since Nick was dead set on breaking his fool neck in the bronc-busting contest. Luckily for him, Nat got up enough nerve to say he'd ride Widowmaker, keeping the Rotterdam ranch and the cowboy team from forfeiting.
Nick's disqualification from the games kept the whole arena buzzing, mostly with oddsmakers and bettors. Folks seemed to think the bronc competition was up for grabs, what with Octavio's win in Mexico City. Bailey couldn't have been more pleased to hear the speculations. As she'd predicted, the fence-stringing competition had gone to the sheepmen, and the shooting match had gone to the cattlemen. If Nat couldn't beat Octavio's time in the saddle, the sheepherders were practically assured of winning the day. All Bailey had to do was beat Zack at pig herding.
No big task, right?
Shifting from foot to foot, she stood nervously behind her rival at the rear of the arena, where he leaned against the high cedar fence connecting the competitors' circle to the horse barn. The sun was in the five o'clock position now, throwing his long, lean shadow into the ring. To see it reminded her of the gunfighter showdowns illustrated on so many penny-dreadful covers. He'd already competed in the countywide competitions, putting on a tremendous show. He hadn't been gored, trampled, or thrown by his longhorn, and she wondered a little hopefully if being named champion bulldogger for the third year in a row might have tuckered him out.
He didn't look tuckered out, though. He looked downright relaxed. Taking off his Stetson, he balanced it on his saddle, which he'd thrown over the fence's top rail. An occasional puff of wind ruffled the short-cropped waves of his chestnut hair; his pale green shirt cleaved damply to his broad back. When he raised his forearms to the fence, Bailey enjoyed watching his muscles ripple beneath the clingy cotton of his shirt.
She enjoyed even more trailing her gaze over the taut derriere above his brown and white cowhide chaps and the hard, corded thighs filling his denim blue jeans. He was a fine specimen of manhood, Zack Rawlins was.
She found herself wondering what he thought of her looks—strictly from a stockman's perspective, of course. When they'd been growing up, Nick had called her Little Butt, and Nat had called her Skinny. Apparently if she'd been a heifer, she wouldn't have made good breeding stock. She wouldn't have made much of a breeding ewe either, come to think of it.
She worried her bottom lip, wondering how much longer she could safely ogle Zack before one of two things happened: either he caught her, or Nat's ride began. Because Zack had a good view of the arena in a nice piece of shade, she was sorely tempted to go share it with him. But that meant she would have to talk with him, and she always had the damnedest time talking to Zack Rawlins.
She blew out her breath. Well, one thing was certain. She'd never been one to back down from a challenge.
Marching up to the fence, she climbed the bottom rail and gazed out at the arena. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and a minute or two passed. She noticed her heart was hammering ridiculously hard. Still, he didn't say anything. He didn't even glare at her. She wondered a tad irritably if she had to climb another rail just to get his attention. Hell, she wasn't that short, was she?
She ventured a glance his way.
Only then did she realize he'd shaved his mustache sometime since the rodeo meeting. She caught her breath, unable to keep from gawking at the rugged, clean-shaven face that had haunted so many of her girlish dreams. Now more than ever, Zack Rawlins was her fantasy come to life, and he was standing right beside her.
She cleared her throat. She supposed she should say something to him. "You ready for the herding contest?"
He cast her a sideways glance. The touch of heat in his mahogany eyes sprinkled goose bumps all the way to her toes. She wasn't entirely opposed to the sensation, and she felt a fleeting disappointment when he let his gaze slide away.
"Yep," he answered. "You?"
"Yep."
More silence. Now what? She steeled herself against fidgeting. When she was younger, she used to get Mac's attention by jumping on his back. Usually, it had made him smile. Then she'd turned thirteen, and Mac had taken her aside and gently warned her against such tomfoolery with boys. He hadn't been specific, just dire.
That lecture had been the first of many he'd given her about her blossoming womanhood. Since his last lecture—and his last proposal—things had gotten steadily more uncomfortable between them, much to her secret upset. The thought of losing Mac and the closeness they'd always shared scared the living daylights out of her. It was just one more reason to find being a woman so annoying. If she'd been a man, none of this nonsense would have happened.
She sighed, and Zack arched an eyebrow at her.
"Change your mind?"
She raised her chin. "Not on your life."
She glimpsed his dimples and caught her breath, not quite prepared for one of his rare smiles.
"Miss Bailey McShane," he chided in his whiskey-smooth bass, "have you come here to fraternize with the enemy?"
Those heart-stirring dimples deepened to crescent moons, and she shook herself, realizing she'd been staring. "I didn't come here with a bribe, if that's what you meant."
His smile abruptly faded. "That's not what I meant."
He went back to gazing at the arena, and she suspected she'd irritated him. She always seemed to do that. Why did he have to irritate so damned easily?
"I just..." She struggled not to sound exasperated, or, worse, hurt. "I just wanted to wish you luck. That's all."
"Hmm."
Suddenly the chute flew open. Nat's mount didn't lunge cleanly, and Bailey had to grip the rail tighter as the fence shook with the force of the stallion's striking hooves. Nat's hat flew off, but he clung to the hurricane deck, twisting and jerking like a rag doll as Widowmaker spun beneath him.
Bailey held her breath as the spectators roared. For the fleetest of seconds, she prayed for her sheep, for her water, for the contest victory that would prove her merit as a rancher and end gunnysacking in Bandera County forever.
Then Widowmaker's flank slammed into the fence at the far side of the arena. Every bone in Bailey's body jolted with the impact. Nat managed to hang on, but Widowmaker whirled, hurtling himself into the rails again.
"Oh, God." Bailey's heart leapt, and she dug her fingers into the soft cedar. The stallion's intention had become frighteningly clear. Bucking and thrashing, Widowmaker was doing his deadly best to smash Nat against the fence.
"Choke the horn, Nat!" she shouted, fear making her voice shrill. No self-respecting broncbuster would ever grab his saddle horn, and yet, wasn't disqualification better than death?
Dimly, she felt Zack tense beside her; she heard his oath and the sharp, whistling intake of his breath as the rodeo clowns jumped onto the fence beside Nat, shouting and waving their hats at the bloodthirsty stallion.
With a shrieking neigh, Widowmaker veered for the center of the ring. The clowns had done their job, but Nat, weakened by the shattering blows, lost his grip. Suddenly his body was bouncing down the rails, caught between the fence and the stallion's vicious rear hooves.
"Nat!" All Bailey could see was dust as a cowboy galloped after Widowmaker and wrestled him away from the fallen rider. Terrified for her childhood friend, she scrambled up the fence, planning to run to his rescue.
"Hold on, girl."
She struggled futilely as Zack's iron-hard hand grabbed the back of her belt and dragged her down. Her spine was pinned beneath the unyielding breadth of a powerful male chest as Zack's forearm wrapped her waist, holding her prisoner between his hammering heart and the quivering rails.
It all happened so quickly. She squirmed, straining to see past the swirling dust, past the straw wigs and polka-dotted bandannas of the clowns, who had raced to Nat's aid. In the breathless silence, she could hear Zack's quick breaths against her ear. His hand tightened anxiously over her belt, and she could feel the tantalizing heat of his knuckles against her spine. She could feel, too, the tender chafing of her jeans against her femaleness. It made her shiver.
At that moment, knowing Zack was as worried as she was, she was grateful for his disconcerting closeness. His touch brought her jitters, but it was strangely comforting too, as if their silly quarrels had been swept away, leaving them to share one basic common bond. A bond over Nat, she told herself quickly. Any other possibility was unthinkable.
Finally, the dust cleared. Nat rose shakily to his feet. He looked pale beneath his layer of dirt, but when the crowd began to clap, he managed a wave and a sheepish smile. Shaking off a clown's arm, he limped toward the gate and heartfelt cheers came from the cattlemen, even though he'd clearly lost the event.
Bailey loosed the breath she felt like she'd been holding since Christmas.
"And you say sheepherders are crazy," she muttered at Zack. "Bronc busting is child's play compared with bull riding."
She tried to turn so she could glare at him—a mistake, for she lost her foothold. She might have bruised her back sliding down the fence if Zack hadn't caught her in time, his hands at her waist, his thighs anchoring her hips to the rails.
Now they were face-to-face, heart to heart, steamed together by a heat that was only partly a result of the merciless sun. Momentarily stunned by this intimacy, Bailey could do little more than blink into the gaze that melded with her own. He had chestnut-colored lashes, she realized with an awestruck pleasure, and tiny flecks of amber glowed in the sienna depths of his eyes.
"You worried about me, neighbor?"
His voice rumbled in his belly, vibrating into hers. She felt the flutter of butterflies she'd thought she'd banished in her childhood.
"Er..." Distracted by the white-hot glitter of sensation on her skin, she realized his gaze was roaming down her length to rest on the fusion of their thighs. She swallowed. Was it her imagination, or was the pulse above his red bandanna thumping as fast as hers?
"I reckon that would make us even, since you always seem to concern yourself with me," she rallied weakly.
"As I recall, I always get an earful for it too."
"Well, that's only because..." She hesitated, tingling all over with the return of his smile. She didn't want hasty words to chase it from his face again. "Never mind. It's Nick I'm mad at, not you. Nat nearly got himself killed, thanks to his weasel of a twin. Nat's not the rider Nick is, and everyone knows it. Nick should be drawn and quartered for getting too roostered to bronc—"
"Maybe he did it on purpose."
Bailey blinked at Zack. She didn't know what confused her more, his reasoning or the disappointment she felt when he eased his hips from hers and steadied her on the ground.
"Come again?"
"Maybe he wanted to lose."
"Nick would never..." Her voice trailed off as her heart leapt painfully, lodging in her throat. Damn Nick, he just might have done it to win a bet for one of those odds-makers.
"Zack, you won't do that to me, will you?" she asked urgently, grabbing his sleeve before he could step past her, out of reach. "You won't cheat and let me win?"
Looking a tad uncomfortable, he turned his body sideways, his back filling most of her vision. "If Nick did throw the contest, I'm sure he thought he was doing you a fav
or—"
"Nick was doing himself a favor! He's a selfish little toad. Zack, please. Promise you won't let me win at herding."
His lashes fanned lower, but even half closed his eyes held a magnetic intensity as he regarded her over his shoulder. He seemed to be studying her, sizing her up. Only this time she sensed his verdict was more flattering than the one he'd reached two weeks earlier, at the rodeo meeting.
"The outcome means that much to you, eh?"
"Of course it does! I want our event to be fair and square. When I win, I don't want any cowboy coming back and saying you lost on purpose."
He chuckled at that, and for the first time Bailey glimpsed the gentle humor that lurked behind his serious businessman's personality.
"All right, Bailey. I won't let you win."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
An indelicate harrumph accompanied the thick, six-legged shadow that was gliding over the pebbles toward Zack's dusty boot toes. Bailey recognized Mac's bowlegged gait and Pris's high-stepping prance as they bobbed to a halt before Zack. Mac's speculative gaze shifted from her hand, clutching Zack's sleeve, to the rising flush on Zack's cheeks, and she felt absurdly guilty. She had only been talking about the contest. Even so, she didn't know who moved more hastily to break their physical contact, her or Zack.
"They're ready for ye both in the ring," Mac said, his tone amicable except for the dry edge to his words when he added, "are ye feeling up to it, lad?"
Zack nodded, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as he bent to slap his thighs. Bailey wondered at this behavior—his chaps weren't yielding much dust—but when she tried to peer around the front of him to see what his big embarrassment was, he turned quickly, grabbing the saddle he'd slung over the fence.
Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] Page 7
