Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03]

by Texas Wildcat

  Zack smiled mechanically in return, wondering if he'd been deaf, blind, or just plain stupid to see anything appealing in Amaryllis.

  Of course, she was well within her right to be uppity with him, after he'd humiliated her in front of the whole county. His only concern was that she'd chosen Nick in her bid for revenge. Beneath her know-it-all bluster lay a desperate need for the attention that her wealthy parents had rarely shown her. Amaryllis was a lamb ripe for slaughter, and Nick was a wolf on the prowl.

  "Well, Nick," Bailey said in a strained voice, "it looks like you finally found someone you deserve."

  Zack wondered how much of her upset stemmed from grieving over Boo, and how much was a direct result of seeing Nick with his new sweetheart.

  "Why, thank you, Miss McShane," Amaryllis cooed. "How nice of you to say so. And how sporting, too, after all that you and Nick have... er, meant to each other."

  Zack wished he could spank Amaryllis. Nick, however, appeared to be enjoying the tension between the two women. He gave his sweetheart's hand an affectionate squeeze, but his eyes remained fixed on Bailey.

  "Bailey's a great believer in letting bygones be bygones, aren't you, hon?" he drawled.

  "Some more than others." Stepping forward, she unlatched the gate.

  "Whatever were you two doing here anyway, after dark?" Amaryllis asked before Bailey could escape. "I mean, Preacher Underhill isn't here at this time of night. Is he?" Her anxious gaze darted to Zack.

  "Amaryllis Larabee," Bailey answered, "if you don't stop driving around in an open-air carriage with Nick Rotterdam and no chaperone, you're going to have the answer to that question sooner than you think."

  "Well!" Amaryllis puffed up like a bullfrog. "I never."

  Nick frowned, watching Bailey as she skirted his horse. "Hey! What were you two doing here? Where's McTavish?"

  "None of your damned business," she snapped, turning a cold shoulder on him.

  Zack started after her, but Nick kicked off the brake. The buggy rolled forward just enough to trap Zack against the fence, and he glared at the young upstart.

  "Oops," Nick said with his trademark grin.

  "Zack, you wouldn't..." Amaryllis stared down at him. "I mean, you didn't have to go and marry her, did you?" she whispered in something close to horror.

  "Of course not," he said, feeling his neck heat at the very suggestion. "Are you going to let me pass, Rotterdam?"

  "I reckon." He was watching Bailey turn down the alley that led to the saloon. "Just as soon as you tell me what you did do to get her so riled up."

  Zack thought about reaching across Amaryllis's lap, grabbing Nick's collar, and dragging the smart aleck off the carriage. He didn't give in to temptation only because he recognized a semblance of concern behind Nick's challenge. "Boo got in a fight today with a rabid coon. She had to shoot him."

  "Oh, is that all?" Shrugging, Nick finally backed his mare out of Zack's way. "Well, it's good riddance, if you ask me."

  "I didn't."

  Reining in his temper, Zack crossed stiffly in front of the carriage. For his own sake, he would have liked to give Nick a black eye. For Bailey's, he would have liked to do a whole lot more. At twenty-one years of age, the Rotterdam heir had already caused more brawls, more scandals, and more broken hearts than had Zack and both of his brothers combined. Frankly, Nick Rotterdam was a sorry excuse for a man, and Zack couldn't imagine what Bailey still saw in him.

  In his hurry, Zack's long strides made short work of the moonlit alley that connected Church Street to Main. But if he'd hoped to catch Bailey and ask whether she'd finally come to her senses about Nick, he was sadly disappointed.

  By the time he reached the Curly Horn's hitching post, both her horse and McTavish's were gone.

  Chapter 7

  After the talk with Bailey in the churchyard, Zack grew more and more confused about the way things stood between them. One minute she'd been telling him she liked his kisses, the next, she'd been picking a fight with him. He'd never been attracted to a woman that forthright before—or that downright ornery. Was she interested in sparking with him or not? And if she was, was he willing to face the political repercussions?

  At least with Amaryllis, Zack had always known where he stood. She'd set her cap for him because she had some idyllic fantasy about living the life of a wealthy rancher's wife. Zack suspected Amaryllis would have lasted less than a week as a rancher's wife. However, he'd been slow to convince himself of that, since he'd been hoping to further his acquaintance with Judge Larabee.

  Now he wished he'd told Amaryllis from the beginning that he was flattered by her attention, but that a match between them would have been as long-lasting as a cold freeze in San Antonio. He'd finally come to realize that a pretty sweetheart with an influential father wasn't enough to satisfy him.

  Unfortunately, he could trace this revelation back to the very same moment when Bailey had gotten under his skin.

  Zack wasn't sure why the legs he'd seen a thousand times should suddenly make his insides heat, or the mouth he'd so often longed to muzzle should suddenly tempt his lips beyond restraint.

  One thing was certain though: He couldn't keep mooning over Bailey. As desirable as kissing her was, he doubted he could endure that mouth of hers for very long. He'd worked too hard building his political future to let his baser instincts keep him from someday sitting in the state legislature, or maybe even the governor's mansion. He'd be safer taking the high road, ignoring any longing he might have for the sheepherding wildcat next door, and find himself a nice cattleman's daughter who could spark his fancy.

  Still, as long as Bailey was his neighbor, he'd have to live beside her in a peaceful way. He'd taken the first step by striking a truce with her, and he planned to honor it. He wanted to prove to her—and to himself—that he could be a good friend, not just a randy suitor.

  That was why he was so pleased Friday afternoon when the perfect opportunity came his way. Nearly four days had passed since Boo's burial, and Zack had been wanting to pay his respects. He'd been hesitant to act on the impulse, though, since Bailey always seemed to give him a hard time over such courtesies.

  Then Merrilee, Wes's adopted daughter, had given Zack an idea when he'd found her playing on Cord's doorstep with her kitten. The Comanche child was gently scolding the tabby for latching its baby claws onto the great satin bow that was drooping from its neck. Fragments of crimson ribbon littering the stoop around her, Merrilee sat patiently constructing a new bow to replace the shredded one, while the kitten inched its belly along the ground, stalking the length of satin that was snaking between Merrilee's fingers.

  "Hello, Uncle Zack," the child called, and smiled her usual shy smile.

  His attention diverted by the drought, his thinning herds, and his growing preoccupation with his neighbor's kisses, Zack nearly bowled over his niece and her furry playmate before he realized they were in his way. He halted before them, managing a smile.

  "Pocahontas and I came to make bows for the puppies," she explained, gazing up at him with ocean-sized brown eyes, "so they will look pretty for the children. Where are all the puppies, Uncle Zack?"

  Zack blinked at her, taking a moment to realize she was referring to the last two whelps of Reb's litter, which he'd gladly given away to the county orphanage the day before. Between the hounds owned by his brothers' boys, and the bossy pup he'd decided to keep for himself, the ranch had enough dogs to feed.

  "Er, they've already gone to their new home, Merrilee. I'm sorry."

  "Oh." She sounded disappointed. Settling Pocahontas in her lap, Merrilee began the thankless task of looping the new bow around the playful kitten's neck. "Do you think Runt would like a bow?"

  "Runt?"

  She nodded, her black pigtails bobbing. "That's what Topher calls your puppy, 'cause he's so scrawny-looking."

  Zack shook his head in amusement. It was true the pup was small, but he was a fearless fur ball of a tyrant, with a brash bark and a keen min
d. He had run circles around the rest of Reb's litter, but local ranchers like Rotterdam, who'd come to buy pups, had valued size and strength over intelligence.

  "I'm sure that, er... Reb's son"—surely, Zack told himself, he could come up with a less ignominious name than Runt—"would be mighty pleased to have a bow."

  Merrilee smiled, holding Pocahontas up to admire her handiwork. The kitten swiped futile paws at the bow now tucked behind her head and out of reach. Pocahontas mewed, sounding peevish.

  "Do you think Miss Bailey would like a kitten?"

  Zack started. Bailey was the last topic he'd expected to discuss with Merrilee—even though Wes was encouraging the child to draw big fat hearts pierced by arrows and teaching her how to spell their neighbor's name. Every time Zack thought about his brother's matchmaking, he wanted to throttle him.

  "I don't know," he said warily. "Why?"

  Merrilee turned grave eyes on him. "Because Miss Bailey is sad about Boo," she said in her wiser-than-her-years voice, "and when I am sad, Pocahontas makes me happy."

  As slow as Zack sometimes was to use his imagination, he liked to think he made up for it on occasion with bursts of divine insight. This was one of those occasions. He thanked Merrilee for the inspiration.

  Within the hour, he had bathed, shaved, and changed his clothes to ride west toward the McShane spread with a dashing red-ribboned puppy balanced eagerly on his lap.

  The first thing Zack always noticed when he rode into the sixty-acre box canyon that sheltered Bailey's pride breeders and her lambs was the near absence of people. More windmills dotted the gently rolling landscape, with its spring-fed pastures and barbed-wire fences, than did pastores. An occasional Mexican ranch hand might be seen with his shepherd's crook and dog, and sometimes Zack would spy the pastores' families harvesting apples from Bailey's orchard or a team of workers drilling a well.

  But for the most part, the McShane outfit was a virtual ghost town when compared with his spread. Of course, Bailey didn't have nine nieces and nephews romping through her yard, or a half dozen adult relatives scurrying in and out of her buildings, which probably accounted for the peace Zack always felt the minute he climbed the canyon walls and gazed down on the pastoral setting of her home.

  A plume of smoke spiraled upward from the chimney of the rough-hewn cedar ranch house with its tin roof and sprawling porch. The family's big house nestled in the curve of Bailey's much-envied stream, which, thanks to Patrick McShane's windmills, glistened like a spring of sapphires as it wound down to a cluster of weather-beaten buildings that stood a half mile away. Dominating that group was the barn, and adjacent to its rustic gray walls were the smokehouse, toolshed, chicken coop, and a shack Zack knew to be McTavish's sleeping quarters. Beyond the ranch buildings were pens, holding goats and sheep. They looked like fleecy white dandelion puffs with legs, grazing against the backdrop of browning grasses, a hard blue sky, and chalky limestone walls.

  Zack inhaled deeply, for once unoffended by the sheep and goat odors. He smelled precious water on the wind, and he sighed, attributing the scent to Bailey's spring. How much longer would this damned drought go on?

  It occurred to Zack, as Boss descended into the canyon, that Bailey was one of the county's few ranchers who could still adequately water her livestock. That could mean additional trouble for her, and not just from thirsty predators like One Toe that were descending from the hills. Desperate cattle ranchers who thought her springs were wasted on sheep and goats might try to force her hand. As much as she liked to pretend she could fend for herself, eight pastores wouldn't be much of an army if she found herself caught in a range war.

  God, how Zack wished the cattlemen and sheepherders would go back to their usual civil relations. Maybe then he could enjoy campaigning for reelection.

  With the puppy squirming in excitement and barking uproariously at the ewes, Zack somehow managed to keep a grip on his gift and his reins. He saw no one stirring around the big house, where, to the best of his knowledge, Bailey lived alone, so he skirted the sycamore-lined shores of the peninsular driveway to Bailey's home. The bridge that crossed the stream was at least as wide as a wagon, and the echo of Boss's hooves on the planks startled a gaggle of geese. They dived into the water, honking in indignation. The puppy happily hurled canine challenges after them, and Zack, juggling the little noisemaker to his other arm, wondered if his gift would bring an end to the pastoral peace.

  As Zack halted Boss inside the circle of ranch buildings, Bailey herself emerged from the barn, looking flushed and agitated. The normally tight weave of her braid had slipped, spilling tendrils of wheat-colored hair across her cheeks and throat. Her blue jeans looked a tad the worse for wear, soiled as they were with splotches of mud and damp straw. She shadowed her eyes against the setting sun, squinting up at him in a way that suggested she hadn't at first recognized him. When she did, a brighter shade of crimson stole up her cheeks.

  "Zack?" She hastily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stooped to brush some of the straw from her knees. But she straightened almost immediately, as if thinking better of tidying her appearance. "What are you doing here? I thought I heard a dog barking—"

  Her gaze finally lighted on the puppy. Standing on his hind legs, his front paws braced on Zack's forearm, the little mongrel was wagging his tail for all he was worth. His white ear had flopped back, and his brown ear was pricked.

  Bailey's slow grin relieved the strain on her brow and kindled a spark in the depths of her troubled eyes. As Zack glimpsed the childlike eagerness she struggled to repress, a warm wave of pleasure washed over him.

  "What's that?" she asked gruffly.

  "Oh..." He made a subtle adjustment to the bow that was threatening to slide beneath the puppy's chin. "This little fella was kind of hoping you might be hiring on a new hunting hound."

  Gazing up at the rugged, square-jawed cowboy and his bouncing bundle of fur, Bailey felt the embarrassing sting of tears. The puppy's wagpole was waving so fast, it was in danger of unraveling his ridiculously oversized bow. He didn't seem concerned by his duded-up appearance, though; nor did he seem particularly concerned by the impression he might make with the rosy insides of his white ear showing.

  Zack dismounted, his face impossibly grave. The puppy loosed an enthusiastic bark.

  "I reckon he has one or two opinions to express." Zack pushed back his hat, and the twinkle in his eyes belied his implacable expression. "Maybe you could teach him something about speaking his mind."

  Bailey swallowed the growing lump in her throat.

  With Buttercup, her dairy cow, fighting for her and her calf's life in the barn, Zack's visit was nothing short of a godsend. Bailey was hard-pressed not to throw her arms around his neck and hold on the way she'd so fervently longed to do when he'd kissed her at the rodeo.

  "What's the whelp's name?" she asked.

  "Well now. I figured I'd leave that up to you, neighbor."

  He passed the pup to her, and an eager tongue tried to lick her chin. Bailey gazed down into those bright puppy eyes, then up into Zack's, and her heart swelled.

  "Thank you," she said, and cleared her throat. She thought it high time she stopped sounding like she'd swallowed a frog. "I think I'll name him Pokey."

  "Pokey?" Zack's brow furrowed. "Why Pokey?"

  "Because he's a cowpoke's dog."

  Zack shook his head, muttering something about Pokey being the lesser of two "really bad evils."

  "I beg your pardon?" She hugged Pokey closer, not quite able to hide her pleasure when the puppy licked her hand.

  Zack's dimples peeked out. "Oh... never mind."

  "Miss Bailey!"

  Bailey didn't know who jumped more at Jerky's anxious call, her or Zack. The old sheepherder, stunted, wrinkled, and more gnomelike than any wee folk in the fairy stories her daddy had brought back from Scotland, stumped out of the barn on legs not much longer than her arms.

  The sight of Zack standing over her must have startled
Jerky, because his stride faltered. He craned back his neck to squint up into the shadows beneath Zack's hat brim.

  "Humph." Jerky wrinkled his nose as if sniffing the wind. "Beef," he said disparagingly.

  "Jerky," Bailey warned, her face heating at her hired hand's rudeness. Like Mac, Jerky was an old friend of her father's. When sheepherding had made him a bit feebleminded, she'd found kitchen work for him so he wouldn't be left to the charity of society. "Is it time? Did Buttercup calf?"

  "Nope." Jerky was giving Zack one of his unblinking stares, the kind that made most cowboys jump and fidget as if they needed to scratch for seam squirrels, the drover's term for body lice. To Zack's credit, though, he withstood Jerky's eerie scrutiny with a knowing patience. "That cow's still pushing. She went down like a beached whale."

  Bailey's stomach knotted, and Pokey whimpered as she unconsciously tightened her hold. Jerky and Mac were the two most experienced midwives on the ranch. The only problem was, the number of calves they'd helped birth could be counted on one hand. "Is she still kicking?" she asked uneasily.

  "Nope. She ain't even flicking her tail."

  Zack frowned. "How long has she been laboring?" he asked Bailey.

  "About two hours now. I'm worried she's going to lose the use of her hind legs." Bailey bit her bottom lip to stave off the panic-induced nausea. Boo's death was still fresh in her mind. She couldn't bear it if she had to shoot Buttercup too, and yet the way the calf was twisted up inside the heifer, the odds were against Buttercup.

  "We have to hurry, Bailey," Zack said, already rolling up the white linen sleeves of his Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt. "I don't reckon you've got any kind of calf-pulling equipment here, do you?"

  She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.

  "I'll need a good strong rope, then, and a broomstick."