Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (19 page)

As he pulled the chain on the shower bath sluice, Zack gritted his teeth, grateful for the ice-cold spring water that flooded the compartment. More than that, he was glad for the wilting effect the chill was having on his more heated parts.

Confound Bailey, he couldn't decide what to think of her behavior in the barn. But then, when had that girl ever made things easy?

He smiled crookedly at that thought before forcing his mind back to a stern practicality.

He'd come to the McShane ranch for one reason and one reason only: to start mending fences with his neighbor. Therefore, it had seemed natural to offer his assistance while Buttercup calved. Considering the ill will between him and McTavish, particularly after the rodeo, he supposed he should have expected the Scot's less-than-cordial welcome.

What Zack couldn't possibly have anticipated, though, was Bailey's boisterous sparking—and in front of a man who clearly hoped to win her. Even Amaryllis, when she'd wanted to kiss him good-bye at the doorstep, had limited herself to hinting with eye fluttering and sighs. She'd never jumped bodily into his arms.

Not that he'd minded Bailey's unconventional way of getting her point across, he thought with that same unbidden smile. He liked knowing his advances were welcome. In most cases, a man was simply supposed to read a woman's mind when it came to sparking, and Zack had always resented being forced to grope in the dark, so to speak. Since a female rarely divulged beyond a shadow of a doubt her sparking preference, be it a caress, a hug, or a peck, a man had to take his chances, praying the moon was right and the stars were agreeable, and that her daddy wasn't within shouting distance with his scattergun.

Bailey's newest invitation to kiss her came as a welcome relief to a man who wasn't comfortable being forward.

Or it should have. But she was a McShane—and, worse, a sheepherder.

He groaned, shaking the water from his hair and combing the strands back with rough fingers. He couldn't imagine a quicker way to political disaster than courting Bailey McShane. His secret affair with Marybeth Clemens would surely pale in comparative sinfulness.

Smiling ruefully, Zack reached for his ruined shirt and sopped up the water still clinging to the chestnut hair on his arms and legs.

Marybeth Clemens. He hadn't thought about her for a good long spell, not since he'd heard she'd borne her third son, and that had been nearly four years earlier. He'd met her shortly after Caitlin McShane had eloped, leaving him to choke on her cloud of dust.

Eighteen, painfully bashful, and wounded to his virgin's core, he'd met the "widow" Clemens and her two boys when he'd gone hunting for mavericks across the Kerr County line. Their wagon wheel had rolled loose, and Marybeth had been at a loss to fix it. He'd obliged, and before he'd realized it, he'd returned to her farm, eating her fried chicken, talking woefully about Caitlin, holding Marybeth's hand... and letting her lead him into her bedroom.

Their affair had lasted nearly six months, and he'd told no one, not even Wes, because he'd been too embarrassed to admit to his younger brother that he'd waited three years longer than Wes to become a man.

Eventually, he'd come to fancy himself in love with Marybeth, and he'd even decided to ask her to marry him, despite their nearly fifteen-year age difference. Hat and flowers in hand, he'd been on his way to propose to the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, when he'd found Robert Clemens's horse hitched to Marybeth's front porch rail. Apparently her so-called dead husband had only been detained and imprisoned in Mexico; later she'd claimed that she'd been as shocked as Zack to discover the truth.

He fidgeted at the old, forgotten pain.

Caitlin, Marybeth, Amaryllis. In the name of love, they'd all used him in their schemes to get someone else, something more, or somewhere further. He was almost tempted to ask Bailey what the devil
she
wanted from him. He wasn't charming like Wes, or heroic like Cord. If he were, he'd have heaps of women trying to marry him instead of casting him aside like some old worn-out boot.

That's why he couldn't figure out Bailey's game back in the barn. Had she wanted to make McTavish jealous?

Frowning, Zack tugged his blue jeans up over his rump and stabbed his arms into the sleeves of his pale-green cotton shirt.

Well, McTavish could have her, he thought sullenly. He hadn't come here to court her. He hadn't come to roll her in the hay either, despite what her foreman clearly thought. The Scot's disbelieving snort, when Zack had mentioned his spare set of duds, hadn't been lost on him.

Finished dressing, Zack trotted Boss over the wooden planks of the bridge that linked the barnyard to the big house's yard. He found that Bailey and three of her
pastores
were waiting for him on the porch—or so he'd thought, until he drew close enough to realize they were all eagerly speculating on whether the cloud that had rolled over the canyon might burst into rain.

He dismounted, tethering Boss to the hitching post beside the porch steps, and tuned his ears to the buzz of conversation. As usual, Bailey was in the midst of the debate, as Pokey happily crunched a marrow-filled bone by her feet.

Zack wasn't much interested in Pokey, though. His gaze was drawn like a magnet to the clingy softness of Bailey's fresh cotton shirt. The rounded curves that it hugged were in marked contrast to the brassy angles of the too-large buckle that anchored the belt encircling her waist. Judging by its size, Zack suspected the buckle had once been her father's, a memento of some shearing contest, perhaps, since it was a bit on the ornate side. It was the one vanity he had ever seen Bailey allow herself, and he smiled, remembering the day she'd strode into Preacher Underwood's church bazaar and clunked down a bag of her mother's earbobs, pendants, brooches, and bracelets.

"Sell it all, preacher, and keep the proceeds for the orphans," sixteen-year-old Bailey had told the flabbergasted cleric. "Caitlin took all the trinkets she wants, so I don't see much sense in keeping the rest. I can't shear my sheep wearing fofarraw."

Bailey had once again made herself the talk of town gossips that day, Zack mused, most of whom had dubbed her shameful for discarding her mother's heirlooms. Yet with their next breaths, they had demanded from Preacher Underwood the price he would charge for the ivory and silver Bailey had donated.

Zack's mind wandered back to his inspection of the woman herself. He told himself he had no business assessing Bailey's appearance, especially when his gaze touched the golden sheaf of hair that fell to her waist. He couldn't quite keep from noticing, however, how she'd brushed it out, opting to keep it loosely bound instead of braiding it as usual. His gaze traveled appreciatively over the ripples that gleamed like amber fire, thanks to the wedge of lamplight that spilled from the doorway.

In spite of his better sense, his gaze was drawn irresistibly lower. He admired the long, firm thighs he'd watched grip many a pony's withers, and the sleek calves encased in the soft leather of her high-heeled, round-toed Justins. Unlike the sass and flash of her buckle, her boots were no-nonsense muleys and sported none of the elaborate tooling—or fumadiddle, as he derisively called it—so often worn by East Coast dudes who fancied themselves real ranchers.

But then, for better or worse, Bailey was a real rancher. A real
sheep
rancher.

The rising warmth in his loins cooled a bit at the thought, but not enough to give him the respite the shower bath had. He wondered how in good conscience he could walk into the woman's home and eat dinner at her table with his private parts so eager to make her acquaintance. Heat rose to his neck as he imagined himself indulging in a luscious, sweet-lipped dessert, and he was immensely grateful a heartbeat later when her voice, with its intriguing blend of burr and drawl, distracted him from his forbidden fantasies.

"You'd best not count your chickens—or in this case, your ducks—before they hatch, Ramirez," she said, slapping the shoulder of one whiskered, middle-aged Mexican who'd optimistically worn his yellow fish to the house. "I hear Sheriff Jackson arrested a man a while back 'cause he was wearing his slicker."

Ramirez's eyes practically bugged out. "But,
senorita,
" he protested anxiously, "it is not a crime to wear the slicker in
Tejas, no?"

She nodded, her expression solemn. "'Fraid it is in drought season, Ramirez. Sheriff Jackson said the man was out disturbing the peace."

Zack half smiled as the
pastores
all murmured in Spanish, trying to decide whether or not their boss was pulling their legs.

"Dinna worry yerself, lads," McTavish called from his perch on the railing. "Sheriff Jackson is not likely to leave the Bullwhip long enough to come chasing ye out here."

"
Senorita
," another
pastore
said, turning his battered felt hat in his hands, "do you think, if it rains, the
vaqueros
will be satisfied and will keep their cows away from our spring?"

Bailey's jaw hardened, and she glanced Zack's way. The
pastores
followed her lead. It was the first time, as Zack stood quietly by his horse, that any of the Mexicans seemed to pay him any mind. Or maybe, as the cattlemen did, the
pastores
had formed a sort of fraternity that ostracized any man who dared to befriend the enemy.

"What do you think, Zack?" she asked.

Now that he'd been noticed, Zack wasn't entirely sure he appreciated becoming the focus of five unwavering stares. "Well," he began carefully, "that's hard to say. Chances are that cloud's carrying only a dry rain anyway, like the last couple of thunderheads whose raindrops evaporated before they ever reached the ground. As for Miss Bailey's spring, all the cattle ranchers in the county signed a pledge to her, saying they wouldn't cross the McShane boundary line 'til after the contest is settled. I reckon they mean to stand by their word."

Silence answered his speculation, but the doubt in the air was far heavier than the trace of rain that blew down from the canyon walls and taunted the thirsty sycamores. It made him wonder if he might not be wiser to make his excuses and skip dinner, even though he'd have to ride a good two hours to get home, and his belly rumbled at the thought of munching beef jerky on the trail for a meal.

But Bailey smiled at him. Smiled kindly, in fact. She alone looked like she wasn't ready to call for tar and feathers.

"See? I told y'all that cowpokes could be reasonable." She winked at Zack. "Besides, our spring's not in any danger. This here's just a little bitty dry spell," she added drolly, hooking her thumbs over her belt. "Why, my daddy told me that back in sixty-four, this ranch went so long without rain, the fish in yonder creek carried toadstools for parasols."

A couple of smiles broke out on the weather-lined faces.

"But,
Senorita
McShane," said a youngish, slender Mexican whose eyelashes were thicker than his facial hair, "what if this drought is like that drought of sixty-four?"

"It won't matter, Vasquez," she said firmly. "My daddy made sure we'd never go dry again when he dug the wells and erected windmills."

Her assurance seemed to bring the
pastores
relief, and Zack had to admire how convincing her show of confidence was. Bailey had an easy way with her ranch hands, and they seemed to have faith in her leadership. He wondered, though, if she privately doubted the capacity of her wells. He found himself wondering, too, whom she turned to when she needed to unburden herself from her ranching concerns. Was it McTavish?

He glanced at the Scot, who sat with one boot propped beneath him, the other swinging to some agitated inner rhythm. For once McTavish wasn't glaring at him. He was looking at the roiling expanse of cloud cover that blotted out the stars and nearly swallowed the light of the moon.

An angle iron clanged. The dinner signal came from somewhere behind the house, and Pokey eagerly raised his head, his ears pricked. Bailey laughed at the pup.

"Know all about that sound, do you? I reckon lots of dinners get served on the Rawlins spread. No wonder you've got the makings of a belly." She grinned at Zack as the
pastores
filed past her into the house. "What other bad habits do I need to train him out of?"

He couldn't help but smile at her teasing. Thanks to Cord's four children, Pokey was on the verge of graduating from apprentice to master moocher. "He likes to chase things. If it has a couple of legs and runs, that's even better."

Bailey shook her head, tossing him a mischievous glance as she scooped the dog and its bone into her arms. "Hmm. Then I hope you run fast, Pokey dog. I've got a ram who doesn't take guff from anybody. Not even Pris."

As Zack doffed his hat, following Bailey inside, he realized little had been changed in the house since her father's death—even since Caitlin's elopement. Bailey might be the lady of the house, but she apparently didn't devote her spare time to decorating. No needlework, timepieces, porcelain figurines, or photographs adorned the first-floor rooms, although the sitting room did have an open trunk filled to overflowing with books.

In fact, the sitting room, which had always served as the family gathering place on the Rawlins spread, had an unmistakably masculine feel, thanks to its gun racks, animal trophies, cushionless rockers, and boot-scuffed floorboards.

None of the windows bore curtains, and a thin veneer of dust was the closest thing to a carpet on any of the floors. The downstairs was tidy though, so tidy, one might think Bailey didn't do her living there.