Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (32 page)

"I'm so sorry, Bailey," he whispered thickly.

He sounded close to tears. Stunned, she tilted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

"Wh-what for?"

"For thinking the worst of you."

She caught her breath. Releasing it in a slow, measured stream, she tried to make sense of his words.

"You mean about the cougar?"

"No, sweetheart. About our baby. I thought..." He groaned, rubbing his cheek against her hair. "God, I'm so ashamed. I thought... you would try to get rid of it," he finished in an agonized rush.

She stiffened.
Get rid of it?

"Zack—" She kept her voice as quiet and reasonable as her shock would allow. "Why on earth would you think that?"

He finally gave her room to breathe, gripping her shoulders and gazing into her eyes. "Because you said you'd 'take care of it.' "

"I meant I'd raise it on my own."

He nodded, but he didn't look relieved. If anything, his expression grew more haunted. His upset moved her more than she cared to admit. It made her realize how much she'd missed as a child. The old pain lodged as a lump in her throat.

Why couldn't her mother have worried about her half as much as Zack worried about his seed, a seed that might not even bear fruit?

"Look," she said. "My mother had a wagonload of faults. But she did do one thing worth admiring, and that was letting me come into the world."

"That sounds like something we both should admire."

"Yeah, well..." She turned her face away, mortified to think he might have glimpsed her tears. "It taught me a lot of hard lessons, that's for sure."

"Bailey." He caught her chin and guided her gaze slowly, compellingly, up to his. "Your mother needed a lot of courage to bear that kind of scandal."

"I don't want to talk about her." She cringed at her sharpness, but he didn't seem to take offense.

"All right." He brushed his thumb across her cheek and released her, his smile consoling despite its weariness. For the first time, she noticed the saucer-sized shadows under his eyes.

She firmly stuffed all memories of Lucinda Bailey into a cobwebbed corner of her heart.

"Zack," she asked, hiding her concern beneath a businesslike facade, "did you get any sleep last night?"

Sighing, he ran his palm over the chestnut stubble on his cheeks. "Not much."

"And the night before?"

His dimples peeked sheepishly.

"And you want to hunt One Toe?" She shook her head. "You wouldn't last two hours in the saddle."

"Think so, eh?"

"That was not a challenge." She gave him her best glare. "You need some shut-eye, and I'm going to see you get it."

"Oh, yeah? And how do you figure that?"

"I'm going to ride shotgun on you 'til I get you to the nearest bed."

Surprise flickered across his features, then amusement. Both were followed by the slow dawning of a smoky amber light in his gaze. "And where might that be?"

The huskiness of his voice made her pulse trip. Her skin felt scorched by the heat rising between them. She had no intention of letting her Good-Samaritan intentions turn into a tumble in the hay, though. Her daddy used to tell her to pick herself up and get back in the saddle, but her heart was still too bruised and broken to let Zack get anywhere near the pieces.

"I reckon my ranch is closest," she said briskly. "It'll be quiet there, without all your kinfolk to pester you."

"What about McTavish?"

She winced inwardly. Mac should be riding the range today, inspecting her fences for further damage. With any luck, he wouldn't be back until dinner, and Zack should be long gone by then.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure he keeps quiet so you won't be disturbed."

"That's not what I meant, Bailey."

She arched an eye brow. Of course that wasn't what he meant, but she didn't want to confide her troubles with Mac any more than she wanted to talk about her unhappy childhood. "If you're scared he'll come gunning for you, I can guard your door."

Zack's lopsided grin surprised her. "You really like trying to get my goat, don't you?"

Her face heated. Actually, she hadn't set out to start an argument, but with Zack, her mouth always seemed to spill out war words no matter how amicable her intent. She wondered why that was.

"Not half as much as you like getting mine," she rallied, doing her best to return his grin. "Think we can ride all the way to the ranch without giving each other a shiner?"

"Well... maybe."

He sobered again. The man's moods changed faster than quicksilver.

"What about Esteban?" he asked.

She couldn't help but be touched by Zack's concern for a penniless Mexican sheepherder and his grieving kin.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she said gently, "but in your state of exhaustion, you're more of a handicap than a help. You've shown your good faith to Rob's men, and you've put up with enough of Jesse's sass to be canonized. There's no shame in getting the rest you need. There'll be other hunts."

Zack fidgeted, tempted more than he cared to admit by the bed, and not just because her offer was ripe with possibilities. He didn't like making excuses for himself. Bone weary or not, it seemed to him he had a responsibility to see this hunt through, even if that meant grinding his teeth down to nubs to keep from punching out Jesse.

"I hate the idea of backing out, Bailey. It's not just Esteban. It's the whole damned sheepherder-cattleman feud."

"I know," she said. "But as you said last night, they don't want you along. Tempers are going to get shorter the longer they ride, and Jesse's itching for a fight. You don't need that kind of trouble, Zack. If you get arrested for brawling, or, worse, gunplay, your chances of reelection will be nil. And that'll be a bigger disaster for us sheepherders than One Toe ever was. We need you as the Cattlemen's president."

He frowned. Considering the anti-woolly platform Hank Rotterdam was running on, Zack knew she had a point.

But he still didn't like it.

"Tell you what." Her smile was a cajoling flash of white teeth and dimples. "The minute you wake up, you can get to work solving my vandal problem. That'll endear you to just about every sheepherder in the county, Rob Cole included."

I don't give a damn about Rob Cole,
Zack thought.
The only sheepherder that matters to me is you.

But he would rather have been tarred and feathered than admit again that he was worried about her. Bailey McShane had scorned him enough over the past two days to last a lifetime.

Of course, she could scorn him all she wanted. The fact remained, she had unfinished business with him. He veiled his gaze with his lashes to examine her belly. It was flat now, and there was no way of telling what the future might hold. He'd been quick to notice how her hand had dropped, though, protecting her womb when the cougar cubs had been threatened. She wasn't as indifferent to having his baby as she tried to pretend.

Whether he liked it or not, his responsibilities were changing. And that meant his priorities would have to change too.

"All right, Bailey," he said, telling himself he yielded for her sake, not his. "I'll ride home with you."

Home.
As she turned and he followed her, he shook his head, bemused by his slip.

Now, when had he started thinking of the McShane ranch as home?

Chapter 13

As hard as she tried to concentrate on her chores, blocking all thoughts of Zack from her mind, Bailey couldn't stop herself from stealing peeks at her guest's second-floor window. The bedroom had belonged to her as a child. She knew every knothole on the walls, every crack in the floor, every lump in the old feather mattress. It wasn't hard to imagine Zack's shirt and jeans tossed over the rocker or his discarded boots, one standing at attention, the other toppled beneath the bed. She could picture his gun belt and holster hanging from the left poster on the headboard, and his hat, dusty from their morning ride, suspended just above the .45.

Her imagination also conjured visions of the hot, breeze-stirred dimness, the gentle flapping of the curtains, and his lean, corded length, naked except for the faintest sheen of perspiration as he sprawled diagonally across the top of the sheets to keep his feet from dangling over the edge.

A dozen times or more, she was tempted to tiptoe up the stairs and peek inside the bedroom, to listen to his breathing and admire his thick chestnut lashes fanning across the chiseled bronze of his cheeks while he dreamed. She'd been denied that pleasure the night of the storm because the moonshine had taken its toll, rendering her unconscious. Fortunately—or, rather, unfortunately, she mused in dry afterthought—today she had two canine shadows.

If Pris could talk, Bailey was sure she would have minced no words decrying her cruel and unusual punishment. The collie was clearly miffed that she'd been left behind for twenty-four hours with nothing but sheep, goats, and a pesky puppy for companionship. Still grieving the loss of Boo, Pris was smart enough to remember the hound hadn't come back the last time Bailey had mounted up with her hunting rifle to follow the Coles. Pris had whined anxiously the previous afternoon when Bailey had ordered her to "go home."

Now Pris wouldn't let her mistress out of her sight. To make matters worse, Pokey, happy-go-lucky commoner that he was, had adopted the blue-blooded collie as his mama, much to her disgust, and now trotted adoringly after her wherever she roamed. Between Pokey's mischievous barking and Pris's disgruntled growls, Bailey figured her chances of sneaking quietly upstairs to Zack's bedside were slim to none.

"Be nice, Pris," she called to the collie, who lay in the shade of the wagon, baring her teeth in a highly indignant fashion because Pokey had tried to clamber onto her back and chew on her ear.

Pokey whined, sinking back on his haunches in the most pitifully contrite pose Bailey had ever seen, except, of course, for his perpetually inside-out ear.

"He's only a baby, you know," she added, grimacing at the reminder of her own predicament.

Pris snorted, as if to say Pokey wasn't
her
baby, and she washed her paws of anything having to do with the impertinent mongrel.

Shaking her head, Bailey splashed a bucket of water into Grumbles's trough. The younger rams ran forward, only to turn tail and flee when her top stud belligerently lowered his horns. Glaring a beady-eyed warning at his competitors, all of whom had scampered to the far side of the pen bleating like cowards. Grumbles finally sauntered over to the trough and drank his fill.

Even when her own life turned upside down, Bailey mused, some things never changed. Like Grumbles and the drought.

Friday's storm hadn't brought much respite, and she was starting to grow alarmed at the dwindling supply of her wells. With the charred grasses too unsavory even for goats, she'd had to haul buckets of water and bags of outrageously priced grain to all four pens in her sixty-acre canyon. The rams' paddock, being the closest to the barn, was the last stop on her rounds.

Sighing, she wiped her brow with her bandanna, then tossed her empty buckets into the wagon. Pris leapt effortlessly over the wheels into the bed. Pokey tried to follow and somersaulted instead, his legs splaying like a pin-wheel. When he landed on his head with a muffled
thunk
and a howl, Bailey's laughter instantly dissolved. She scooped him into her arms.

"Silly cowpoke's dog," she told him sternly, her heart twisting to see those big brown eyes so full of remorse. She climbed into the driver's seat and set him on the bench beside her, which turned out to be precisely what the little rascal had wanted. Not in the least bit damaged, he hurled canine insults at her mule's rear end.

Obviously, her new hound was in dire need of discipline, thanks to all those Rawlins children.

Since it was only an hour past midday, Bailey drove to the barn, unhitched the mule, and delighted Pris and Pokey with the one word announcement, "Lunch." She wasn't sure whose tail wagged faster when she reached the back porch and threw open the door to the kitchen. The aroma of mesquite-smoked pork wafted out on a gust of hot air. The dogs charged in ahead of her, sniffing and panting, but the food and its cook were nowhere to be seen.