Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (34 page)

"Zack, please." She wrung her hands, her vision blurring as she tried to focus through her tears. "Don't hurt him. I... already did enough of that."

He nodded. When he turned to go, his expression was grimmer than she'd ever seen it.

"I reckon we both have."

* * *

Tracking Iain McTavish up the canyon wall to the line shack, and then following his wagon over the cracked, dusty earth, wasn't difficult for Zack. It did prove time-consuming though, since he had to trail the Scot to every one of his eight stops before he finally found McTavish and a
pastore
two hours later, restringing wire along the northeastern corner of Bailey's fencing.

The fencing closest to the Rotterdam spread, Zack noted darkly.

Although the cut wire wasn't proof positive Hank had been involved, it sure didn't help to clear the Rotterdam name. It didn't support Bailey's claims she could fight her own battles either.

Zack knew better than to tell Bailey he had one other reason for camping on her spread: her protection. Sheepherders had every right to be outraged by the vandalism to their property and the attacks on their flocks, but if tempers flared any hotter before the next rain, Bandera County might erupt into the kind of range wars being waged up north in Tom Green County.

Zack wasn't fool enough to think he could stop a war, but he did hope he could mediate a truce. Learning the ins and outs of sheep ranching seemed like the quickest way for him to come up with a solution and a cease-fire.

He just hoped Iain McTavish would see the merit of his plan. He suspected the Scot would consider him more of a threat than would all the rest of the Woolgrowers combined.

Slowing Boss to a walk, Zack approached the fence menders.

"Howdy," he called, tipping his hat. "Need a neighborly hand?"

The
pastore
looked nervous enough to be scared when his gaze darted from Zack's rifle to his six-shooter. McTavish, infinitely calmer, straightened to give Zack a measuring stare. A minute dragged by as Zack watched McTavish's gloved fingers flex and unflex, as if he were working the stiffness out—or longing for a Peacemaker.

"It takes only two to string a fence," McTavish finally answered. "I don't need ye to take my place, but Ramirez here could use a siesta."

Zack winced, suspecting a double entendre in the Scot's words. Still, no matter how hurt and angry he must be, McTavish was taking care not to air Bailey's dirty laundry in front of her men. That said a lot for her foreman.

Ramirez glanced uncertainly at McTavish, but when his boss nodded, the Mexican whistled to his dog and headed for a patch of shade beneath a pecan tree about a hundred yards away. Zack dismounted, tethering Boss to the nearest fence pole.

"I just came from the big house," he said, pulling a heavy pair of riding gauntlets from his saddlebags. "I had another talk with Bailey, and I want you to know my intentions."

"Bailey McShane answers to no one, least of all to me. The sooner ye get that through yer skull, the happier ye'll be."

McTavish went back to rolling out wire. Zack watched the Scot's wooden profile and jerky movements for a moment before he pulled on his gloves.

"Still, you're like kinfolk to her," he said carefully. "Maybe the only kin who cares what becomes of her."

"Ye're forgetting Caitlin."

This last comment held a note of irony, and Zack, caught off guard, cursed the heat that crept up his neck.

"Caitlin's in Kansas City now. She might as well be on the moon if Bailey needs help in a hurry. With all the vandalism you've been seeing on this ranch, I figure help is exactly what you need. I told her I want to put down stakes here. I told her I want to learn the business, and I want to learn it from you."

McTavish glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched. "Ye told her I'm the one ye want to learn from? I'm surprised she dinna bust yer chops." He cracked the faintest of smiles. "Or did she?"

Zack felt a thread of tension loosen through his shoulders. "Er... no. Not this time. I think she saw the sense in my idea."

"Hmm."

McTavish clipped the wire, and Zack squatted beside him, stretching the length around the pole until the Scot had a free hand to tack it in place.

"I asked her to marry me, you know," Zack said quietly.

"She said as much."

"Did she tell you why she turned me down?"

McTavish nodded, and Zack felt a little less like a cur dog. Odd that the Scot hadn't come after him with his shotgun though.

"I'm worried about her, McTavish," he said earnestly. "We took equal part in the decision to, er, buck the conventions, and I don't want her facing the scandal alone. I don't want her raising any baby alone either. But she's so damned stubborn, I can't get her to listen to reason."

To his surprise, McTavish chuckled, the sound strangely hollow.

"Bailey would battle the fires of hell with a single bucket of water if she had to. I dinna think she's too worried about what the town biddies might say."

"Yes, but..." Zack frowned, torn between wanting McTavish to see his point and trying to be considerate of the man's feelings. "If there is a baby, she has to think how her decision would affect the child. It isn't easy growing up without a father. I know."

"Aye." McTavish's chill thawed a bit. "But Bailey grew up worse off than ye did, even though she had two parents. Pat and Lucy were too busy fighting each other to give Bailey any attention. They lived a regular three-ring circus, loving each other in the morning, hating each other by noon. There were times the screams, threats, and crockery throwing got so bad, I had to run inside and drag Pat out, 'cause I thought one of them might get killed.

"Poor Bailey saw it all," he continued grimly. "They used her like a weapon, they did. And that's why I canna argue when she says she'll marry for love and nothing less. Ye've got yer work cut out for ye, lad, if ye want to convince that girl to be yer bride."

Truer words were never spoken, Zack mused sadly, unrolling the bale to stretch out a second length of wire. He'd heard an occasional horror story about Patrick McShane's marriage, but he'd always figured the gossips had embellished the details to snipe at his Yankee wife.

Besides, Lucinda had left her husband and daughter at least three years before the Rawlins family had settled in this county. Never much interested in gossip, Zack was even less interested in gossip about people he hadn't met.

"I'm glad you were there to comfort Bailey all those years," he said. "You mean the world to her."

"Aye, well..." McTavish cleared his throat. The back of his neck turned redder than his hair. "There are those who mean more to her." He tossed Zack a fleeting look. "Raise that wire higher, would ye?"

As McTavish's hammer tapped the staples in place, Zack had a moment to wonder whom the Scot meant. Nick Rotterdam seemed the most obvious answer, and Zack scowled. Why else would Bailey go to such lengths to defend the bastard who'd bragged one night at the Bullwhip Saloon that she was going to become his wife because she "had" to?

If Zack ever got his hands on Nick, he swore he'd beat him senseless. In fact, he wished Nick had left his other gauntlet near the scene of the crime, so there'd be an immediate excuse to ride to the neighboring spread and start swinging his fists.

"I can promise you one thing, McTavish," he said, "I'm not giving up on marriage like Bailey's parents did. The future doesn't have to repeat the past, and I'm damned sure I don't want to spend my life fighting with the mother of
my
child. After all, arguments just don't flare up by themselves; someone has to choose to strike the tinder. Bailey and I can learn to walk the middle ground."

"There's a narrow path on that middle ground, which makes it tough to tread," McTavish said dryly. "Bailey is never likely to become the obedient, soft-spoken bride. Always in the thick of the fray, that's our Bailey, speaking her mind and thumbing her nose at whatever the old hens might think. She's a woman who can make her own way without anyone's help.

"But she's not a loner in her bones, lad," he added almost wistfully, "and there's a place by her side for a man with a strong heart and a gentle hand." McTavish's smile was laced with melancholy. "Like as not, ye'll fit."

Zack fidgeted, unsure what bothered him more, the flicker of raw hurt across McTavish's features or the idea of taking a disobedient bride.

He wasn't in the habit of shouting orders at women; he respected them too much for that. But he did have certain expectations of how married life should be. The husband was the leader, the protector, the provider; the wife was the nurturer, the healer, the child-raiser. As strong-willed as Fancy and Rorie both were, they seemed to understand—and enjoy—their wifely roles. Surely Bailey could also come to accept her place as a Rawlins wife.

McTavish rose, mopping his brow with a bandanna.

"Looks like we're finished here, lad," he said, stuffing the bandanna back inside his rear pocket. "That bale needs to be hoisted back onto the wagon."

Zack helped the other man maneuver the prickly wire. "Any ideas who caused the damage here?"

"Aye, a few."

Nodding a curt thank-you for the assistance, McTavish crossed to the front of the wagon and climbed onto the driver's seat. "I'll drive by the tree for Ramirez. If ye've a mind to learn more about fence stringing today, mount up."

Zack frowned. Clearly, the sheepman wasn't ready to trust him, despite his grudging acceptance of a cowboy apprentice.

"Who do you think burned the line shack?" Zack asked bluntly.

McTavish busied himself with the reins, his eyes lowered and his expression wry. "Ye're a smart businessman. There're a lot of smart businessmen in this county. Problem is, Bailey willna marry for profit. So who do ye think stands to gain the most if her cut fences, a few burned buildings, and her frightened
pastores
convince her a woman can't run a ranch, and she decides to put her prime pasturage up for sale?"

McTavish slapped the reins across his horse's neck. "Giddyap."

Zack's jaw twitched as the wagon rolled away from him, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Only one name came to mind.

Hank Rotterdam.

Chapter 14

For the first five days of Zack's stay, Bailey felt as if she were walking a tightrope. She'd asked Mac what had passed between him and the cattle rancher, but in his usual way, he'd said little, except to assure her he would abide by her wishes.

Figuring Zack's lips might be easier to pry open, she'd cornered him by the pump he'd been repairing and demanded to know what the two men had talked about. He'd answered with the oh-so comforting, "You, mostly."

She'd nearly pitched a fit right then and there when he'd refused to elaborate. No amount of begging or bribery could move him to confess either. Hell, ten yoke of oxen probably couldn't have done that. The man was more like Mac than either one of them realized, and they were both driving her crazy. She didn't know which was worse, feeling the tension sizzle between the two men or worrying that they'd resolve it and gang up on her.

She groaned silently. The last thing she needed was two bullheaded men telling her what they thought was right.

She tried to go about her daily chores as if nothing had changed, but Zack made it awfully hard. Every time she walked to the barn, or visited the well, or gazed out on a pasture, she caught glimpses of his roughrider's frame as he worked beside Mac.

With each passing sunset, and without her knowing how, his presence pervaded more of her home, from the stall in the barn, where he neatly rolled his blankets; to the kitchen washtub, where he stacked his well-scraped dishes; to the dust on the back porch, where he left boot prints much larger than Mac's. She couldn't feed the dogs after the evening meal without spying the spurs he'd courteously hung on the peg outside the door. And each night, when she retreated gratefully to the shower bath to wash off the day's dust, his earthy sandalwood essence hung in the air, a tantalizing testimonial to the naked flesh he'd sponged before her arrival.

Seeing so much—or, rather, so little—of Zack had her as horny as Buttercup must have been the night she'd escaped. If it weren't for Mac, she would have marched down to the barn and demanded Zack put an end to their ridiculous sexual standoff right there in the straw. It wasn't as if she had anything to lose.