Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (5 page)

Zack's jaw hardened, and he rose, swearing.

Nearby scats and paw prints had verified his original suspicion, which he'd formed after glimpsing the slashes on the wasted flesh. He had a cougar to thank for his double loss—Old One Toe to be exact. The notorious range raider had been named by vaqueros who didn't quite understand English: the puma had one toe missing, not one toe left. In any event, the name had stuck, and the bounty hunters whom the Cattlemen's Association had hired to exterminate the pest had never come close to trapping him. One Toe was legendary throughout the hill country, eluding hounds, poisons, baits, and rifle sights. Some whispered he truly did have nine lives.

Zack was determined to put an end to all of them.

Fighting his way back through the brush to Boss, who was grazing peacefully on spring clover, Zack shoved his gun into the rifle boot and swung up into the saddle.

Two wildcats in two days, he mused grimly, and he had scores to settle with each. He didn't take kindly to being called a coward. The problem was, he never knew whether to deplore Bailey's nerve or admire her grit. Admiration had a nasty way of sneaking up on him whenever she pitted herself against a herd of horny cattlemen with only a battle-scarred hound to defend her.

Even so, Bailey knew damned well the Cattlemen's Association wasn't a law enforcement agency. Even if Hank was behind the county's latest rash of wire cutting, the best Zack could do was call for a vote to drum him off the roll. The way sentiment was running among the cattlemen, he figured Hank was more likely to be reinstated as a hero than ousted as a villain.

Relations between the county's sheepherding and steer-droving factions had always been strained, but the drought had brought simmering tempers to a boil. Zack was doing everything he could to negotiate a truce with the Woolgrowers, but his own officers were divided on the matter. If troublemakers like Hank Rotterdam and Red Calloway started a mutiny in the ranks, Zack feared he'd be powerless to stop a range war.

Was it any wonder, then, that Bailey's talk of lynching the night before had put the spurs to his temper?

His current mood made even blacker by thoughts of Bailey, Zack cantered Boss through the rolling fields of wilted, sun-beaten Indian blankets, toward the hunting hounds that awaited him at his—or, rather, his older brother's—home. Cord and Fancy had insisted he live with them and Aunt Lally. Of course, that had been before the first of their four children was born.

When time had allowed, Zack had built a bachelor bunkhouse half a mile away. He had intended it for him and Wes, but then his younger brother had married a woman with a baby on the way, four orphans they raised as their own, and a housekeeper and hired hand they all loved like kin.

These days, Wes's family lived in the bunkhouse, and Zack was making do with the attic at Cord's.

The sound of deep-throated barking roused him from his thoughts. He squinted against the noonday sun. A rider was cantering out of the west. He recognized the blond palomino with its sassy, high-stepping gait. Next he noticed the great brindled body happily hurtling through his pasture of favored livestock.

"Dammit, McShane," he muttered. Choking back another choice expletive, Zack spurred Boss faster, his hands twitching longingly for his rifle stock. "Call your dog off, McShane! Those heifers are pregnant!"

If the slender, tawny-haired rider heard him, she didn't respond. Instead, she continued riding toward Wes's front gate, her waist-length braid gleaming like polished gold against the pewter polka dots of her workshirt. Her hips rolled in an easy, sensual motion that distracted unbidden parts of Zack in spite of his irritation. He didn't know which was worse, the fact that his body betrayed his staunch resolve never again to desire a McShane woman, or that his anger had him calling her by her last name, as if she were a man.

Muttering again at his lapse in decorum, Zack wheeled Boss to intercept Boo, who was romping gleefully through the lowing, milling cattle. Fearing a stampede, Zack tore off his hat and began waving it. "Hey!"

Bailey finally looked his way.

"Call off your dog!" he shouted again. "Those cows are due to calf!"

Bailey turned her head toward Boo, who was rearing up on his hind legs. He lunged toward a particularly low-bellied heifer, and Zack felt his blood pressure soar. He could have sworn Bailey hid a grin when she popped two fingers into her mouth to whistle.

"Boo!"

The hound's ears flopped inside out as he spun toward the call.

"Come."

Boo obeyed, his tongue lolling and his yellow eyes bright with mischief. Zack clenched his teeth. Aside from being a pain in the rear, Boo was quite possibly the greatest eyesore Zack had ever seen. With his mastiff-sized head, his bulldog-strong jaws, and his ratty tail, Bailey's cur dog had been known to scare stouthearted strangers on sight. That's probably why she called the creature Boo.

"Bad, Boo. Nasty, Boo." Bailey's gaze darted slyly to Zack before she wagged a finger at the canine mutant, panting so adoringly up at her. "Very bad, Boo."

Boo barked in joyous agreement, and Zack was hard-pressed not to wring both their necks. He reined in. "What are you doing here, Bailey?"

She grinned up at him, her slouch hat throwing shadows across the smattering of freckles that dotted her nose. "Boo and I are paying a call on our friendliest neighbor. But if you like, we can visit with you as well."

The front door of the bunkhouse slammed. Zack glimpsed his lanky, redheaded brother toting a basket of wet laundry to the clothesline for his housekeeper. The usual gaggle of children, two of them Cord's, was trotting at his heels.

"Wes," Zack called, hoping to unload Bailey quickly so he could get on with his cougar hunt, "you've got company."

Bailey didn't seem to mind his snappish tone. Jumping to the ground with her usual energetic bounce, she threw back the flap of her saddlebag and pulled out an awkwardly shaped package.

"Well now," Wes said. "Isn't this a nice surprise?" Strolling closer, he unlatched the gate, and the children raced ahead of him to pet and fondle Boo. As they swarmed all over the hound, he flopped on his back, wagging his tail in doggie bliss.

Wes winked at Zack. "Mornin', Miss Bailey."

"Mornin', Mr. Wes."

They solemnly shook hands.

Zack pressed his lips together. Not that it made any difference, but Wes always managed to get away with using "miss", "ma'am," and "Bailey" in the same breath without starting another war.

Frankly, Zack didn't understand it.

He was wondering just how long he needed to dawdle there for the sake of bare-bones politeness, when Bailey shoved her hat back with her thumb. A coquettish, sun-streaked curl tumbled across the untanned peak of her brow.

"Boo and I are probably the last to come by," she said to Wes, "what with shearing season and all, but we wanted to pay our respects to our newest neighbor."

"Why, that's right kind of you, ma'am," Wes said. "Rorie will be pleased to have the company."

Bailey nodded, taking her usual stance—a hand on one hip and her legs straddled. Zack had always marveled that her mother hadn't schooled her against this instinctively aggressive pose. Then again, her mother hadn't stayed around very long. As Zack understood it, Mrs. McShane had gone back home to Boston, leaving her immigrant husband, ten-year-old daughter, and orphaned fourteen-year-old niece to fend for themselves.

"You must be right proud," Bailey said, her western drawl slightly softened by her daddy's Scottish burr. "I hear he's a fine lad, the spitting image of his father."

"Yep." Wes's grin was shameless. "Red hair and all. But Little Wes has his mama's cleft chin. They say that's a sign of stubbornness."

"Could be. 'Course, I always believed it to be the mark of intelligence, seeing as how it's a McShane family trait."

"Hmm." Wes's eyes danced. "Then I reckon Little Wes would get that from his mama too."

Bailey chuckled, and eight-year-old Merrilee came to hold her papa's hand. The child rose on tiptoe to better inspect the package under Bailey's arm.

"Did you bring Little Wes a birthday present?" the Comanche child asked shyly.

Bailey's smile was kind. "That I did, lass. Maybe you could help him open it, him being so small."

The next thing Zack knew, Bailey was surrounded by four eager children all tugging and ripping at her gift. At last ten-year-old Topher lifted the stuffed toy triumphantly for his father's inspection.

Wes chuckled, tossing Zack a sly glance. "Why, lookie there. Miss Bailey brought Little Wes a baby woolly. And it's got real sheep fur too."

Zack scowled.

"I sewed the fleece myself," Bailey said with unmistakable pride.

Zack decided he'd lingered long enough, but his sister-in-law chose that moment to come outside with her four-month old, and he was stuck. Tipping his hat, he tried not to telegraph his growing annoyance, for Rorie was a lady, and he respected her.

"I thought I heard voices," Rorie said, smiling brightly at Zack and her husband before turning the warmth of her sun-colored eyes on Bailey. "These men haven't been badgering you about that team rodeo, have they? Everyone was talking about it yesterday at church."

"No, ma'am," Bailey said with businesslike frankness. "We've been talking about your bairn. Congratulations, ma'am. I apologize for taking so long to pay my neighborly respects."

Rorie laughed, shaking her head and shifting her bundle. "Please don't apologize. I understand shearing season is terribly busy for you. Besides, Little Wes isn't likely to leave the ranch anytime soon. Would you like to see him?"

Bailey hesitated, her shoulders tensing as Rorie peeled back the corner of the blanket. Innate female curiosity must have won out over her reluctance, though, for she eased closer.

The baby cooed. Waving his fists, he smiled up at her with true Wes Rawlins appeal, and Zack, watching everyone else admire the infant, found his gaze stealing to Bailey. What he saw in her face mystified him. Gone was the crusty, no-nonsense facade he had come to accept as indelibly hers. Any threat of her hair-trigger belligerence had melted completely away. In its stead was a sweet, almost childlike reverence for the natural-born charmer now gripping her finger. Little Wes tried to tug her closer, and she obliged, smiling in a half-mesmerized state.

Rorie kissed the red-gold down on the baby's head. "Little Wes has stolen another heart, I fear," she said to her husband with mock concern. "Have you been up nights schooling him again?"

"Yep." The widest grin Zack had ever seen split his brother's face. "It's the only time you womenfolk will let me be alone with him."

He took the child from Rorie's arms and gave the boy a conspiratorial wink. Rorie laughed. Bailey grinned.

Zack fidgeted, suddenly feeling alone.

It was a strange sensation, being part of a family, yet feeling so isolated. Rorie had always been warm and welcoming to him, and he was fond of her adopted children, but something was missing these days when he visited Wes in his home. Zack felt that something even more keenly than he had at seventeen, when Cord had married Fancy.

Maybe it was because Wes was one year Zack's junior, and in spite of all their childhood sparring, Zack had always counted on his brother's companionship for hunting, fishing, and drinking—the kinds of things one couldn't do with women or steers.

Wes turned to Bailey, beaming with paternal pride. "Would you like to hold him, ma'am?"

Bailey started, the baby's spell obviously broken. "No! I mean..." Red-faced and flustered, she retreated two steps. "I mean I'm not good with bairns. Now, if he were a lamb or a kid, I'd know what to do, but babies are different. Besides," she added weakly, "I wouldn't want to take time away from your turn."

Wes blinked, clearly taken aback. Rorie tried to hide her surprise with a gracious smile. Even Zack, knowing better than they what Bailey was capable of, was somewhat amazed at her atypical behavior.

She folded her arms across her chest and cleared her throat. "The talk is," she said, addressing Wes, "it's a toss-up between you and Cord as to who's the county's best marksman. Since there's bound to be a shoot-off as part of that cattleman-sheep rancher rodeo, I reckon you Rawlins men are going to have to draw straws. Only one person can represent each ranch, you know."

Wes's ready humor returned. "Oh, I think Cord and I'll just have to pass this time so you sheep ranchers get a fighting chance."

"That's right sporting of you."

Wes chuckled, and Rorie took the baby back into her arms.

"I think you were very clever, Bailey," she said, "to suggest a peaceful way for the people in this county to release tension. Friendly competition should go a long way toward establishing better relations between the sheepherders and the cattlemen. Especially if the rodeo becomes an annual event."

Bailey turned a pretty shade of pink. "Well, some folks"—she tossed Zack a haughty glance—"thought I was loco at first."

"Not me," Wes said gallantly. "You got this county so riled up thinking about rodeos, no one's had time to go trespassing for water. So I'd say you were smart. Right resourceful too." Lowering his head to her ear, he added in a dramatic stage whisper, "Have you ever thought about becoming a Rawlins woman?"