Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (8 page)

"Then you just think on it a spell, miss. I'm sure that pretty head of yours is good for something more than looks."

While Amaryllis sputtered, trying to decide whether or not she'd been insulted, Bailey handed her gun butt-first to the judge. He was frowning at her, much as Zack was. Larabee's fatherly disapproval she could understand, but not Zack's. Damn him anyway. If a conceited little twit was the kind of female he favored, he was welcome to her.

"Miss McShane." Larabee glared down his long, aquiline nose at her. "I'll have no trouble from you or anyone else at this meeting tonight. Do I make myself clear?"

"Like a bell, sir. Nice of you to show up to see we sheepherders get a fair shake. Must be nearly election time again." With a thin-lipped smile, she tipped her hat and stalked into the meeting room.

Zack gazed after his neighbor with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

Bailey the Pistol had arrived.

If truth be told, Zack had been looking forward to seeing her. He supposed a lot of the reason had to do with Hank. Zack's ornery side just couldn't stand to be told whose skirts he could chase.

"Oh!"
Amaryllis stomped her foot, which set her dainty curls to bobbing. "I declare, that McShane woman is beyond bearing! However do you manage to put up with her as a neighbor, Zack? It must be dreadful for you."

For some reason, Amaryllis's acrimony rankled more than usual this night. Her eyes were as blue and transparent as Bailey's; Zack had little trouble seeing the spite that always seemed to lurk there. The more he saw it, the less he liked it, and the less he liked Amaryllis.

Aligning himself with the Larabee clan had once seemed politically advantageous. Since Amaryllis did all the jawing, she was about the easiest filly Zack had ever courted, but God help him. When he spent more than an hour with the girl, his brain began to buzz as if a hornet had flown inside his head, and he started longing for the relative peace of a saloon.

"I hardly ever cross paths with Miss McShane," he said brusquely.

"That must certainly come as a relief." Amaryllis flashed a sugary smile at Nick, who grinned as he strolled past her, then returned her attention to Zack. "I heard all about the disturbance Miss McShane caused last weekend at the Bullwhip Saloon.
And
I heard how she chased Nick Rotterdam up the stairs into a soiled dove's cote! Not that I'm surprised. You know what they say. Birds of a feather..."

Her smile turned catty, and Zack had trouble masking his distaste.

"Your father's the only one in this county fit to judge somebody, Amaryllis." He detached her hand from his sleeve. "The rest of us don't have any such license."

He nodded to her, then entered the meeting room and took a seat at the center of the Cattlemen's board table. The Woolgrowers' board sat at a table immediately adjacent.

After Zack called the meeting to order, a spirited discussion ensued. Zack said little, and Bailey, observing him furtively throughout the debate, searched for some sign of accord beneath his perpetual frown. She wondered how much his irritation had to do with the discussion, and how much it had to do with Nick, who stood at the back of the room whispering to a giggling Amaryllis. After ten minutes of this distraction, Judge Larabee ordered his pouting daughter outside, and Nick flounced down in the vacant chair in front of Mac, who was seated at her side.

The officers of the Woolgrowers' Association were in favor of individualized events such as target shooting, since sheepmen were accustomed to working alone. Hank and his cronies, of course, wanted team events, such as branding. Soon it became clear that more than professional pride was at stake: Most sheepmen were older and physically softer, but were much better read than the average cowhand, who was likely to be a twentyish stud with a high enthusiasm for action and a mighty contempt for books.

Bailey suggested a team event in well drilling, a personal interest of hers. Her idea was greeted by groans from the cattlemen.

"Aw, hell, this rodeo's supposed to be fun, not work," Nick said, standing and ignoring Zack's gavel. "I cast my vote for team whoring. 'Course..." He turned to taunt Bailey, much to the delight of the snickering cattlemen. "I reckon that would keep you out of the contest, sugar, unless you got something you want to stake."

Mac roughly kicked the young upstart's chair into the back of his knees. Nick floundered onto his seat, and Zack shot him a look that would have iced Satan's furnace.

"Another outburst like that, Rotterdam," he said, "and you'll be riding my boot home. Now, shut up and stay seated. And if anyone else has something to say to Miss McShane, it had better be courteous, or you forfeit your ranch's right to compete. Do I make myself clear?"

The cowboys fidgeted, murmuring agreements, and Nick hung his head. "Sorry, Bailey."

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Glancing at Zack, she hoped to convey her gratitude, but his attention had already been claimed by the next speaker. She got nothing more than a fleeting peek at his handsome, square-jawed profile.

After three hours of haggling, an agreement was finally reached. The committees agreed to stage one two-man competition, fence stringing. The rest of the events would be individual competitions: bronc busting, target shooting, and pig herding. Sheep and cattle herding, of course, were out of the question.

No one seemed able to suggest a tie-breaking event to satisfy both sides. Sheepmen claimed log splitting favored the able-bodied cowboy. Cattlemen refused to participate in a horse race, since the Woolgrowers' president, Will Eldridge, had just about recouped his drought losses by taking odds on Sure Bet, his mustang stallion.

Looking short on patience, Zack finally stood up and waved the bickering men into silence.

"I say we make the final event a team event, something we all have a vested interest in."

"Yeah?" Seated in the front row with Nat, Hank snorted to convey his opinion of such a pipe dream. "And what might that be?"

"A hunt." Zack's dark gaze nailed every one of the ranchers to his chair. "To bag One Toe."

Bailey caught her breath at such an inspired idea, and her heart quickened when she saw reluctant approval dawn on the craggy faces around the board tables.

"How would a hunt work?" Nat asked. "What if somebody bags One Toe before we do?"

"The chances of that are slim, since Texas's best bounty hunters have given up," Zack said. "One Toe's luck will probably hold out long after Independence Day if we ranchers don't work together and take up the chase.

"Since the rodeo's still two weeks away," he continued briskly, "I recommend we start the hunt immediately. Whether it takes hours or weeks to bag that cougar, neither team will be declared the winner until One Toe's pelt is finally produced."

"Not so fast, Rawlins," Hank interjected. "Red Calloway's still on his cattle drive. We're going to want him on our team, seeing as how target shooting's part of these games. Outside of your brothers, Red's the best marksman we've got."

"Yeah," the cowboys chimed in from the right side of the room.

"No one bags One Toe till Red gets back," Hank said. He leveled a baleful look at the sheepherders' side of the room.

"Now, hold on a damned minute." Will Eldridge rose, his short, wiry frame tensing as he confronted Hank. "I'm not sitting on my rear end for two weeks, letting that cougar raid my stock. If he comes to my range, I'm bagging his hide."

Bailey raised her hand, trying to get Zack's attention.

"Then you forfeit the rodeo, Mr. Eldridge," Hank said.

"You aren't in any position to make the rules here, Mr. Rotterdam," Eldridge fired back.

Bailey gave up and simply stood. "For crying out loud, everyone wants that cougar dead. What difference does it make if he's bagged now or two weeks from now? I'll throw in five hundred dollars cash to the man—or woman—who brings me One Toe's pelt. I rather fancy tacking him up beside the female puma hanging over my mantel."

That proposition knocked the wind out of every rancher's sails. She could feel the stunned stares from thirty men drilling into her.

"Five hundred dollars?" Rob Cole repeated in disbelief. He glanced at Mac, as if looking for confirmation. When the Scot made no visible response, the Woolgrowers' vice president raised his troubled gaze to Bailey's. "Why would you want to do that? Your daddy bought his first flock for less than five hundred dollars."

Bailey put on her best business face, but inside, her heart was racing faster than Eldridge's mustang.
This is it. The chance I've been waiting for.

"One Toe's been preying on my sheep. He took down a stud ram a couple of weeks ago. I have a stake in that cat's hide just like the rest of you, and I mean to see he's wiped out for good. There's just one condition," she added with masterful aplomb.

Eldridge muttered something about "trouble" and "women."

"Yeah?" Rob demanded suspiciously. "And what condition might that be?"

"I compete on the sheepherder's team."

The Cattlemen's side of the room instantly dissolved into laughter, but Bailey stood her ground. She was counting on pure old-fashioned greed to get the sheepherders to see her way. If they didn't, then she figured the cattlemen would pressure them into it. Even Mac had thought her plan would work, although he hadn't been encouraging. He thought pride was a poor reason to spend five hundred dollars.

"You're out of order, woman," Eldridge barked at her. "Sit down."

"Hey, old man!" Nick started to rise. "You can't talk to her like that!"

Good old Ick,
Bailey thought. No one was allowed to mistreat her except him.

Zack, meanwhile, was hammering the table with his gavel. "All right, all right, simmer down, Rotterdam. Miss McShane, you do not have the floor."

"I'd say she just bought the floor, son," Hank drawled, turning to give her a wink. "But seeing as how President Eldridge doesn't want to give the little gal a voice in this discussion, I'd like to know where she plans on getting that five hundred dollars. It seems to me she can't have it handy, since she was complaining to me and my boys only the other night that some lowdown wire cutters cost her that much."

She raised her chin, finding herself in the awkward—not to mention vexing—position of needing Hank's support. She knew Hank would throw his considerable weight behind her only if he saw some personal advantage in it.

"I'm sure my mohair crop will yield at least twice that amount, Hank. But in the less than likely event mohair prices bottom out between now and the fall shearing, I'm sure I can think of a dozen or more ways to raise five hundred dollars." She paused before casually throwing out the bone. "Like leasing my eastern pasture to some drought-stricken cattleman."

A murmur of interest rushed like wildfire along the cattlemen's side of the room. The sheepherders fidgeted, and Rob wore a dire look as he shook his head. Bailey ignored her father's old friend.

"You mean old widow Sherridan's sweet little homestead with the spring-fed stream?" Nat asked, sounding awed. "The very same acreage you outbid Zack for?"

"That's right."

A big, cheesy grin split Hank's face at this revelation. "Hell, then I say you sheepherders sign up Miss Bailey right away."

Eldridge's lips tightened in a thin line. "You can't tell us who to put on our team," he snapped at Hank.

Then Eldridge turned to her, and his iron-gray eyebrows plunged. "Your pa would be rolling in his grave, young woman. If you had a lick of sense, you'd be mending the fences you lost the other night, not bribing your way into our rodeo."

A ripple of applause wound through the Woolgrowers' ranks.

"You mean
my
rodeo, don't you?" she flung back.

The cowboys snickered.

"Bailey."

It was Zack's voice, strained with frustration. Or was that concern? She couldn't tell, since as usual, he was frowning when he addressed her.

"I know how much you want to be on the sheepherders' team. But President Eldridge has a point. In the face of your recent business losses, it doesn't make good sense to put up that kind of prize money, especially if you have to lease your land. If this drought goes on through the summer, the old Sherridan spring may be all that stands between your flocks and disaster."

"That's why I have windmills, Zack," she retorted, reluctant to admit even to herself that the risk of disaster could possibly exist. "While your concern for my wellbeing is appreciated, gentlemen," she continued, addressing the upturned faces and their condescending smirks, "frankly, it's unnecessary. I intend to bag that cougar myself."

At that jibe, hoots and whistles circled both sides. Zack shook his head, banging his gavel again.

"All right, that's enough." He nodded at her, indicating she should take her seat. "Let's get on with the business at hand. You sheepherders can settle your differences in some other meeting. If Bailey's hell-bent on putting up five hundred dollars as incentive for us to bag One Toe, that's her prerogative. Putting her on the sheepherders' team roster is the sheepherders' prerogative. Neither of these things has anything to do with our business tonight, which is to finalize the rodeo events. I need a motion to make the cougar hunt a team competition, beginning July fifth and continuing until One Toe's hide is produced."