Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (9 page)

Bailey battled panic as Zack neatly foiled her plan. She couldn't let the discussion about the team rosters die now. Without the cattlemen to rally around her, the Woolgrowers' Association would never let her compete. If she didn't compete, she'd never be able to prove she was every inch the equal of these men!

Ignoring the warning bells in her head, she did the only thing left to do. She dragged Zack back into the fray.

"You seem awfully eager to end this discussion, Mr. Cattlemen's President. What's the matter? You scared I might get on the team and you'll have to compete against me?"

A rumble, half amusement, half discontent, reverberated through the room. Bailey was treated to the full force of Zack's smoking stare.

"Come again?"

"The way I see it"—she hoped he couldn't see the red burn creeping up her cheeks—"Nick's the cattlemen's best bronc buster. Hank's already pointed out Red Calloway is the best marksman on the team. As for fence building, you have less than a mile of barbed wire on your range, and that's only to form the livestock pens near your barn. Without steer roping and bull riding on the agenda, your only real chance at winning one of these events is herding. And that's the competition I plan to win."

She heard her foreman's soft intake of breath, but she couldn't let Mac's disapproval sway her. She'd come too far to turn back now.

Hank chuckled, looking immensely pleased with this newest wrench in the works. "Seems like Miss Bailey has a point, boys." He raised his eyebrows at Zack. "'Course, I reckon you could always back out, son, claiming that re-election campaign of yours is keeping you too busy to rodeo."

The twins took their cue.

"Hell, you ain't gonna do that, are you, Zack?" Nat called. "She's gone and made it personal!"

Nick clucked, flapping his elbows like chicken wings, and snickers circled the room.

"Personal or not, I don't take advantage of women," Zack ground out.

"Seems like you're the only one worried about losing the advantage, Zack," she said, torn between shame and excitement. She knew her behavior was inexcusable, but damn. There was no denying she had Zack's attention now. "I'm a woman. So what? I've never asked you to treat me differently."

He looked to his brothers for help. Wes shrugged, looking hard-pressed to hide his amusement. Cord cleared his throat.

"It seems to me if the girl wants to compete that badly, she should have the right," the elder Rawlins said.

"I'm with Cord," Hank drawled. "You sheepmen are just plain crybabies, coming up with one excuse after the other to keep her off your team. Bailey can shoot. She can ride. Hell, she can probably do it as well as any of you old mossy horns. Tell you what, Zack. If you're that worried about pitting your skills against a woman's, we'll see she gets a handicap."

Color flooded Zack's face, and his eyes narrowed till they looked like agate spikes. To Bailey's surprise, he ignored Hank's taunt. Instead, he looked at her—
really
looked at her—his gaze raking her from head to toe. Angry and insolent, audacious and daring, his gaze burned into her hidden self, striking sparks from places she hadn't even realized she possessed. She felt naked and hot—hot enough to melt. A fine dampness misted on her upper lip, and her palms turned moist. She tried to ignore the speeding of her pulse as the full power of his masculinity bored into her feminine core. When his eyes at last rose to hers, smoldering with a challenge she'd never before met, her knees went a little weak.

It was the most exhilarating sensation she'd ever known.

"All right, McShane." His smile was swift, dark, and potently male. "You want to take me on? Then give me your best shot."

* * *

Days later, Zack still wasn't sure how he managed to officiate over the rest of that meeting. His thoughts had spun in an uproar, whirling dizzily among disbelief, outrage, and wounded pride. He simply could not conceive why competing in the rodeo was so important to Bailey that she'd throw away five hundred dollars, risk her most reliable source of water, and court utter humiliation at his hands. She couldn't possibly hope to outdo him, so why hadn't McTavish spoken up, warning her against her foolhardiness? Hadn't the man been listening when she'd made her challenge?

If Zack had been in the Scot's shoes, he would have thrown the little wildcat over his shoulder and carried her out the door before she could wreak any more havoc. Bailey had gone too far this time, and Zack was tired of being her cavalry. She'd deliberately set out to make him a laughingstock, just like she had when she'd snatched the old Sherridan property out from under his nose. Now, thanks to her, the gossips were having a field day at his expense.

What was worse, in the five days since the meeting, some wiseacre had started a rumor linking his name romantically with Bailey's—much to Amaryllis's indignation. Now Amaryllis was badgering him about churches. Anyone with eyes should be able to see that he and Bailey mixed about as well as kerosene and dynamite, but telling Amaryllis that was no more useful than barking at the moon.

In fact, he was growing damned weary of Amaryllis and her weddingbell chasing. If the girl had half a brain, she would realize no man in his right mind would marry a woman who'd publicly goad him to a showdown. Bailey was marching him to war, not the altar.

He just wished he didn't relish the thought of their impending battle so much.

Zack wasn't the only one avoiding the gossips at all costs. A couple of days after the meeting, Bailey had made the mistake of visiting Arbuckle's General Store, and she'd left with both ears ringing. Folks there had cornered her to tell her flat out she ought to be ashamed of herself, humiliating Zack Rawlins that way. Some hardy souls dared to voice their admiration, taking the stance that a five-hundred-dollar prize would insure the participation of all the feuding ranchers. But nobody seemed to think she had the right to force herself onto the sheepherders' team, a fact that still vexed her to no end.

In the face of this heated opposition, Bailey was hiding out at her ranch and trying not to let self-doubt gnaw at her peace of mind. She was used to being called eccentric, undisciplined, or just plain crazy. She told herself she didn't care what other people thought—except, perhaps, for Mac.

Still, it was hard to stick to her guns when something as important as her whole future was at stake. Her righteous female side assured her that five hundred dollars was a small price to pay for the respect of the other ranchers.

Unfortunately, her ever-practical side, the side that made all her business decisions, wouldn't let her conscience rest that easily. Win or lose, it reminded her, she had no guarantees. Maybe she would have been wiser to keep her mouth shut and use the money to drill another well.

Sighing, she dumped a bucket of water into her stud rams' trough. Grumbles, her favorite breeder, sauntered over for a drink, snorted at a younger ram, then butted the youngster out of the way. She watched the cantankerous Merino establish his dominance as a matter of course, not because the water was precious. God knew, she personally made sure the breeders got their water each day.

Most sheep owners let their foremen direct the livestock's care, but Bailey liked to keep her hand in the business because she loved animals so much. Sheep were stupid, God bless them, and they needed constant supervision, unlike the hardy, quick-witted goats the Mexican
pastores,
whom she employed, liked to eat. That's why she was experimenting with a handful of Angoras and soliciting the warehousers to determine their interest in mohair. If wool prices dropped because Texas sheepherders were scrambling to thin out their herds to survive the drought, Angora mohair might interest northern rug and upholstery manufacturers.

Bailey shook her head. She didn't know which was her bigger headache—the drought, the gossips, or the officers in the Woolgrowers' Association. Those old sheepmen were more territorial than their rams.

Since the planning meeting, the
pastores
she employed were the only herders who hadn't tried to talk her out of competing. Bailey suspected her men kept their opinions to themselves only because she provided their families' clothing, food, and shelter. As for her foreman, she'd learned over the years not to interpret Mac's silence as approval. She wasn't sure he believed she could hold her own against Zack, and that worried her. If anyone knew what she was capable of, it was Mac.

Deciding it was time for a powwow with her best friend, she picked up her other bucket and patted Grumbles's curly horn, a gesture of affection that earned her the usual snort and glare.

The sun winked out behind a cloud, bestowing welcome if minor relief from the heat as Bailey tramped through the breeze-riffled grasses. Boo bounded merrily in her wake. Occasionally a butterfly would distract him, and she'd have to call him back from his impromptu hunts with a sharp word and a hidden smile. She didn't want him charging the fence along which her ewes and their lambs grazed.

"Where's Mac, Boo? Go find Mac."

Boo's tail wagged eagerly at this mission, and he spun around, sniffing the wind. He must have smelled the telltale odor of pipe tobacco at about the same time she did, because Boo nearly collided with her knees as she turned for the toolshed. He barked, leaping gaily out of her way, then raced around her in circles, scattering dandelion seeds on the breeze. She had to laugh at him. When he wasn't tracking game at her command, Boo treated life as one big, endless frolic. Sometimes his antics were the only things that kept her own troubles in perspective and staved off tears.

"Mac?" she called, stacking her pail on a shelf inside the musty clutter of her foreman's favorite haunt, the toolshed.

"Out here, lass."

She spied him through the shed's open rear door. He was out in back, bending over the lamb wagon's broken rear axle. Beyond the fallen wagon bed, a plumelike tail waved, and a handful of geese waddled past, honking indignantly at the owner of the dainty white paws trotting after them. Bailey recognized the work of Pris, and she chuckled to herself. The herding instinct was strong in Border collies.

"Can it be fixed?" she called, wading through assorted ranching implements to get to Mac and Pris.

"Aye," Mac said. "But I'm thinking I'll need to be hammering out this wheel first. Would ye mind bringing the hammer to me, lass?"

Secretly glad for an excuse to delay her questions, she obliged.

Boo, meanwhile, galloped off to join the goose parade and scattered the flock, much to Pris's dismay. The two dogs wrestled and romped, biting and barking and having a tail-wagging good time. Bailey smiled at their camaraderie. When they weren't working, Pris and Boo were inseparable.

"Did you talk to Benito about the tequila?" she asked, handing her daddy's hammer to his oldest and dearest friend. Patrick McShane had often said he would have gone stark raving mad herding sheep in the Scottish Highlands if Iain McTavish hadn't introduced him to the poetry of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

In return, Patrick had sailed to America and saved enough money to pay for Mac's sea passage. He'd offered to do the same for Mac's sister if Mac would agree to oversee the ranch.

"Aye, I talked to him." Tugging the pipe stem from his mouth, Mac straightened, his beefy frame not more than three inches taller than hers. "Benito admitted he'd been drinking and lost control of the wagon. Wept like a bairn, he did, over the lamb that got crushed." Mac pushed back his plaid cap—he only wore Stetsons on the range—and scratched his balding auburn head. "Offered to bring you the twins his best ewe birthed last month."

Bailey sighed. As added incentive to watch over her sheep, she farmed ewes out on shares to her
pastores,
who were required to return twenty head to her each year per the one hundred sheep she advanced them. This
partido
system allowed the
pastores
to work toward their dream of someday owning their own herds. Unfortunately, Benito Vasquez's lambs were Mexican
chaurros,
and their wool would bring little value on the market.

"Tell him he owes me his first Merino crossbreed."

Mac smiled, the apples of his cheeks as ruddy as their namesake. "He'll be beholdin' to you, lass, knowing he's not out of his job."

Bailey nodded. She was, unfortunately, the only thing standing between the Vasquez family and starvation. That was why she insisted all her herders learn to read English.

Squatting beside Mac, she prepared to help him, the way she had when she was a child. "How's... your sister Maggie?" she asked awkwardly, still reluctant to broach the real reason behind her visit.

Mac chuckled, shaking his head. "Still lovin' her Basque, so she says. Enrique scraped together enough money to buy himself a Rambouillet stud, and now he's got himself a fine crop of spring lambs frolicking in the Rio Grande Valley."

Bailey caught her breath. Rambouillet wool was considered coarser and more uniform than merino wool, and the mutton was of greater value too. "They must have sold everything they own to pay for that ram."

"Aye." Mac's warm, smoke-colored eyes met hers, and he winked. "Imagine Aunt Maggie selling her silver and her linens to buy her man a smelly sheep. I reckon running off with that Frenchman was the best thing that ever happened to her."

Bailey fidgeted at Mac's unfortunate choice of words. Aunt Maggie hadn't run off, she'd eloped. It was Bailey's own mother who'd run off. Spoiled and willful, Lucinda Bailey had insisted she must have the handsome young Scot, Patrick McShane, when he'd arrived by clipper ship in Boston. Their one fateful night together—or, rather, their
unfortunate
night together, as Lucinda had always described it—resulted in Bailey's conception and the couple's hasty marriage.