Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (20 page)

Passing down the hallway, Zack stole a glance up the wooden stairs with their plain railing, but he saw little to convince him that Bailey spent much of her time on the second floor either. The gallery-style landing was bare of potted plants, chests of drawers, and chairs. Two of the three doors were closed. Only one wall bracket held a lamp, and it looked in need of kerosene.

Zack wondered what Bailey did after dark, rattling around in this big, empty house without children to tuck in or a husband to make the midnight oil burn a lot hotter. Did she ever get lonely?

Like he sometimes did?

To Zack's amazement, he soon found the dining room was as spartan as the rest of the house. He wondered at the lack of porcelain and silver on the bare oak table, for he knew Bailey's ranch was profitable, and by all rights she should be able to afford such indulgences. Because she had never struck him as a penny-pincher, he could only assume she had no interest in setting a fine table, much less keeping house. She clearly kept Jerky around to feed her hired hands, so Zack suspected she couldn't cook worth a damn either. How on earth did she expect to catch herself a husband?

He was distracted from his thoughts when Jerky slammed a platter of lamb chops down in front of him. Bailey, seated to his right at the head of the table, eyed him with amusement. He could feel the silent challenge in Mac's gaze all the way from the foot of the table, and the
pastores,
to a man, paused in mid-service, their ladles or forks hovering in the air.

Meanwhile, the irascible dwarf—Zack decided Jerky had been aptly named—folded his arms, and remained standing beside Zack in a fairly good imitation of intimidation, except that Zack could never be intimidated by a man whose head didn't reach his ear.

He smiled politely. "I take it that's the mutton?"

"Yep." Jerky fixed him with a hard, fierce glare, a pronged instrument like a pitchfork rising out of his gnarled fist. "You eatin'?"

"Yep."

Zack reached for the platter. Jerky snorted, and Bailey chuckled, spooning a hearty helping of boiled potatoes onto her plate. Zack wasn't sure whether Jerky was disappointed or satisfied as the old sheepherder stomped away with Pokey, but the pup's feelings were clear. He gazed forlornly over the cook's shoulder at the feast that would never be his.

The meal passed amicably after that. Zack said little, but he did a lot of listening. As the Cattlemen's president, he'd always tried not to voice his prejudices against his sheepherding neighbors, and he'd come to think of his silence as proof that he'd finally learned to let bygones be bygones. That night he realized just how many biases he still had, and how many of them were unfounded.

For instance, mutton tasted good. Damned good, in fact. It didn't curdle a man's stomach, twist a man's mind, or any other such nonsense. It was just another source of meat, for God's sake, and yet, if Hank Rotterdam had caught him dishing a second "plate of sheep," Zack would have been drummed off the board and out of the county.

Then there was the cattlemen's overall impression that sheepherders were crazy. Listening to Bailey talk about her plans to raise Angora goats to offset financial losses during the drought, Zack's instinctive cattleman's protest dissolved in a flood of admiration. The girl had a head for business, all right. Her idea even made him wonder if diversifying livestock might not be in his best interests too.

Zack also wondered during the course of the evening just how much truth was in the cattlemen's vociferous claims that sheep were largely responsible for the county's water crisis, since, according to sentiment, sheep drank more water than steers. Curiously, cattlemen, not sheepherders, seemed to be the ones hardest hit by the drought.

If Bailey's spread was any indication, sheepherders could water several armies of livestock and still have enough left over to irrigate a fodder crop.

Meanwhile Zack, like the rest of his colleagues, woke every morning praying he could keep his bulls, yearlings, and breeding cows alive until a drill struck new water or the clouds burst. God knew, he didn't want to sell his herds for two dollars a head, which was the offer some speculators were making to desperate cattlemen who'd already driven their steers to market and were now facing the loss of their breeders and calves.

When the conversation turned to Old One Toe, Zack found himself sympathizing with his sheep-raising neighbors.

"Senorita
McShane," Vasquez said, fiddling with his coffee cup. He leaned sideways, as if to confer with her privately. "You have been kind to send my little Pedro the potassium gargle for his quinsy, and I will repay you for the quinine powder and the doctor's fee, but..." He took a long, shuddering breath before continuing in a hush. "It is my sad duty to ask once again for your favor. My cousin Esteban, you see, has been mauled by
el diablo
and I am without the means to—to pay for his stone marker."

Vasquez had practically whispered this last piece of information, but everyone had heard. Silence fell like a thunderclap over the table. Bailey's shocked gaze darted to Mac, and he looked just as horrified as she was by the news.

"Benito," she said gently, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. When did this happen?"

The young man's face twisted with grief. "It was yesterday,
senorita
, on
Senor
Cole's
hacienda. El diablo,
the one you call Old One Toe, left his tracks in Esteban's blood. There were several sheep carcasses, along with the dog's..." Vasquez shuddered, raising moist eyes to Bailey's.
"La puma es loco,
I think. Or else, like
el diablo,
he taunts us."

Zack bit his tongue on an oath. Damn that cougar, would it take a thunderbolt from heaven to kill him?

"I'm sorry too, lad," McTavish said quietly. "I know ye were close to yer cousin. I hate to press ye, but I have to know. Did Cole say how it happened?"

"No,
senor
. Only that Esteban's rifle was not fired, and that the dog's entrails were, uh—" He glanced uncomfortably at Bailey. "He died trying to protect his master, we think."

"Damnation." Bailey drummed her fingers on the table. "It was bad enough when One Toe killed just sheep—"

"And cattle," Zack interjected grimly, no longer willing to sit in silence. "If man-killing isn't incentive to bring that bastard in, I don't know what is. Tell your cousin's family," he continued, addressing Vasquez, "and Rob Cole too, that they can count on me and my Winchester if they need us."

Vasquez dropped his eyes.
"Gracias,
senor."

"That's very generous of you, Zack." Bailey gave him a strained but warm smile. "It's nice to have a cattleman on our side for a change."

Zack fidgeted at her gratitude. He'd only done what came naturally. He hadn't thought of his offer as siding with the sheepmen, but rather as the humane thing every man should do. Still, it was nice to see her eyes go all misty soft.

McTavish cleared his throat. "I'll talk to Cole about the headstone. I'm sure between our two ranches we can come up with something special to remember Esteban."

"
Senor
Cole wishes to form another hunting party," Vasquez said, "but I wish to bag
el diablo
myself." His fist clenched with his first real show of vehemence. "Only then will Esteban be avenged."

Mac and Bailey exchanged worried looks.

"Well, that's certainly something to talk about," she said carefully. "In the meantime, I think it would be wise to pair up the McShane flocks so at least two men stand watch over each. Benito, can you help Mac get word to the outlying pastures?"

"Sí,
senorita
," Vasquez said more docilely.

The
pastores
rose, hats in hand. Murmuring their thank-yous and good-nights, they began to file from the dining room. Vasquez took one of the lanterns to light their way. Rather than fall in behind his men, though, McTavish hesitated, his brow creasing as his gaze traveled from Zack, who had made no effort to exit, and Bailey, who was shoving the last helping of sweet potato pie his way. Zack had the unpleasant notion that McTavish had shotguns on his mind when the Scot's eyes bored into his.

"I willna be gone long, lass, you can count on that," he said darkly.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Mac." She winked at Zack. "If any predators come this way, I'll just sic Pokey on them—if Jerky hasn't fed him so much he can't walk, that is." Her grin faded, and her tone grew somber when she added, "Give my condolences to Mrs. Vasquez, will you? And the Coles too?"

"Aye, lass."

Nodding curtly to Zack, McTavish strode from the room. The banging of the front door was muffled by a low growl of thunder.

Zack looked down at the pie wedge, then up at Bailey, whose lamp-lit eyes glowed an expectant periwinkle blue.

"Well? You're not going to make me explain to Jerky why your plate isn't scraped clean, are you?"

"Heaven forbid." He smiled, forestalling his better sense, which told him to call it a night and follow the men. "I reckon Jerky tans hides, eh?"

"Shoot. He
stuffs
'em."

She grinned. He might have grinned back, except that he was suddenly and forcefully aware that he was alone with her. Completely alone.

And the lights were low enough for sparking.

In a jangle of nerves, his mouth dried and his palms grew sticky. He reminded himself, as he reached awkwardly for his fork, that he wasn't courting Bailey McShane. He was eating her hired hand's grub.

Still, the bashful eighteen-year-old in him couldn't be put at ease. His affair with Marybeth Clemens had started out this way: just the two of them sitting at a dimly lit dinner table, with a second helping of pie waiting on his plate. He wasn't even sure he'd finished that oozing slab of cherries....

"So what did you think of Jerky's lamb chops?"

He started. He might have jumped a mile at Bailey's question if his knees hadn't banged the table.

"Uh," he mumbled around his fork, chewing hurriedly and gulping down a piece big enough to choke a horse. "They were good."

"Ever eat sheep before?"

"Nope."

She was silent a moment, as if waiting for him to elaborate.

"Think you will again?"

His face heated beneath her gaze, so he carefully kept his eyes on his plate. "Hard to say," he managed to get out after another swallow.

"Why's that?"

He fidgeted. Usually she was full of her own opinions. Why had she developed this sudden interest in his?

"I reckon 'cause I don't come by them too often."

She propped her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. "You could change that, you know."

He groaned inwardly. Was she making some kind of invitation? He couldn't rightly remember, but it seemed like Marybeth had said something similar right before she'd sidled up to his chair and dropped a hand on his knee.

Damn, he thought. Why hadn't he made a break for it when he'd had the chance?

Leery of making the same mistake, he decided the safest answer to give Bailey was a noncommittal shrug.

She drummed her fingers on the table again.

After an endless minute of silence, she blurted out, "Vasquez shouldn't go cougar hunting alone. It's too dangerous now that One Toe's a man killer."

When he neither agreed nor disagreed, she prompted impatiently, "What do you think?"

He toyed with his fork. "Same as you, I reckon."

"Why's that?"

He ventured a glance at her. She was frowning. Hell, he thought she'd
wanted
him to agree. He wished he had just one quarter of Wes's experience with women. Maybe then he'd understand them better.

"Well, he's got that boy back home with quinsy..."

Bailey nodded eagerly, as if to encourage him. "And?"

He grimaced. How many reasons did the woman need? "And... there'll be no one to tend his flock," he finished, hoping this answer would satisfy her so he could escape back into silence.

She cocked her head, staring at him for a good long spell. Her eyebrows were furrowed so thoughtfully, she looked as if she were reading his mind, learning his secret dread. That idea was enough to make his Adam's apple bob a time or two. He wished she'd ask another question. Or that he could think of some topic to distract her from her scrutiny. He racked his brain.

"Uh..."
Weather is always safe.
"Think it'll rain?"

She laughed, bell-like peals of mirth that danced deliciously down his spine, shooting shivers to his toes and a flush to his cheeks.

"What?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Zachariah Rawlins, I think I finally figured you out."

"Yeah?" He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. "What's there to figure?"

"Oh, I don't know." She was smiling again—grinning actually, kind of like the Cheshire cat. "You thirsty?"

Momentarily distracted, he glanced at his empty cup. Between all his jawing and all that pie, he sure could use a swig of bellywash. "Yeah. I reckon."

He reached for the coffeepot, but she snatched it away. "Forget that sissy stuff." With a thoroughly indecent smirk, she jumped up to drag a bottle from the bottom cabinet of what should have been her china cupboard.