Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (30 page)

He chuckled, surprising her.

"All right, at this exact moment I'm not enjoying your company. But I did last night at dinner, and during the storm."

"You were drunk."

"I don't consider that any kind of excuse," he said softly.

She winced, fiddling with her rifle strap. He was straying into hurtful territory again, and she didn't want to humiliate herself with a repeat of the morning's tears.

"What's your point?" she asked briskly.

"Well, we've both been cast to the wolves. Or maybe I should say 'to the cougars.' And since neither of us is fitting in too well with the others right now, I thought we might at least call a truce."

"I'm used to being an outsider."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not."

She ventured another glance at him, wondering if he truly missed companionship. Certainly he must get few opportunities to try loneliness on for size, what with all those cowhands, nieces, nephews, brothers, and in-laws running around his property. Growing up in a big family was one of the things she'd always missed as a child. That, and the love of a mother.

"If you keep hunting with us sheep ranchers," she said grudgingly, watching him sit, "you'll get used to being an outsider double quick. Do you have any idea what riding with me and Cole will do to your election chances?"

"Yeah, a fairly good one."

"Well, you'd best go swear Cole and his men to secrecy, then. 'Cause I'm not going to spill the beans."

"Much obliged," he said, sounding pleased, "but some things are more important than elections."

"Hmm." She tried to make out his expression now that the moon had slid behind a cloud bank, but his hat had cast his face into pewter shadows. "You mean Esteban?"

"Him too."

She pressed her lips together. Could he have given her a vaguer answer? Damn, but he really was starting to talk like a politician.

"Well, it's your funeral. I sure would hate to see Rotterdam reelected, though. Even in wet years, he was stirring up trouble between our two sides."

"We're a community, Bailey, not 'two sides.' "

"Tell that to Rotterdam."

He was quiet for a while, as if digesting her answer. Finally, he tilted back his head to gaze at her.

"Who do you think burned your line shack?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me it does."

She sighed. Only twenty-four hours had passed since he'd bedded her, and he was already getting territorial about her spread. She wished it didn't hurt so much, knowing even her land was more valuable to him than she was. She wished she didn't care that her precious childhood dream-mate was like all her other suitors.

"Contrary to what the Rotterdams claim, I don't point my finger just to blow off steam. When I have proof, I'll let you know."

"That's mighty admirable."

The approval in his voice sent a traitorous rush of pleasure from her head to her toes. She had to remind herself sternly that he admired her enterprise, not her.

"Maybe," she answered. "I just figure it's good business. You never want to slander a man who could help put money in your pockets. Besides, Daddy always told me a man's name was hard to clear once it got tainted. I've spent my whole life under a tainted name—my mother's. I know the hardships shame and scandal cause, and I wouldn't wish them on anyone."

Zack blinked, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was a disconcerting sensation to feel that molten gaze of his pouring into hers. She couldn't tell if he was relieved, gratified, or simply confused.

"Is that why you won't marry me?" he asked, his tone somewhere between anxious and wistful.

"I told you why I won't marry you."

A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally his lips thinned into a line, and he bowed his head, knocking pebbles out from under his crossed legs with agitated hands. "What about McTavish? Why won't you marry him?"

She bristled. "My relationship with Mac is none of your—"

"He loves you."

She stiffened. The lump growing in her throat threatened to suffocate her.

"I think," she said hoarsely, "you're mistaking fatherly affection for something more."

"Maybe. Or maybe you don't want to see the something more."

She swallowed hard.

"That's why he didn't ride with you today, isn't it?" Zack asked harshly. "He found out about you and me."

"No! Mac doesn't love me that way. He just wants to protect me. And keep me safe. And..."

"And?"

Her eyes blurred.
And I don't love him like I love you!

But she couldn't say the words. She felt guilty simply thinking the words. Mac was her self-appointed guardian, and he wanted to marry her because her safety meant more to him than his own happiness did. She felt lower than a snake's belly for dreaming of something greater, a man who would love her more than life, a husband who would cherish her not because it was his duty, but because he simply could not help himself.

Dashing away tears, she slung her rifle over her shoulder and vaulted across the boulder to the trail.

"This is supposed to be a watch, dammit," she growled. "How am I supposed to hear a cougar sneak up on me if I have to sit here listening to you jaw?"

Chapter 12

That night was perhaps the longest one of Zack's life. He didn't dare close his eyes, even after his and Bailey's watch ended, despite his lack of sleep the night before. He sat grimly gulping a fresh batch of coffee, watching Bailey snooze beneath the diamond field of the Texas sky. Her ability to rest so peacefully while he was wound tighter than an eight-day clock only fueled his brain's fever. He worried she was biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to sneak off and find herself some dastardly mistletoe or cotton plant. Hell, just about any green, leafy thing looked dangerous to him now.

After all her talk about not wishing a tainted name on anyone, he was convinced she would do something rash. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow. But the day would come soon. She knew what it was like to suffer the sins of the parents, so it only made sense she would try to rid herself of his seed.

Zack didn't see things like she did, though. He couldn't pretend to understand the unkindnesses she'd suffered at her mother's hands, but since he'd grown up missing the love of any parent, Bailey was going to have a heap of trouble convincing him that being born was worse than not being born at all.

Cord, Aunt Lally, and Uncle Seth had done their best to raise him, and Zack liked to think he'd turned out pretty well. He knew firsthand that other kinds of love could make up for the lack of love from a mother or father. He wasn't saying Cord's love had made the hurt any easier, but a child could overcome the obstacle and turn out stronger for it.

Besides, he wanted his child. He wanted to be a good father too. The very idea of Bailey rejecting his proposal while McTavish lurked on her property, wearing her down day after day with his own offers of marriage, made Zack crazier than a locoed calf. He actually considered the idea of stampeding Bailey into a shotgun wedding. He just wished he could remember a single instance when the groom had dragged the bride to the altar, not the other way around.

The scrabbling of loosened pebbles stole his attention away from Bailey. Setting down his cup, he strained his eyes and ears to pierce the pervasive shadows of cliff and trees. Daybreak was no more than an indigo streak in the inky blackness of the east, and he had to rely on his instincts more than his senses to search for threats beyond the firelight.

The breathless hush of pre-dawn wrapped around him like a mantle. The silence rolled on, broken only by the splash of water over limestone. He wasn't entirely at ease, though, and he found himself rising with his rifle, if for no other reason than to walk off his agitation. After all, Rob and his hound were up on the cliff, keeping their eyes peeled for cougars, coyotes, and desperadoes. Zack might not be on the best of terms with the Woolgrowers' vice president, but he trusted the man not to nod off during a vigil. A sheepherder with a spread as prosperous as Rob's didn't accumulate capital by snoozing while a predator attacked his flocks.

Still, the woods were dark and sprawling, and Rob had only two eyes....

A quick glance at the bedrolls confirmed that the noises hadn't come from there. The men were asleep, their hounds along with them. Bailey had spread her blankets apart from the others, and when she shifted position, muttering and thrashing in some dream, Zack tensed. He had a choice, then, and he reluctantly decided to leave her unwatched. With Rob perched overhead, surely she and the baby would be safe for the two or three minutes it would take him to check the horses.

He walked silently downwind. Boss nickered, nuzzling his shoulder as he stooped to check the hobbles. Straightening, Zack gave the gelding an affectionate nose rub. The night was quieter than usual. Even the incessant chirp of the cicadas had grown intermittent, which disturbed him. Then again, he was pretty jittery after all the java he'd been drinking. The animals' senses were far keener than his, and if none of the dogs and horses were alarmed, he was probably overreacting.

After stepping discreetly into the brush for a few minutes to relieve himself, Zack circled back through the trees, the dying fire acting as his homing beacon. He stepped into the circle of light and released his breath in relief. Then he glanced around.

It took exactly two heartbeats to realize Bailey was gone.

Dammit!

His eyes narrowed, raking the shadows. He had the thoroughly irrational thought that she'd been playing opossum all night long, that in fact she'd somehow made those scrabbling noises to lure him away so she could escape.

He promptly told himself he was an idiot, that she'd probably had to visit the bushes herself, then his sense of anxiety returned even stronger. She hadn't taken her rifle.

Gripping his own Winchester in a nearly bloodless fist, he wound hurriedly through the trees, making as little sound as possible so he could listen as he headed east toward the trickling creek. Only about eight hours had passed since he'd washed off his trail dust there, yet already the babble of water sounded less enthusiastic, as if its source was drying up.

A dull red glow was edging upward from the horizon, making his eyes more useful now, and he paused to catch his breath in a grouping of live oaks. He was just another long shadow in an army of tree-trunk silhouettes, and the creek, or, rather, the storm runoff, lay just ahead, a silvery thread that tumbled over luminescent clumps of limestone.

Bailey knelt at the edge of the water. She was splashing her face, so she probably hadn't heard his approach through the brush. He frowned despite his relief. Since he'd already seen her naked, sprawled out dead to the world on his chest with her ivory buttocks gleaming in the firelight, he wondered if the usual protocols were in order. Under normal circumstances, he would turn his back if he'd stumbled across a lady in the midst of her bath. But this was Bailey, they'd been lovers, and dammit, she'd taken off her six-shooter.

For safety's sake, part of him wished she would buckle her gun belt back on. The other part—the no-good, low-down part—wanted nothing more than to watch her peel off every other stitch of clothing and sit down in the water. The current probably wasn't deep enough to cover her thighs. He imagined her sitting with her legs spread and glistening, splashing water against her breasts so that droplets dribbled from her puckered nipples. He was sure the heat of dawn had little to do with the sudden moisture on his brow.

She looked furtively behind her, then began unbuttoning her shirt. His mouth went dry. He stood rooted to the spot, half dreading and half delighting in his fantasy coming to life. God, she was such a trial. He licked his lips and cast an uneasy glance around him. What if someone saw her? What if someone saw
him
? He was bulging hard enough to burst his jeans.

He squeezed his eyes closed and drew a shaky breath. With his heart crashing against his ribs, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. He didn't know what was worse, hearing her muffled splashes above the chaos of his pulse, or picturing what she was doing and what body part was exposed while she did it. He wished he didn't know what she felt like, all hot and slick around him. He wished he'd never tasted the moonshine on her lips or inhaled the fresh scent of rain on her wind-tangled hair.