Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (4 page)

The cowboys guffawed.

Bailey grew stiffer than a new rawhide rope. "Like I've always said, Nick, anytime you want to try and prove you're a better rancher than me, I'd be happy to prove you wrong."

"Aw, Bailey. You'd just embarrass yourself, hon." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Why don't you let me take you home, where we can, uh, spend the night patching things up, okay?"

The others whistled, but Zack was glad when Boo flashed his fangs. The second Nick put a foot on the stairs, the hound erupted into a snarling, barking menace. Nick retreated hastily, but Bailey raised her chin, her eyes kindling for battle. Zack suspected all hell would break loose if he didn't get her out of the saloon.

"C'mon, Bailey," he murmured in her ear. "You can't win. It's time you went home. I'll see you there."

She wrenched her elbow out of his grasp. "I don't need some man telling me when it's time to go home!"

"Hear that, boys?" Hank called to his audience. "Miss Bailey just showed young Rawlins who wears the pants."

"Don't think I'm finished with you yet, Hank."

Her sally drew whoops from the men. Zack took one look at Hank's reddened face, and he knew, Boo or no Boo, Bailey was courting disaster. He caught hold of her arm again, more firmly this time, and began dragging her past the counter.

"I think you do need a man to tell you when it's time to go home," he said grimly.

"Hey!" Twisting in his grasp, she tried to dig her heels into the floor.

Zack held on and kept walking.

"What do you think you're doing?" she panted, stumbling after him to a round of applause.

"Saving your ungrateful little hide."

Boo bounded after them, growling uncertainly.

"I don't recall asking for your help, Zachariah Rawlins, so you can take your misguided chivalry someplace else! I can fight my own battles."

"I'm sure you'd like to think so," he muttered. "No wonder they say sheepherders are crazy. Didn't your daddy ever teach you not to goad a man in public?"

"My daddy taught me how to protect myself." She was still struggling as he flung open the swinging doors. "I'm not afraid of a little showdown."

"'Course not. No man in his right mind would challenge a woman to a showdown."

"Ha! What you're really saying is men are
scared
to challenge women. Just like Nick was."

He shook his head, finally freeing her in the street. "Trust me, Bailey. Nick and the rest of the Rotterdams aren't scared of you."

He took care to block her access to the saloon as she glared up at him, her breath ragged and her hat askew on her fist-thick braid of tawny hair. He tried not to notice how the swath of lantern light from the saloon made her look pale and so vulnerably alone that his arms ached to shield her from the brutal realities of the life she had chosen. The last thing he needed was to have someone link his name romantically with a lady sheepherder's. He was supposed to be courting the county judge's daughter.

"Now, you listen to me," he said gruffly. "I know you're smart. Smarter than a fox. But you're not acting that way. You need to think things through. Do you have any other proof the Rotterdams were on your property tonight?"

That question knocked some of the wind out of her. She adjusted her Stetson and squared her shoulders, but her hand trembled when it fell, seeking Boo's head as if seeking moral support. "No, but cattlemen have lynched sheepherders on less proof than a glove."

"What are you after, a range war?"

"No! Of course not! I just want to be left in peace. I have as much right to raise sheep as you and Hank Rotterdam have to raise steers."

"No one's contesting your right to run your daddy's business, Bailey."

"The business is
mine
, dammit!
I
run the McShane ranch. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

He suspected she was launching a new attack in an old battle. Doing his best to ignore her bait, he returned the conversation to the subject at hand.

"I'm no law wrangler, but it seems to me if that glove's the only proof you've got, then you don't have much of a case. Most of the waddies who ride from cattle outfit to cattle outfit looking for work wear gloves like that. So what it boils down to is your word against Hank's. And right now, Hank and the twins have alibis."

She looked stricken. "You think I'm lying?"

He silently cursed those ocean-sized blue eyes and the way they could pull at his heartstrings. Of course he didn't think she was lying. But she might have leapt to an unfounded conclusion. Allegations and accusations were constantly flying between the sheepherders and the cattlemen. As president of the board, it was his job to represent the cattlemen. He wasn't completely insensitive to the sheepherders' plight, though. And he was far from immune to damsels in distress.

He chose his next words carefully. Standing within earshot of the cattlemen's favorite watering hole, he was all too keenly aware he might have an audience in the overhead windows, inside the doors, or even among the transient waddies who were strolling toward the saloon. He wasn't ready to throw away his political career by publicly siding with a sheepherder—unless she had irrefutable evidence against one of the cattlemen.

"What I think," he said firmly, "is that this heat's making folks do regrettable things. But even the drought doesn't make vigilante justice right or lawful. All of us ranchers need patience."

Bailey's hopes crumbled. She was used to Nick's brand of bigotry, but Zack's hurt more than she'd ever dreamed possible.

"It's all very well for you to talk about patience," she said bitterly. "No one's preying on your ranch. The governor made fence cutting and sheep killing a felony crime this past January. The crimes still go on, and yet not a single damned cowboy has been arrested in this county. We Woolgrowers are sick and tired of you officers in the Cattlemen's Association giving a wink and a nod to gunnysackers."

He hardened his jaw. "I don't take accusations like that lightly."

"Yeah? So prove it."

His eyes narrowed. Bailey forced herself to brave that blistering stare, even though the heartbeats between them knelled impossibly loud in the lengthening silence. She was beginning to think maybe, just maybe, she had been a bit rash to provoke the Cattlemen's president when someone shouted her name. She muttered an oath, recognizing the voice of her foreman, Iain McTavish, as two shadowy figures hurried along the street toward her.

"Praise God, lass, ye scared the life out of me," Mac said breathlessly as he and his companion reached her side. "When the barkeep told me ye hadn't set foot in the Curly Horn, I began to think some harm had befallen ye."

Bailey sighed. She'd wondered how long it would take her foreman to track her down if she bypassed the Woolgrowers' favorite saloon. Sometimes his instincts were better than a bloodhound's.

Joining Mac was Rob Cole, vice president of the Woolgrowers' Association. They flanked her protectively, their shotguns clenched in their fists, but Zack didn't look the least bit intimidated by the older sheepmen. If anything, he was the foreboding one, standing silhouetted in the Bullwhip's lantern light with his face chiseled by shafts of shadow. When he folded his arms, pinning Bailey's scattergun securely beneath his sleeve, she tried not to notice the tantalizing scent of leather that wafted from his duster. His pose conveyed his intention not to fight.

The tension eased from the sheepherders' shoulders. Rob nodded curtly to Zack. Mac's narrowed gaze flickered to the young cattleman, towering over him by a foot.

"Are ye safe, then?" he demanded of Bailey.

"Yes, yes." She couldn't quite keep the impatience from her tone. She knew her foreman meant well, and she loved the devil out of him, but if she'd wanted a father figure to hold her hand, she would have invited Mac to come to the Bullwhip with her. "Zack and I were just having a difference of opinion. Over business. But then, what else is new?" She held out her hand for her gun.

Zack hesitated a moment before surrendering it to her. "Miss McShane, you need to discuss your concerns with the sheriff."

She snorted. "I hardly think our new sheriff will be sympathetic to my cause, Zack, seeing as how the Cattlemen's Association gave nearly a thousand dollars to his campaign."

"Then I'm in no position to help you," he retorted crisply. "Gentlemen"—he tipped his hat—"I trust you'll see Miss McShane safely to her ranch. Good night."

"Coward," she muttered as he turned away. She had the satisfaction of watching his stride falter before he continued briskly toward the hitching post and his horse.

The satisfaction didn't last long, however. She felt deflated, as if someone had just kicked her in the gut. If anyone had asked her what man on the Cattlemen's board had the courage to stand by his convictions whenever Hank flexed his political muscles, she would have said that man was Zack.

Apparently, Saint Zack's halo was tarnished after all.

"Bailey." Mac's voice rumbled near her ear. "What have ye done?"

She straightened her spine and shrugged. Mac knew her too well. He'd probably already guessed she'd stormed inside the Bullwhip and made a scene, he just didn't know her reason. So she told him.

Rob muttered an oath. "I'd bet a year's income your wire cutter was Rotterdam. Or someone Rotterdam hired. Hell, maybe even Rawlins was in on it."

Bailey shook her head. She wasn't willing to think that poorly of Zack.

"What's more likely," she speculated, sorting her thoughts aloud, "is that Hank tried to set Zack up for a fall. You should have heard the way Hank and Nick were goading him, saying there'd always been peace in the county until Zack got elected president. It wouldn't surprise me if they'd rehearsed that bullcrap. I think Hank's trying to make Zack look bad for political reasons, and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the process."

Mac's knowing gaze locked with hers, and she fidgeted, blushing before she finally looked away. Mac knew her too well all right.

"So what now, Bailey?" Rob asked, tugging thoughtfully on his whiskers. "You're right about the sheriff. Seems like we Woolgrowers will have to take matters into our own hands. Either that, or call in the Rangers."

"Maybe." She frowned.
Please God, no bloodshed.
"I think what we really need is something to help keep everyone's minds off their troubles until the rain starts falling again."

"The cattleman-sheepherder rodeo we've been planning was supposed to do that," Rob reminded her irritably. "Considering what happened on your spread tonight, it doesn't look like it's working."

Bailey winced. Rob had never supported that idea—
her
idea—mainly because she wanted to be a part of the sheepherder team. He and the other Woolgrowers were trying to railroad her out of the competition, "for the good of the crew," of course. Their opposition, based solely on her femaleness, was another sore spot with her, but she'd have to deal with them later.

"The rodeo can't hurt," she said. "In the meantime, I think I'll pay a visit to the Rawlins ranch. Talk with Wes. Maybe even Cord."

"And why would ye want to do that, lass?" Mac asked.

She scowled at her best friend. Her attempt to put him in his place didn't make him bat an eye. She knew exactly what Mac was thinking, and she had half a mind to shake him. Just because she thought Zack was the finest two-legged male she'd ever seen didn't mean she would create opportunities to drool over him like Amaryllis did. This was business.

"The Rawlins brothers used to be lawmen," she said coolly. "They should have some interest in keeping the peace."

Rob shook his head. "They're cattlemen, Bailey."

She raised her chin. "They're my neighbors, Rob."

A mirthless smile touched Mac's lips. He didn't say a word.

Chapter 2

Beating back the last of the brambles with his rifle stock, Zack glared down at the half-eaten heifer he'd been tracking.

Stupid cow.

With a resounding thwack, he broke off the branch of a particularly thorny Osage orange and squatted down to read the earth.

First-time mothers always tried to sneak off alone to give birth. Then they usually got scared, not understanding the reason for their labor pains. By the time he tracked the runaways through a near-impassable cedar brake, the creatures were usually tangled up, turned around, ripped open, or dead, their calves moldering right alongside them—or, as in this case, inside them.