Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (11 page)

She glimpsed his dimples and caught her breath, not quite prepared for one of his rare smiles.

"Miss Bailey McShane," he chided in his whiskey-smooth bass, "have you come here to fraternize with the enemy?"

Those heart-stirring dimples deepened to crescent moons, and she shook herself, realizing she'd been staring. "I didn't come here with a bribe, if that's what you meant."

His smile abruptly faded. "That's not what I meant."

He went back to gazing at the arena, and she suspected she'd irritated him. She always seemed to do that. Why did he have to irritate so damned easily?

"I just..." She struggled not to sound exasperated, or, worse, hurt. "I just wanted to wish you luck. That's all."

"Hmm."

Suddenly the chute flew open. Nat's mount didn't lunge cleanly, and Bailey had to grip the rail tighter as the fence shook with the force of the stallion's striking hooves. Nat's hat flew off, but he clung to the hurricane deck, twisting and jerking like a rag doll as Widowmaker spun beneath him.

Bailey held her breath as the spectators roared. For the fleetest of seconds, she prayed for her sheep, for her water, for the contest victory that would prove her merit as a rancher and end gunnysacking in Bandera County forever.

Then Widowmaker's flank slammed into the fence at the far side of the arena. Every bone in Bailey's body jolted with the impact. Nat managed to hang on, but Widowmaker whirled, hurtling himself into the rails again.

"Oh, God." Bailey's heart leapt, and she dug her fingers into the soft cedar. The stallion's intention had become frighteningly clear. Bucking and thrashing, Widowmaker was doing his deadly best to smash Nat against the fence.

"Choke the horn, Nat!" she shouted, fear making her voice shrill. No self-respecting broncbuster would ever grab his saddle horn, and yet, wasn't disqualification better than death?

Dimly, she felt Zack tense beside her; she heard his oath and the sharp, whistling intake of his breath as the rodeo clowns jumped onto the fence beside Nat, shouting and waving their hats at the bloodthirsty stallion.

With a shrieking neigh, Widowmaker veered for the center of the ring. The clowns had done their job, but Nat, weakened by the shattering blows, lost his grip. Suddenly his body was bouncing down the rails, caught between the fence and the stallion's vicious rear hooves.

"Nat!"
All Bailey could see was dust as a cowboy galloped after Widowmaker and wrestled him away from the fallen rider. Terrified for her childhood friend, she scrambled up the fence, planning to run to his rescue.

"Hold on, girl."

She struggled futilely as Zack's iron-hard hand grabbed the back of her belt and dragged her down. Her spine was pinned beneath the unyielding breadth of a powerful male chest as Zack's forearm wrapped her waist, holding her prisoner between his hammering heart and the quivering rails.

It all happened so quickly. She squirmed, straining to see past the swirling dust, past the straw wigs and polka-dotted bandannas of the clowns, who had raced to Nat's aid. In the breathless silence, she could hear Zack's quick breaths against her ear. His hand tightened anxiously over her belt, and she could feel the tantalizing heat of his knuckles against her spine. She could feel, too, the tender chafing of her jeans against her femaleness. It made her shiver.

At that moment, knowing Zack was as worried as she was, she was grateful for his disconcerting closeness. His touch brought her jitters, but it was strangely comforting too, as if their silly quarrels had been swept away, leaving them to share one basic common bond. A bond over Nat, she told herself quickly. Any other possibility was unthinkable.

Finally, the dust cleared. Nat rose shakily to his feet. He looked pale beneath his layer of dirt, but when the crowd began to clap, he managed a wave and a sheepish smile. Shaking off a clown's arm, he limped toward the gate and heartfelt cheers came from the cattlemen, even though he'd clearly lost the event.

Bailey loosed the breath she felt like she'd been holding since Christmas.

"And you say sheepherders are crazy," she muttered at Zack. "Bronc busting is child's play compared with bull riding."

She tried to turn so she could glare at him—a mistake, for she lost her foothold. She might have bruised her back sliding down the fence if Zack hadn't caught her in time, his hands at her waist, his thighs anchoring her hips to the rails.

Now they were face-to-face, heart to heart, steamed together by a heat that was only partly a result of the merciless sun. Momentarily stunned by this intimacy, Bailey could do little more than blink into the gaze that melded with her own. He had chestnut-colored lashes, she realized with an awestruck pleasure, and tiny flecks of amber glowed in the sienna depths of his eyes.

"You worried about me, neighbor?"

His voice rumbled in his belly, vibrating into hers. She felt the flutter of butterflies she'd thought she'd banished in her childhood.

"Er..." Distracted by the white-hot glitter of sensation on her skin, she realized his gaze was roaming down her length to rest on the fusion of their thighs. She swallowed. Was it her imagination, or was the pulse above his red bandanna thumping as fast as hers?

"I reckon that would make us even, since you always seem to concern yourself with me," she rallied weakly.

"As I recall, I always get an earful for it too."

"Well, that's only because..." She hesitated, tingling all over with the return of his smile. She didn't want hasty words to chase it from his face again. "Never mind. It's Nick I'm mad at, not you. Nat nearly got himself killed, thanks to his weasel of a twin. Nat's not the rider Nick is, and everyone knows it. Nick should be drawn and quartered for getting too roostered to bronc—"

"Maybe he did it on purpose."

Bailey blinked at Zack. She didn't know what confused her more, his reasoning or the disappointment she felt when he eased his hips from hers and steadied her on the ground.

"Come again?"

"Maybe he wanted to lose."

"Nick would never..." Her voice trailed off as her heart leapt painfully, lodging in her throat. Damn Nick, he just might have done it to win a bet for one of those odds-makers.

"Zack, you won't do that to me, will you?" she asked urgently, grabbing his sleeve before he could step past her, out of reach. "You won't cheat and let me win?"

Looking a tad uncomfortable, he turned his body sideways, his back filling most of her vision. "If Nick did throw the contest, I'm sure he thought he was doing you a favor—"

"Nick was doing himself a favor! He's a selfish little toad. Zack, please. Promise you won't let me win at herding."

His lashes fanned lower, but even half closed his eyes held a magnetic intensity as he regarded her over his shoulder. He seemed to be studying her, sizing her up. Only this time she sensed his verdict was more flattering than the one he'd reached two weeks earlier, at the rodeo meeting.

"The outcome means that much to you, eh?"

"Of course it does! I want our event to be fair and square. When I win, I don't want any cowboy coming back and saying you lost on purpose."

He chuckled at that, and for the first time Bailey glimpsed the gentle humor that lurked behind his serious businessman's personality.

"All right, Bailey. I won't let you win."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

An indelicate
harrumph
accompanied the thick, six-legged shadow that was gliding over the pebbles toward Zack's dusty boot toes. Bailey recognized Mac's bowlegged gait and Pris's high-stepping prance as they bobbed to a halt before Zack. Mac's speculative gaze shifted from her hand, clutching Zack's sleeve, to the rising flush on Zack's cheeks, and she felt absurdly guilty. She had only been talking about the contest. Even so, she didn't know who moved more hastily to break their physical contact, her or Zack.

"They're ready for ye both in the ring," Mac said, his tone amicable except for the dry edge to his words when he added, "are ye feeling up to it, lad?"

Zack nodded, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as he bent to slap his thighs. Bailey wondered at this behavior—his chaps weren't yielding much dust—but when she tried to peer around the front of him to see what his big embarrassment was, he turned quickly, grabbing the saddle he'd slung over the fence.

Mac folded his arms, his smile faintly mocking. "May the best rancher win, lad."

"Yeah." Zack's gaze slid to hers, and he colored all over again. "Good luck... ma'am," he added gruffly.

She frowned, watching his long strides carry him away. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought she'd aggravated him again. One minute the man was smiling, the next minute he was scowling.

And men complained that
women
were moody and unpredictable!

A white paw pushed against her thigh. Pris panted up at her, a question in her liquid brown eyes, and Bailey half smiled, bending over to scratch the Border collie's black ear. Pris preened under the attention, hence her name, but then she gave an impatient "yip," as if she were eager to be herding.

"Just wait till they get an eyeful of you," Bailey told the dog affectionately.

Mac dragged his gaze away from Zack's receding shoulders and gave her one of his canny, searching stares. She hated it when he looked at her that way. It reminded her of all the times in her childhood when she'd tried to lie, futilely of course.
"Two papas to make up for no mother,"
Caitlin used to tell her gaily.
"What could be better than that?"

"'Course the talk around the cattle pens is Pris is just a bonny furball," Mac said evenly. "A pretty bitch doesn't have the herding instinct."

"Stupid cowpokes."

"Well now. Ye like one of them well enough, don't ye?"

She glared at him, another futile defense. If Iain McTavish chose to back down from a fight, he made that choice freely, not as a result of intimidation. "If you're referring to Zack, we were just talking business."

"So that's what ye young folks call it these days?"

Bailey pressed her lips together. She tried to convince herself Mac pried into her personal life only because he wanted to see her settled and happy. Even so, she couldn't shake the nagging worry that he'd developed a deeper, more selfish reason. She couldn't bear to hurt him any more than she already had. "I told you, Mac, I stopped mooning over Zack Rawlins years ago."

"Aye. Ye told me."

She didn't bother to debate him. She wanted this topic of conversation to end as quickly as possible.

Straightening, she snapped her fingers at her frisky collie. "C'mon, Pris. It's time to make those cowpokes eat some crow."

Zack was waiting for her by the pigpens. They drew straws under the watchful eyes of their judges, all nonpartisan farmers and townsmen. When she triumphantly pulled the longer straw, she selected her hogs first, a litter of Berkshire shoats and their grand dame. Left with ten cantankerous specimens of spotted pork-on-the-hoof, Zack elected to ride first, to "get it over with," as he so graciously put it. Tramping off with a coil of rope and a bag full of corn, he led Boss into the starting chute.

Seeing those yellow kernels made Bailey nervous. Even though Zack had spent the last week in Fort Worth, he'd apparently found time to learn something about swine.

In the fourteen days since the planning meeting, Bailey had learned from eager-to-advise farmers that pig herding had once been a midwestern tradition. That, in fact, Cincinnati had once been nicknamed Porkopolis, since the herds used to be trailed there before the War of Secession. This information had made Bailey worry that Zack might actually have a hidden advantage, since Rorie, his sister-in-law, hailed from Cincinnati. No doubt Rorie had been the one to suggest that Zack lure his hogs with corn. Even so, Zack couldn't possibly have gotten much practice.

But Bailey and Pris had.

She smiled smugly, scratching the collie's head. At first Pris had been skittish around all those grunting quarter-tons of lard, but now the forty-pound collie rounded up petulant pork just like she rounded up mutton. Of course, pigs, unlike sheep, were awfully canny creatures, and Pris was still new at matching wits with the beasts....

The bell rang, and the chute flew open. Ten hogs charged the ring, squealing in mass confusion, and Zack whooped, spurring Boss from an adjacent gate. The gelding cornered instantly, heading off a beady-eyed boar with nasty-looking dewclaws. But rather than follow their leader like nice, well-behaved steers, the other nine hogs raced off in all directions. Bailey heard Mac's chuckle, and she couldn't help but grin. Zack had only three minutes to chase all the hogs into their pen.

The cattlemen's grandstand roared with encouragements, and Boss wheeled. Bailey watched in admiration as Zack hugged the big black, his powerful thighs commanding the cow pony to turn, cut, or run. His rope rose and fell in his right hand, slapping the spotted flanks that raced by; with his left hand he rummaged in his burlap bag for a fistful of corn.

The first fling did little more than scatter the squealing hogs and start the whole whooping-wheeling-galloping process over again. The second fling was apparently less frightening and lured the pigs back into a loose formation.