Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (17 page)

"Zack?" She hastily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stooped to brush some of the straw from her knees. But she straightened almost immediately, as if thinking better of tidying her appearance. "What are you doing here? I thought I heard a dog barking—"

Her gaze finally lighted on the puppy. Standing on his hind legs, his front paws braced on Zack's forearm, the little mongrel was wagging his tail for all he was worth. His white ear had flopped back, and his brown ear was pricked.

Bailey's slow grin relieved the strain on her brow and kindled a spark in the depths of her troubled eyes. As Zack glimpsed the childlike eagerness she struggled to repress, a warm wave of pleasure washed over him.

"What's that?" she asked gruffly.

"Oh..." He made a subtle adjustment to the bow that was threatening to slide beneath the puppy's chin. "This little fella was kind of hoping you might be hiring on a new hunting hound."

Gazing up at the rugged, square-jawed cowboy and his bouncing bundle of fur, Bailey felt the embarrassing sting of tears. The puppy's wagpole was waving so fast, it was in danger of unraveling his ridiculously oversized bow. He didn't seem concerned by his duded-up appearance, though; nor did he seem particularly concerned by the impression he might make with the rosy insides of his white ear showing.

Zack dismounted, his face impossibly grave. The puppy loosed an enthusiastic bark.

"I reckon he has one or two opinions to express." Zack pushed back his hat, and the twinkle in his eyes belied his implacable expression. "Maybe you could teach him something about speaking his mind."

Bailey swallowed the growing lump in her throat.

With Buttercup, her dairy cow, fighting for her and her calf's life in the barn, Zack's visit was nothing short of a godsend. Bailey was hard-pressed not to throw her arms around his neck and hold on the way she'd so fervently longed to do when he'd kissed her at the rodeo.

"What's the whelp's name?" she asked.

"Well now. I figured I'd leave that up to you, neighbor."

He passed the pup to her, and an eager tongue tried to lick her chin. Bailey gazed down into those bright puppy eyes, then up into Zack's, and her heart swelled.

"Thank you," she said, and cleared her throat. She thought it high time she stopped sounding like she'd swallowed a frog. "I think I'll name him Pokey."

"Pokey?" Zack's brow furrowed. "Why Pokey?"

"Because he's a cowpoke's dog."

Zack shook his head, muttering something about Pokey being the lesser of two "really bad evils."

"I beg your pardon?" She hugged Pokey closer, not quite able to hide her pleasure when the puppy licked her hand.

Zack's dimples peeked out. "Oh... never mind."

"Miss Bailey!"

Bailey didn't know who jumped more at Jerky's anxious call, her or Zack. The old sheepherder, stunted, wrinkled, and more gnomelike than any wee folk in the fairy stories her daddy had brought back from Scotland, stumped out of the barn on legs not much longer than her arms.

The sight of Zack standing over her must have startled Jerky, because his stride faltered. He craned back his neck to squint up into the shadows beneath Zack's hat brim.

"Humph." Jerky wrinkled his nose as if sniffing the wind. "Beef," he said disparagingly.

"Jerky," Bailey warned, her face heating at her hired hand's rudeness. Like Mac, Jerky was an old friend of her father's. When sheepherding had made him a bit feebleminded, she'd found kitchen work for him so he wouldn't be left to the charity of society. "Is it time? Did Buttercup calf?"

"Nope." Jerky was giving Zack one of his unblinking stares, the kind that made most cowboys jump and fidget as if they needed to scratch for seam squirrels, the drover's term for body lice. To Zack's credit, though, he withstood Jerky's eerie scrutiny with a knowing patience. "That cow's still pushing. She went down like a beached whale."

Bailey's stomach knotted, and Pokey whimpered as she unconsciously tightened her hold. Jerky and Mac were the two most experienced midwives on the ranch. The only problem was, the number of calves they'd helped birth could be counted on one hand. "Is she still kicking?" she asked uneasily.

"Nope. She ain't even flicking her tail."

Zack frowned. "How long has she been laboring?" he asked Bailey.

"About two hours now. I'm worried she's going to lose the use of her hind legs." Bailey bit her bottom lip to stave off the panic-induced nausea. Boo's death was still fresh in her mind. She couldn't bear it if she had to shoot Buttercup too, and yet the way the calf was twisted up inside the heifer, the odds were against Buttercup.

"We have to hurry, Bailey," Zack said, already rolling up the white linen sleeves of his Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt. "I don't reckon you've got any kind of calf-pulling equipment here, do you?"

She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.

"I'll need a good strong rope, then, and a broomstick."

"Jerky, would you—?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "I'm going."

She thrust Pokey into his arms, and Jerky scowled down at the wriggling fur ball.

"Reckon you're hungry, eh? Well, me too." He leered at Pokey with a predatory grin.

"Jerky, you stop that," Bailey called, knowing full well the old sheepherder was being ornery just because he had a cowboy for an audience. "Hurry back with the rope."

Jerky muttered something about cow dogs and one more mouth to feed as he stumped off toward the big house, Pokey's little chin resting on his shoulder.

Bailey cleared her throat. "Sorry, Zack."

His smile was wry. "No bother."

But if Bailey thought Jerky's behavior was rude, Mac's was actually hostile. When Zack followed her into the barn, she noted the rigid cast of Mac's shoulders and the stab of his narrowed eyes. She attributed his irritability to spending two hours with a frightened three-quarter-ton mother-to-be. Nevertheless, she didn't want Mac's dour mood chasing away Zack and all his expertise. She shot her foreman a warning look as Zack halted beside her.

"Buttercup must have an angel watching over her," Bailey said with forced brightness. "Look who just happened to be riding by."

After an intense moment of eye locking with Zack, Mac turned back to his panting patient. "Aye, it looks that way."

Zack doffed his hat. "The lady seems to be in some trouble." His drawl sounded smooth, almost soothing after Mac's throaty rumble. "Is she breech?"

"Aye."

"I reckon the calf couldn't be turned, eh?"

Mac's smile was tight. "Right again, lad." He laid a hand on Buttercup's heaving belly, and concern rolled back the antagonism on his features. "Maybe all the calf needs is a longer arm to turn her around."

Zack nodded, passing his hat to Bailey. She hung it on a nail above the manger's lantern, and he entered the stall to kneel by Mac's stool.

Ablaze in the glow of the sinking sun that was framed in the loft's open doorway, Zack looked like he'd been forged more from fire than earth, yet his demeanor was gentle, born of his knowledge of the land and its creatures. When he leaned forward in the trampled straw, Bailey noticed that the curl falling across his brow was the same red-brown color as the cow's flank.

Bailey had a hard time taking her eyes off him despite Buttercup's distress. Since turning a calf in the birth canal was not an easy task, Mac made way for Zack behind Buttercup's motionless legs. Bailey knew the calf's weight was pressing on its mama's spinal nerve, and the risk of Buttercup's paralysis grew greater with each minute the baby delayed its entrance into the world.

Bailey mouthed an anxious prayer as she leaned over the stall, watching the rolled cuff of Zack's sleeve strain over his flexing bicep. He wore a look of intense concentration rather than distaste, his hand probing ever deeper along the canal until his shoulder butted up against the cow's rear. But no matter how he adjusted himself or his grip, the baby remained in its backward position.

At last he withdrew, his breath coming fast, the pristine white of his shirtfront smeared with birth fluid. He regretfully shook his head. "Looks like that calf has made up its mind. It's coming out against the hair."

Jerky snorted. He had stumped up behind her, the top of his wiry gray head not quite reaching her ear. "I coulda told you that, cowpoke."

Bailey shot her cook a quelling glare. "Did you bring the equipment Zack asked for?"

In answer, Jerky held up a broom and a coil of rope.

"What's yer plan, lad?" Mac asked, his tone betraying a hint of grudging acceptance.

"We need to saw off the bristles on that broom and jury-rig a calf puller. A windlass sure would help."

Mac nodded. "We've got a hand winch in the toolshed. I'll wheel it in."

Jerky mumbled something to himself, which was such a common occurrence, Bailey paid little attention. Then she noticed he was clutching the broom to his chest and staring defiantly at Zack.

Zack arched an eyebrow as if to ask, "What's the matter with him?"

"Jerky, it's getting late," Bailey said quickly, "and the
pastores
will be coming by the house soon for dinner. Since Mac and I are tied up here, I need you to make sure the men get their monthly provisions, especially Vasquez. I hear his boy has been sick."

Suspicion of Zack, worry for his broom, and the pleasure of being needed all vied for dominance on Jerky's face. Nodding in encouragement, she squeezed his shoulder as she eased the pole from his dwarf-sized fist. He grunted.

"Cows and babies. Damned rain is gonna bring 'em."

Bailey wasn't exactly sure what Jerky meant, but then, she rarely was. She nodded again and smiled.

He tossed another less-than-civil glance at Zack. "You're eating mutton like everyone else."

Then he turned, ambling off into the spectacular red and orange of the Texas twilight.

Bailey fidgeted beneath Zack's bemused regard. "Jerky is, uh, what you might call a coot. But his chili won a blue ribbon in last year's county fair. And he's just as good with mutton stew and
cabrito."

Humor warmed the chocolaty depths of Zack's eyes. "I don't doubt it."

Moments later, Mac returned with the winch and a handsaw. After cutting the bristles from the broom, Zack wrapped the stick, leaving a foot or so of the rope at the end. As Mac cranked the winch, taking up the hemp's slack, Zack braced the broomstick against Buttercup's hindquarters for added leverage. The heifer lowed pitifully, and Bailey, her stomach knotting at the beast's pain, scrambled over the slats of the stall to cradle the cow's head in her lap.

"No more midnight rendezvous for you," she scolded gently, stroking the blaze on the damp forehead.

Buttercup, saucy little heifer that she was, had run away one night and entertained a bull somewhere near Zack's property. At least, that's what Bailey and Mac had surmised about four months later, when there'd been no denying Buttercup's belly was starting to swell. As was typical of bovine virgins, Buttercup had been completely oblivious of the new life growing inside her—until now.

"Ready?" Zack glanced at her over his patient's heaving stomach, and Bailey nodded, blushing. For some odd reason, she'd had the silly thought that in less than fifteen minutes, she and Zack might become parents.

Zack knelt in the soiled straw, and the lantern light struck russet highlights from his hair. Although Bailey couldn't see everything he was doing over the mound of Buttercup's belly, she had a fairly good idea what was transpiring. His main task would be to reach inside the birth canal and loop the rope around the calf's hind legs so Mac could begin the tediously slow process of pulling the baby earthward with each of the heifer's contractions.

Buttercup thrashed, and Zack's shoulders all but disappeared behind the cow's hindquarters. Bailey could still see his face, lined with compassion, determination, and concern. She bit her lip, wishing she could do something more to help.

One glance at Mac, with his furrowed brow and bow-taut forearms, made her think he must be wishing the same.

"All right, McTavish." Zack waved, still concentrating on his patients, one wheezing, the other not yet filled with the breath of life.

Bailey heard the creak of the winch; she watched the rope tense. She hugged the heifer's head closer, doing her best to distract her by rubbing Buttercup's nose and murmuring encouragements into her twitching ear. After an interminable series of heartbeats, Buttercup's spasm passed, and Zack quickly raised his hand again. Mac's biceps relaxed beneath his rolled-up checkered sleeves, and his work glove hovered restlessly on the winch's handle.

He didn't have to wait long for the next crank. Again and again, Zack gave the command. Bailey watched him through veiled lashes as he did everything in his power to soothe the panting heifer. His thick, callused hands were gentle as they massaged Buttercup's belly between contractions; his rumbling bass voice was soft and sweet, coaxing the struggling mother and her recalcitrant calf.

The setting sun blazed full force upon his back now, and perspiration trickled down his neck into his collar. His shirt and crisp black broadcloth pants were stained beyond all hope by the blood and urine that were an inescapable part of calf birthing. Bailey imagined that hunching over Buttercup and performing the sensitive maneuvers necessary to keep the rope anchored to the slippery calf must be making Zack's muscles ache as well.