Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (26 page)

He sighed, combing rough fingers through his hair. "Bailey, you already have," he said, but his gaze was softer now, less accusing. "You could be pregnant."

Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. We mated only once."

"Once is all it takes, Bailey. Little Wes is proof of that."

She raised her chin to hide her worry. Wes Rawlins and Rorie Sinclair had been destined to be lovers, not to mention parents. The first week they'd met, they'd fallen head over heels in love. Unfortunately, she and Zack couldn't claim that distinction. For her, marriage would be like a prison sentence if she had to wake every morning to the resentment in Zack's eyes. While he might be strong enough to endure a life without love, she wasn't.

"After watching animals breed for more than twenty years," she said briskly, "I've come to realize conception is rare among first-timers. You're a fine specimen, Zack, but don't go getting on your high horse."

Zack scowled at her taunt. Wasn't it just like her to say she didn't want to argue, then to turn around and goad him?

The last thing he'd wanted that morning was to take a wife, but he knew his responsibility, and election or no election, he was honor-bound to shoulder it. The least Bailey could do was appreciate his sacrifice. After all, she had to have known he'd make her his bride if he deflowered her. Hell, while she'd been sleeping, he'd convinced himself she'd gotten him drunk for that very purpose.

But she'd eliminated that conclusion when she'd rejected his offer. He still couldn't believe she'd told him no. What was the matter with her, turning down a perfectly good marriage proposal? He wasn't a hired hand, or twice her age like Iain McTavish. And he sure as hell wasn't the scalawag Nick Rotterdam was.

During times like these, Zack reminded himself grimly, a man's true character was forged.

He glared at his recalcitrant lover, not entirely sure why he was determined to change her mind. He liked to think it had something to do with the baby they might have made.

"The stakes are a whole lot higher with you and me than with cows and ewes, Bailey. You might be carrying my child. That means you have the right to my name and my

protection—"

"You really don't get it, do you?" she interrupted softly, her smile wan, her color close to gray. He figured her head must be on the verge of splitting, just as his was. Still, she had the whipcord strength to stand before him, clutching her sheet to her breasts with white-knuckled hands, one long thigh a ghostly silhouette beyond the gap in the linen's folds.

He had the ridiculous urge to grab her, shake her, comb the tangles from her cascade of sun-colored hair—maybe even kiss her. It angered him to think he was weaker than she, that she could resist his assets, both personal and professional, when the very sight of her was making him hard. Some wicked, lonely side of him recalled marriage had certain benefits that could help compensate for the political suicide of taking a sheepherder as his wife, and he wouldn't be loathe to claim them if Bailey was his bride.

But the flash in her midnight-blue eyes suggested that he'd be shoveling coal for the devil's furnace if he tried to hurry her to a preacher
and
to bed all in one morning.

"I don't want your protection, Zack," she said with a brittle calm. "I don't
need
your protection. I've got my own land, my own house, my own business, my own money. I've got friends, family, hired hands. I've even got guns, and I can shoot straight if I need to. There's nothing you can give me that I don't already have. So don't go throwing your life away on some misguided notion of chivalry. I'm not a helpless woman, and I'll be damned if I become a kept one."

He sucked in his breath, her set-down wounding him to his core. How dare she imply his intentions were anything other than honorable? And how dare she stand there and tell him he was of absolutely no value to her except as a—a
stud!

The deeper her words sank, the more hurt and angry he became. "What about our baby? What about what
he
needs?" he fired back.

She stiffened at the reminder. "If there is a child—and I won't know that for at least three weeks—then I assure you, you won't be troubled by it."

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"If I'm pregnant, I'll take care of it."

He frowned. What kind of answer was that?

"I'd like you to leave now, Zack," she said, her voice betraying the tiniest tremor. She tore her gaze from his and turned toward what looked like a dressing room built into the wall opposite the fireplace.

But the sheet was too long for a hasty escape, and she stumbled. He reached to save her, catching her arm with reflexes that had been honed by roping steers. Her expression registered surprise when she tumbled against him.

For a fraction of time, he hesitated, wanting to wrap his arms around her, wanting to press her heart to his and tell her he was sorry, that he didn't want to argue either, especially over something as vitally important as their future.

But he was too angry, too hurt... too afraid she'd spurn him again.

She yanked her arm free.

"Tell Jerky to fix you some breakfast before you ride," she said hoarsely, fleeing for the dressing room. "Tell him they're my orders."

"Bailey, wait—"

The door slammed, rattling every lamp fixture on the walls.

He muttered an oath.

Striding to the threshold, he rapped his knuckles against the wood. "Bailey, come out here. We're not finished."

Bailey bit the heel of her hand, stifling a sob as tears threatened to spill in streams past her lashes. She could feel Zack's blistering presence like a blast of heat through the barrier that separated them.

The knob squeaked as he jimmied it, but she'd turned the key from the inside.

Years ago, one of her mother's tantrums had persuaded Patrick McShane to build Lucinda a dressing room like other "civilized women" owned. Bailey hated to think she now stood trembling in its safety, as cowardly as her mother had ever been when her father used to demand a resolution to their arguments, and yet, what point could there be in going outside? Zack had made his offer; she'd turned him down.

"Bailey?" He pounded again on the door, more insistent this time. "Dammit, Bailey, open up."

"I'm not going to marry you, Zack, so you'd best get used to the idea and go home."

"You're talking nonsense."

That's right! Nonsense! I'm a crazy sheepherder. And you wouldn't want one of
those
to be your wife, would you? Think about your election!

She didn't say the words, however. Why bother? In the two hours it would take him to ride to his ranch—maybe even in less time than that—he'd come up with a dozen or more reasons of his own why he shouldn't pursue his suit. After that, she'd be lucky if she saw him once a month at the general store, or every few weeks at a hoedown. She wondered how she was supposed to bear it when he finally did marry someone else.

"Bailey, for God's sake, will you listen to reason?"

"It's over, Zack." She dragged a shaky breath into her lungs. "Please. Just... go away."

She heard the creak of the floorboards, as if he was fidgeting, undecided.

Then his air expelled in an exasperated rush.

"Fine. Have it your way."

His stocking feet stomped across the floor, growing more and more muffled as he strode into the hall and descended the stairs. The front door's slam sounded like an explosion in the breathless stillness of the house.

Then came the silence—the first of many endless, lonely silences of knowing love and having it denied her.

Her vision blurred, and she slid her spine down the wall, huddling with her knees drawn to her chest.

The only dream she'd ever cherished her whole life was to marry a man who returned her love. But Zack considered her a duty. A burden. His heart would never belong to her after what had happened last night.

Burying her face in her hands, she finally loosed the bitter, wrenching sobs.

Now she had no dreams left.

* * *

Two hours later, as Boss trotted along the ruts of Cord's drive, Zack was still reeling from Bailey's rejection. He didn't know why he felt so angry, because common sense told him he should be grateful to her for letting him off the hook.

If only it were that simple.

Guilt wouldn't let him shirk his responsibility quite that easily. In fact, he'd been afraid if he stood before that door a minute longer, he would have kicked it down and dragged her off to a preacher, sheet and all.

Damn that woman anyway. She had his brain spinning and his gut tied in knots. But that wasn't new. What was new was that his heart hurt like hell too. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.

Raising a hand to squint against the morning sun, he spied the greater part of his family milling around Cord's porch. He growled a particularly virulent oath. Riding home had clearly been a mistake. No, he decided uncharitably, moving in with Cord, Fancy, Aunt Lally, and four children had been the mistake.

He was just about to turn Boss's head around and canter off the property, when a dark-haired child in pigtails hurried down the porch steps. Judging by the girl's hobble, Zack guessed his greeter was Merrilee, and his mood softened the tiniest bit.

"Uncle Zack!" She scooped up her kitten, which was mewling indignantly after it had tumbled, whiskers first, off the porch. Apparently butterflies were insidiously clever prey.

Merrilee waved at him, which prompted Wes, who'd been helping Cord and his two boys whitewash their picket fence, to straighten and grin. "Well, well, well," he drawled, nudging Cord in the ribs. "Look who's back."

Zack's glare did little to wipe the speculative smirks off his brothers' faces, so he dismounted and tossed his reins to his nephew, Seth. He tried not to notice the paint smudges the nine-year-old left on Boss's bridle.

"Did Miss Bailey like Runt, Uncle Zack?" Merrilee asked eagerly. "Did she like Runt's bow?"

"Yes."

Walking as fast as his legs could carry him, Zack swept past Merrilee, the gate, and his male kinfolk, but Wes, being Wes, refused to let the thunder on Zack's brow deter him from ribbing his older brother.

"Hey, Zack, what took you so long at McShane's?" he boomed. "Shoot, we figured you'd run off and married the girl just to spite us."

Zack stumbled, choking on a curse, and shot his younger brother a look that would have frozen hell. Wes blinked, then his brow furrowed. He exchanged a worried glance with Cord.

"Zack." It was Fancy's voice. She sat on the front porch, shelling peas with her eldest daughter, Megan, while one-year-old Sarah snoozed in a cradle between them. "You look tired. Could you use some breakfast?"

He could feel Fancy's keen eyes reading his posture much the way she used to read marked cards. He gritted his teeth and tipped his hat, mostly to shadow his face.

"No. Much obliged though."

Mounting the porch steps, he rushed past her, loosing a ragged breath as the door banged closed behind him.

Thank God that's over.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he climbed to his attic bedroom, tugged off his boots, then shed his belt, shirt, and jeans. He felt dirty, dirtier than he'd ever felt in his life, but he suspected Bailey felt worse.

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to blot out the image of his maleness breaching her naked innocence, the memory of her tears. But it was useless. He wanted to wash away his self-loathing, too, even if it meant sitting in a scalding tub of water on a blistering summer day. The problem was, he couldn't very well explain behavior like that to his kinfolk. They'd start asking questions.

God, what I wouldn't give for a place of my own...

No one had remembered the previous night to close his ceiling window. In his agitation, he didn't notice the puddle of rainwater that had formed near his open trunk until he stepped in it, soaking his socks. That puddle reminded him of the one Bailey had shivered in on her bedroom floor, and he muttered an oath, ducking beneath the lowest rafter to inspect his unprotected wardrobe. Thankfully it was dry, so he stabbed his legs into a fresh pair of jeans. Then he grabbed a towel from his shaving stand, the only other furniture in the cramped quarters besides his cot, and sopped up the water. He didn't have much because he didn't have anywhere to store it, but what he did have, he tried to take good care of.

Maybe that's what was eating at him, he reasoned. Bailey was his now, whether he liked it or not, so why wouldn't she let him take care of her?

A tentative knock sounded on his door. His heart leapt guiltily, and he froze, clutching the towel. He loved his kinfolk dearly, but the last thing he wanted just then was their company. Unfortunately, with children prowling about, he didn't feel comfortable shouting, "Go the hell away."

The knock came again more insistently. "Zack?"

He blew out his breath.
Fancy.
Well, at least she had more tact than Wes. And a good deal more sympathy for waywardness than Cord. If there was one person in the household he could seek out for confidential advice about Bailey, it was Fancy.