Adrienne deWolfe - [Wild Texas Nights 03] (35 page)

Except, perhaps, Mac.

As high as the stakes were, Bailey didn't know how much longer she could toe the line to make the two men in her life happy. She'd never had much patience, and curbing her tongue in consideration of everyone else's feelings was beginning to test her reserves.

Take Friday, for instance. As much as she would have liked to track One Toe so she could keep her five-hundred-dollar prize, she was stuck tending her breeders in the damnable heat. Mac had driven to town for supplies, to pick up the mail, and to do whatever else Mac did on his afternoon off in bustling Bandera. Considering the cowboy he was leaving behind on the premises, Mac had been reluctant to go, but he'd been even more reluctant, in light of their vandalism troubles, to abandon her without a rifle-toting watchdog. So, climbing into the wagon, he'd tossed a dour glance Zack's way and promised to be back before nightfall.

Judging by the position of the sun, Bailey figured he'd left her and Zack a good seven hours to avoid sparring.

She didn't think she was going to last that long.

"No offense," Zack began, which she knew was immediate trouble, "but whatever possessed you to call your Merino stud Grumbles? I mean, Pokey for the puppy was bad enough. No self-respecting males would want to be called names like that."

She tossed him a withering look. He'd accompanied her on her watering rounds during the hottest time of the day, which also happened to be the shortest time of her temper.

"Grumbles suits him, if you haven't noticed."

"Sure, but it's kind of a... well, a
girly
name. Now, don't get me wrong, I think Violet is a fine name for your favorite ewe. But
Grumbles
? Why don't you change it to Butch or Brute if he's so cantankerous?"

Or Zack?
she wanted to retort.

"Brute. Hmm. That's certainly something to consider."

He shook his head in mild exasperation. "Personally, I don't cotton to naming livestock. I give all mine a number."

So I'm damned if I agree with you, and damned if I don't?

"Numbers keep me and the boys from getting too fond of them, if you know what I mean," he added solemnly.

"That's one of the differences between us sheepherders and you cattlemen. We shear our herds; we don't slaughter them."

"You slaughter the males to cull the flock. And your
pastores
consider baby goat a delicacy."

"Well, yes, of course, but—" She bit her tongue.
Patience, Bailey.
She drew a steadying breath. "I name only my favorites. The others are all numbered and ear-notched, just like your steers."

"Glad to hear it."

Arrogant cuss.

Rather than make her feel better, though, nasty thoughts only made her feel artificial, like one of those fawning, eyelash-fluttering belles who hid the viper in her tongue until some unsuspecting beau had wed her. The last thing she wanted was to become an imitation of her mother, but Zack had made her promise to "meet him halfway."

They drove in silence for a while. It wasn't completely companionable, but at least they weren't arguing when he reined in at the pen of the yearling ewes. It was the smallest enclosure in the canyon and, unfortunately, the farthest one from the house, but she'd taken special pains to protect it from predators by purchasing two Great Pyrenees pups from Mac's Basque brother-in-law. The guard dogs had thrived out there all by themselves and looked like a couple of half-grown polar bears with their thick coats of fur.

They loosed a series of deep, resonant barks, and the ewes milled in consternation.

Jumping down from the wagon bed, Pris eyed the guard dogs with a mixture of wariness and respect. Although they had learned to tolerate her and her herding tactics as necessary evils, they were a good hundred pounds heavier than she. Pris had learned the hard way not to nip too many of their beloved charges.

Pokey had no such frame of reference. He belly-flopped out of the back of the wagon and raced to the barbed wire, his tail wagging in time to the brash
arfs
he hurled at her bellwether, a castrated ram that Bailey had trained to lead the ewes into other pens when culling was necessary. The big black male
baaed
in indignation, the dogs raced ferociously to his rescue, and Bailey paled as Pokey tried to crawl under the fence. She swooped down on the puppy like a duck on a June bug and hauled him up by the scruff of his neck.

"Very bad, Pokey!"

Holding him at eye level, she gave him a glare and a good, hard shake. He squirmed, trying to lick her nose.

Zack chuckled. "Fearless little whelp."

"You wouldn't be laughing if 'Young Fearless' here got swallowed in one gulp! Those Pyrenees are wilder than Dodge City on a Saturday night. They see more sheep than they do herders, and they treat the ewes like part of their pack."

Zack's eyes still glowed with mirth. "Reckon I'll have to tie Pokey to the wheel spokes, then, to keep him from being a snack."

He held out his hands, and she stuffed the writhing pup into his arms. The brush of his fingertips heated her pulse to the same simmering stew it had been in just minutes earlier, when the wagon had bounced into a rut and she'd almost toppled between his thighs. What was worse than having him push her so gallantly aside then was watching him smile and cuddle Pokey against his broad chest now. The interaction between man and pup reminded her of a proud papa with his infant son.

The similarity was poignant enough to be unnerving. Bailey wondered yet again what it would be like to have Zack's baby.

She turned her back on him before he could notice her flaming face. God help her, that was the last thing she had time for right now. Making babies was fun.
Having
babies was work, even more work than ranching, if Caitlin's letters were any indication. Bailey couldn't consider such a distraction until she got her spread out of danger from this drought. And One Toe's ornery hide tacked up over her mantel.

She walked hurriedly to the rear of the wagon, too flustered for the moment to think twice about heaving a sack of grain onto her shoulder.

"Whoa, girl." Zack straightened from tethering a very vocal, very unhappy Pokey. "What do you think you're doing?"

He reached across her arms, pressing his hand down onto the bag before she could lift a single burlapped corner.

Oh, yeah, she thought. Zack was the
man.
Therefore, he did the
lifting.
He'd made that point perfectly clear at the billy goat pen.

She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and locked stares with him. "For heaven's sake, Zack, we're going to be unloading this wagon all day if you have to make every trip to the pens by yourself. Besides, I can lift one little bitty grain sack."

"That little bitty grain sack weighs close to forty pounds."

"Well, I must be used to it, 'cause I can carry a grain sack
and
a water bucket in my other hand at the same time."

"Over my dead body. Give the sack here."

Her bottom lip jutted.

When he effortlessly hoisted a bag onto each brawny shoulder, she made a face at him. He glanced up sharply, catching her in the act, and she blushed.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," she said sullenly.

His lips twitched, belying his stern tone. "Thank God for that. You're too stubborn to let anyone help you do anything."

I am not! Rotten cowpoke.
She raised her chin a notch. "Are you going to let me help you do anything?"

"Sure. Open the gate."

She stomped ahead of him to the fenced-off troughs in the main enclosure, muttering, "Men." If she hadn't been so annoyed with Zack, she might have been amused by the eagerness with which Pris trotted at her side. No doubt Pris was in collie heaven with a whole flock of ewes to herd and no yapping, frolicking puppy to chase the silly beasts to the rear of the holding pen. The sooner Pokey went on a hunting trip to learn his true vocation, Bailey mused, the better.

A bell clanged as her wether bleated, bounding fearfully away from the inner gate.

"Hush, Titan. Hush, Thor." She glared at the two guard dogs, who were wagging their tails at her and snarling their suspicions at Zack.

He shook his head as she called to them. "And I suppose you called that black sheep over there Bah-Bah?"

Ooh.
She wanted to box his ears. "I'll have you know I named the wether Farley. It means 'from the sheep meadow.' "

"Farley?"
Zack actually snickered.

"Well, I think Boss is a lousy name for a horse."

"You would." He was still smirking when he broke open the first bag and started pouring grain into the troughs. "Remind me not to let you name any boys we might have."

Boys?
Her pulse skyrocketed in a giddy way. He'd most definitely used the plural. More than one child meant more than one mating—usually.

She stole a hungry, longing glance at his profile and promptly stepped on Pris's paw. The collie yiked, and Bailey muttered an oath.

"Everything all right over there?" Zack called as she headed for the inner gate.

"Just dandy," she growled, chagrined by the look her dog sent her.
He's only a male. And a cowboy at that,
those brown eyes accused.

"The gate didn't latch." Still busy pouring, Zack jerked his head toward the outer fence.

"Don't worry. The sheep won't try to escape. They're too stupid."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Nothing's that stupid."

"As I said, you have a lot to learn about sheep."

She smiled a little, remembering how her mother had taken her to task as a child for being "thoughtless and careless" when she'd left the ewes' gate open. Not that her mother cared one whit about losing a breeder or a lamb. She'd just liked telling her daughter how useless she was.

Not one little woolly had ventured out into the great unknown, though. As far as the sheep were concerned, their world was clearly defined.

"Now, goats," Bailey added, "are another matter entirely. They're smart little buggers, and they'll storm any gate, locked or otherwise. Bucks are the worst, but the does egg them on, sauntering up to the fence to shake their tails in the poor old boys' faces. Last breeding season, I locked my stud up with seventy-five does, but apparently they weren't enough, because when he was finished, that old rascal tried to get into the smaller pen of nannies next door."

"Seventy-five?"
Zack was gaping. "You're pulling my leg, right? 'Cause my best bull can service only thirty cows."

"Sorry, cowboy. Bulls aren't in the same league as billy goats. Why, down in Mexico, my
pastores
tell me it's not uncommon for a buck to be loosed among a herd of a hundred females."

Zack turned a bright, endearing red, and it was her turn to laugh.

"Surely, you've heard the saying 'randy as a goat.' "

"Bailey," he warned gruffly.

She smirked and winked down at Pris.
Score one for the helpless little lady.

"All right, girl," she told the collie. "Time to work."

Her paw forgotten, Pris frisked like an impatient pup while Bailey called off the grudging guard dogs. With the menace at bay, Pris barely waited for the gate to swing wide enough to let her snout pass before she wriggled the rest of her body inside the holding pen. Bailey couldn't help but grin. Border collies lived for moments like these.

"There!" she called, pointing, and Pris flanked the skittish yearlings. They bleated, colliding in a loose formation, but they seemed reluctant to approach the big, tall stranger with the shadowed eyes and white teeth. Apparently the silly beasts preferred to starve to death than risk being eaten by a man bearing food.

"Come around!" Again and again, Bailey called the commands, more to impress Zack than because Pris needed the guidance. The collie did herself proud, snapping, charging, and swerving. At last even the recalcitrant wether was packed into the flock, and a hundred ewes were crammed into the smaller pen with Pris tidying up the formation's rear.

That maneuver cut off Pris from Bailey and Zack at the entrance, or so it would seem. As the leaders jostled for food, the collie jumped up on the backs of the ewes at the flock's tightly wedged center and nimbly walked across the fleecy, surging wave of rumps to reach the outer gate.

Zack's jaw dropped. Bailey smiled smugly.

"Pris figured that shortcut out all by herself. She's one smart dog."

"I'll say."

His compliment sent a honeyed warmth spreading through her, and she had to press her lips together to keep from beaming. After all, he hadn't complimented her; he'd complimented her dog. Still, as he moved to stand beside her, she felt as proud as any mother whose child had been lavished with praise.

"I plan on breeding Pris next spring. Maybe I can return the favor—of Pokey, I mean."

His lips quirked. "Now, that would take some doing, returning a big favor like that."

She knew he was teasing, but she couldn't think of a clever rebuttal. She was too busy enjoying the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when they were full of mirth.