Texas Wildcat

Texas Wildcat Adrienne deWolfe

AN [e-reads]BOOK N e w Yo r k , N Y

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 1989 by Adrienne deWolfe First e-reads publication 2002 www.e-reads.com ISBN 0-7592-2647-4

To Paula d’Etcheverry, my very own earth angel. Thanks for taking me under your wing and making me part of your home.

Other works by Adrienne deWolfe also availabe in e-reads editions TEXAS LOVER TEXAS OUTLAW

Table of Contents Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Author’s Note Biography v

vi 1 18 34 53 64 70 89 106 130 146 161 177 191 205 216 229 240 251 269 288 304 313 328 340 341

Acknowledgments I’d like to thank the people who made researching this book so much fun: Texas cattle rancher Murray Callahan; veterinarian Greg Biehle, D.V.M.; and Ken Horton, the executive vice president of the Texas Pork Producers Association. Most especially I would like to thank Texas sheep, goat, and cattle rancher Coni Ross and her Border collie, Fran, for introducing me to the life of a lady “cowboy” — and for putting up with a city girl who asked a million and one questions.

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One Bandera County, Texas June 1884 “Lookie there, boys. The little lady ain’t got no underwears!” Pausing just inside the swinging doors, Bailey McShane felt her face turn branding-iron hot. The patrons of the Bullwhip Saloon hooted, sloshing whiskey, to toast their fellow cattleman’s jest. Cowboys were notoriously creative when ridiculing sheep, but likening the animals’ fleece to a female’s unmentionables was a new insult, even to Bailey. She gripped her shotgun tighter and glared at her snickering audience. Her heart was speeding faster than it had any right to be, which she considered akin to betrayal. She liked to think she’d never been afraid a day in her life. To feel the dampness of her palms and the roiling in her gut made her as mad at her body as she was at the cowpokes who’d vandalized her fences. She hated feeling weak because she was a woman. Her foreman would have wanted to come to protect her — a constant struggle between them which irritated her no end — so rather than telling McTavish about her property damage, she’d ridden off without him. She’d figured the wire cutters she was hunting would take a Scottish immigrant no more seriously than they took a sheep-raising female. Tonight would be different though. Tonight she’d be someone to reckon with. She’d come to the enemy camp to demand the compensation she was due, and she’d be damned before she’d hide behind some man’s britches. In business, as in war, there was no room for ladies. 1

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Hiking her rolled-up blue jeans, she narrowed her eyes beneath her Stetson and stalked with her hound into the smoky squalor of the Bullwhip Saloon. The main room was unusually crowded for droving season. Bailey darted her gaze past the counter, with its clutter of dirty glasses, whooping gamblers, and spinning dice cage, then scanned the flushed and craggy faces laughing around the tables. The drought had forced most of Bandera’s cattlemen to drive their steers to market early, selling their best beef at prices that amounted to robbery. With time on their hands and boulder-sized chips on their shoulders, cowpokes came to the saloon each night to grouse about the usual: heat, sodbusters, barbed wire, and woollies. But one of these men, Bailey was certain, had done more than grouse. Someone in this nest of rat snakes had committed an act of vandalism that had provoked war in several of Texas’s other droughtstricken counties. She steeled herself against her secret hurt, that one of her neighbors had lashed out at her when she’d done everything in her power to accommodate them through their hardships. She didn’t want bloodshed, but she did want what she deserved: the right to ranch her land in peace. “Hey, Bo Peep!” another cowpoke bellowed, winking lewdly as he grabbed his crotch. “If it’s a ram you’ve come lookin’ fer, I got one over here!” Boo halted at her side. With a rumbling growl he turned wolfish yellow eyes on her heckler and bared fangs as long as her thumb. Bailey knew a fleeting sense of satisfaction when her detractor blanched, edging unsteadily toward the safety of the counter. Tugging a man’s glove from her belt, she dangled it beneath her hound’s twitching nose. “Find the wire cutter, Boo. Find the bastard who’s been raiding my wells.” Boo’s spindly tail wagged in understanding. Snout to the sawdust, he weaved among the lip-locked couples on the dance floor. One of the hurdy-gurdy girls interrupted her kiss long enough to pat Boo’s massive head. Her partner scowled. “Here now, Miss Bailey,” the barkeep called above the abysmally tuned piano. Balancing a fistful of empty mugs in one hand, he planted the other on his hip. “I told you you can’t visit the Bullwhip no more if you’ve come to raise a ruckus.” 2

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Boo paused, sniffing suspiciously at the barkeep’s wooden leg. The old man went rigid, his whiskered, sun-weathered face paling. “Don’t get your shorts in a knot, Stumpy,” Bailey called as Boo, apparently dissatisfied, snuffled onward to the counter. “I’m paying a neighborly call on a wire cutter. Won’t take but a minute.” “Neighborly, my ass.” Stumpy muttered something more virulent as Boo inspected each of the boots propped along the counter’s runner. Their owners allowed this examination with a mixture of amusement and wry tolerance. One cowpoke even tossed the hound a piece of beef jerky. But Boo, faithful to his mission, ignored this flagrant bribe. “If that slobberin’ varmint of yours gnaws another hole through one of my table legs, I’m chargin’ you double.” “Boo gave up table legs for railroad spikes,” Bailey retorted. “He’s not a puppy anymore.” “He’s a damned beaver, that’s what he is,” Stumpy grumbled, plunking his mugs down on the bar. Meanwhile, Boo had lost interest in the silver rowels and dusty heels lounging at the counter. Winding his way through the clutter of furniture and humans, he trotted toward the stairwell that led to the second story’s “heifer corral,” where Stumpy’s advertisements bragged “a bull could get his fill.” Bailey didn’t much like the idea of her childhood playmates throwing away their bodies and their dreams, but at least Stumpy fed and clothed them and kept a roof over their heads. It was better treatment than some of the girls had gotten from their fathers — or from the husbands who’d abandoned them. “’Evenin’, Miss Bailey,” Hank Rotterdam greeted her, flashing her a full-toothed smile as she followed her hound to the table near the stairwell. Hank’s gaze traveled from her breasts to her shotgun, then leisurely roamed back up her cotton workshirt to her breasts. “Trouble back home?” Bailey glared at her northeastern neighbor. His handsome blond features were aging in a beefy way, giving him a jowl like a Brahma steer’s. “I thought you might know more than most, Hank,” she replied, knowing full well the Scandinavian rancher was the biggest antiwoolly campaigner in the county. Eleven years earlier, before the rivalry had started between Hank and her father, she’d practically 3

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called the Rotterdam spread her home. Hank’s twin boys had been like pesky younger brothers to her. But the cattleman-sheepherder feud had taken its toll on friendly relations between the Rotterdams and McShanes. Now, with the drought heating tempers to the boiling point, Bailey spent less time extending the olive branch to the twins than she did threatening to use it as a switch on their backsides. “Now, why would you think I’d know anything, honey?” Hank drawled. Boo whined. Growing agitated, the hound pawed at the empty chair on Hank’s left side. Bailey’s heart sank to think one of the twins had been involved in the attack on her property. Had relations between her and the Rotterdams soured that badly? “Jeez, Bailey.” The towheaded youth at Hank’s right squinted one bleary eye at Boo. “If that dog of yours gets any uglier, we’re gonna have to shoot it to put us out of our misery.” Bailey ignored the younger Rotterdam twin, Nat — or, rather, Gnat, as she’d privately come to call him. “Don’t you honey me, Hank Rotterdam. Where’s Nick?” “Nick?” “Yeah, that’s right. Your lying, no good cow chip of a son.” Hank looked amused rather than offended at her barb. “You sure are a jealous woman, Bailey. Seems a bit unsporting like, you busting in here with your daddy’s scattergun. After all, you can’t blame the boy for sowing his oats elsewhere. You had your chance with Nick.” “Nick can rut himself to perdition for all I care.” “That’s the spirit, honey.” Hank winked, much to her irritation. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and sit with me and Nat for a spell?” “Which room is Nick in?” Bailey persisted grimly, thinking to send Boo upstairs to sniff out her suspicions once and for all. “Can’t say,” Hank answered jovially. “Tell you what. Me and Nat’ll even buy you a drink. It’s the least we can do after you’ve ridden out all hot to find your man . . . er, indisposed.” Bailey felt her color rising. Planting her hands on the table, she leaned forward and stared straight into Hank’s cagey blue eyes. “And I’ll tell you what, Hank. You and your boys had better come up with five hundred dollars for the fences you cut and burned on my spread earlier tonight. Otherwise I’m pressing felony charges.” 4

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“Felony charges?” Nat roused himself from his beer. “Gee, Bailey, I’m real sorry ’bout your fences, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it.” She didn’t bother to dignify his lie. More than one set of horse tracks had led away from the pile of ashes that had once been her cedar fence posts. Nat might have been smart enough to keep hold of his riding gauntlets, but she knew from experience that Nat went where Nick did. The Rotterdam twins had always enjoyed making her life miserable. It was their way of showing they cared. “Fence cutting is a mean-spirited, cowardly crime,” Hank said. “I didn’t think Bandera County cattlemen could stoop so low.” “Yeah.” Nat nodded, blinking hopefully at her. “You want me to ride on over to your spread and keep you safe tonight?” “What I want,” she ground out, “is Nick’s hide nailed to an outhouse wall.” “You always did like Nick better ’n you like me,” Nat grumbled. “C’mon, Bailey.” Hank settled back in his chair like a man relishing the entertainment to come. “What d’ya say you forget about Nick and marry Nat? Hell, they look just the same. And they’ve got the same equipment, if you know what I mean.” “I’ll keep that in mind when I’m ready to raise hogs. And speaking of boars” — Bailey matched the old man stare for stare — “the devil will be roasting pork tonight if you don’t tell me where Nick is.” As if on cue, Nat’s errant twin reeled butt-first onto the balcony. Nick barely saved himself from toppling backward over the banister before a hail of clothing was flung after him into the hall. Every man in the saloon guffawed to see Nick stripped down to his scarlet long johns. Boo flared his nostrils and growled. “Aw, c’mon, honey,” Nick protested drunkenly as the Bullwhip’s prettiest, hottest-tempered whore slammed the door in his face. “Don’t go gettin’ mad. You know I’m good for the extra fifteen dollars — ” He never finished wheedling. Boo loosed an earsplitting howl and lunged for the stairs. “What the — ?” Nick glanced unsteadily over his shoulder, saw his twin grab for Boo’s collar, and lost a shade or two of his tan. Dropping his hand to his hip, he found no holster and paled even more. He started beating on the door. “Open up! You forgot my gun!” 5

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“Like hell I did, muchacho,” came the muffled reply. “I earned a sight more than your piece tonight.” More laughter greeted this double entendre as Boo twisted, finally breaking his drunken captor’s hold to charge the stairs. Nick cursed again. Grabbing his boots, he ran for the next bedroom, but his frenzied tugging did little more than rattle the locked door. “Bailey!” Dashing for another escape route, Nick found that the next room was also occupied and locked. “Goddammit, Arabella, call off your dog, or I’ll have it shot!” “You shoot my dog, and I’ll shoot you, Rotten-damn,” she fired back, incensed that the little weasel had dared to blab her most hideous secret: her name. Boo, meanwhile, was galloping through Nick’s discarded clothing, barking with gleeful anticipation at the red-flanneled fanny that was fleeing down the hall. In desperation, Nick leaned back to kick in the last door. It swung open easily, throwing him off balance. Boo leapt, his great jaws gaping. The sound of rending fabric was followed by Nick’s shriek, and Bailey caught a glimpse of snowy-white buttocks before Nick slammed the door closed again, leaving Boo to snarl in frustration, a scarlet drop seat clenched in his teeth. The floorboards shook with masculine laughter. Even Nat and Hank roared, slumping in their chairs and wiping tears from their cheeks. Disgusted, Bailey picked up her shotgun and the riding gauntlet. “Here now, Miss Bailey.” The barkeep hurried to intercept her. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Upstairs to help my dog,” she said as Boo, rumbling with menace, flopped down on his belly and laid siege to the bedroom. “Confound it, Bailey, you know upstairs ain’t no place for a lady.” “You must be confusing me with my mother. Now, step aside.” She pushed past the barkeep. “I’m going after Nick.” Suddenly the door flew open once more. A tall, lean cattleman, who looked twice as rangy as normal in his jet-black duster, stood on the threshold. Eyes as hot and dark as firelit coals burned into Bailey’s, and she caught her breath, her heart tripping in a traitorous dance. “Damnation,” the rancher muttered, “it’s you.” Her steps faltered. Bailey tried to ignore the warmth that pulsed through her veins because he’d noticed her. Him. Zachariah Rawlins. 6

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The youngest president ever to serve the Bandera County Cattlemen’s Association. The most elusive, heavily pursued bachelor in three surrounding counties. The most breathtaking, aggravating specimen of manhood she’d ever laid eyes on in all her twenty-two years. Zack was also, to his highly publicized annoyance, her eastern neighbor. Reaching the top of the stairs, she glared at the twenty-six-year-old rancher whose bottomless brown eyes, wealth of chestnut hair, and well-muscled limbs had been making her pulse pound ever since she’d turned thirteen. He’d started sporting his mustache shortly after his nineteenth birthday, she recalled, perhaps because he’d always done business with more seasoned cattlemen. Personally, she preferred clean-shaven mugs, but somehow Zack’s grizzled appearance only added to his sensuality. Not that what she thought had ever mattered to him. No, he wasn’t courting her. He was courting Amaryllis Larabee. Pushing such disappointments from her mind, she halted by Boo’s tail, prepared to do battle. “That’s right, neighbor. It’s me. And I’d be much obliged if you’d get the hell out of my way.” Boo didn’t waste time on such social niceties, however. With a ferocious woof, he hurtled past Zack’s legs and charged his quarry’s den. Bailey heard a crash and a shriek — most likely the whore’s — a couple of thuds — probably Nick’s sloppily aimed boots — and a barrage of oaths. Then she glimpsed Nick’s flanneled length shooting like a flame through the open window. He landed with precarious grace on a convenient oak branch. “Ha! Stupid mutt!” he jeered. “Can’t catch me now, can ya? Go ahead, then, jump. Jump on out after me, mutt!” Boo was barking wildly, his forepaws scraping at the window ledge, and Bailey narrowed her eyes as Nick broke off a twig to further torment her dog. “That does it, Rotten-damn.” She tried to shove past Zack as easily as she had the barkeep, but the fortress of muscle barring her way didn’t yield. She found herself gazing up his imposing length, past his broad shoulders and the stubbled square of his jaw. Not for the first time did she wish her McShane family ancestors had taken more care to breed their offspring for height. “Begging your pardon, Miss McShane,” Zack said with thinly veiled irritation. He pulled her shotgun from her hands. “Your scattergun is going to get someone hurt.” 7

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“Someone already got hurt — to the tune of five hundred dollars.” She tried unsuccessfully to wrest the muzzle free. “A gang of wire cutters paid my range a call tonight. One of the bastards left this glove behind, and the scent led Boo to Nick.” To Zack’s credit, he didn’t reject her story outright. A muscle along his jawline began to twitch, and he shifted his gaze to Nick’s kinfolk, seated below them. When he returned the full intensity of his sun-crinkled eyes back to her, he didn’t look quite so accusing. “So you’re planning on filling Nick’s hide full of buckshot, is that it?” She couldn’t help but blush. Not for the first time did she wonder if Zack had heard the rumors about her and Nick. When she was eleven, ten-year-old “Ick” had dropped his britches behind the schoolhouse and demanded she admire his pecker. He must have never forgiven her for being more impressed with her daddy’s stud ram, because on her twenty-first birthday, when she’d gone to him for “lessons,” he’d brayed to the entire county that he’d rolled her in the hay. Nothing had been further from the truth — she’d lost her nerve and her dinner — but she let most folks think what they liked, since the rumors helped drive away her more undesirable suitors. Not that Zack would have been an undesirable suitor, she mused wistfully. She just couldn’t let him know how desirable he was. After all, he’d never lavished any of his dimpled smiles on her. He had Amaryllis, the county’s favorite belle, while she, Bailey, had the perennial disfavor of the gossips. No one ever linked Saint Zack’s name with sordid behavior; he stood too straight and narrow beneath his halo. She blew out her breath. The one time she actually attracted the man’s attention, she was up to her eyeballs in controversy. She just wouldn’t have any luck at all if it wasn’t rotten. “I figure I have more reasons than most for wanting to plug Nick Rotterdam,” she answered sullenly. Tamping down his embarrassment at having a female catch him in a whore’s room — even if he had been buying information about a suspected rustler, not sex — Zack gazed down at the pint-sized wildcat with the forthright blue eyes and the endearingly freckled nose and wished for at least the hundredth time she was anyone but Caitlin McShane’s cousin. Although he couldn’t blame Bailey for the blood 8

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running through her veins, he couldn’t trust her with that legacy either. He’d vowed on his mother’s own Bible never to make the mistake of caring for a McShane woman again. Maybe that was why Bailey chapped his hide whenever he couldn’t avoid her outright. God knew, the girl and that hound of hers had been a thorn in his side ever since he’d first set foot in Bandera County. “Miss McShane — ” “Stop calling me that! You know my name.” He glanced uncomfortably at the grinning cowboys below watching his predicament with such amusement. He couldn’t very well invite her into the room for a more private discussion, and she didn’t look inclined to accompany him downstairs peaceably. “Where’s McTavish?” he demanded with a good deal less aplomb. “Your man should be handling your ranching problems, not you.” “Mac isn’t my ‘man,’ he’s my foreman. And I’m perfectly capable of handling my ranch and my business.” Zack grimaced to hear her voice rise above the frenzied barking behind him. Obviously, he’d touched another nerve. How was he supposed to know McTavish had had the good sense not to offer for the little spitfire? Zack couldn’t blame the Scot, but if Bailey kept chasing away suitors at this rate, he was never going to have a levelheaded, reasonable man as his neighbor. He groaned inwardly at the thought. “Look, Bailey.” He lapsed into such familiarity only under duress. “You’re doing your cause more harm than good by chasing Nick through the, uh, heifer corral with a shotgun.” “Do you have a better suggestion?” “Let’s go downstairs.” She planted a fist on either hip. “The last time I agreed to cooperate with you, Mr. Cattlemen’s president, some idiot cowpoke built a campfire in my northwestern pasture and nearly started a wildfire. I’m all for neighborly relations, letting you cattlemen drive your steers through my mountain pass on your way to market, but not when you’re cavalier about the privilege.” “And what does that incident have to do with getting you out of a whorehouse in one piece?” That question tripped her up — a rare coup. He’d learned from painful experience that Bailey’s tongue could flay a man alive, and he 9

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had enough trouble talking socially to women without exposing himself to one of her verbal floggings. “I’ve got my hound. And my shotgun.” Her gaze was defiant despite the fact that she had neither safety precaution at the moment. “I’m not in any danger here.” He resisted a glance at her shapely denim-sheathed legs. “If you think you’re safe dressed in those duds in a saloon full of randy cowboys, you’re too naive for your own good. Now, do you want to get to the bottom of this glove matter, or don’t you?” She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again, as if thinking better of her response. “I reckon I’d be safe from you anyway,” she grumbled, and whistled at her hound. “Boo! Come.” With her canine champion panting worshipfully at her heels, Bailey preceded him down the hall. They passed Nat Rotterdam on the stairs. The wiseacre smirked, no doubt on his way to rescue his twin’s clothes, but Zack ignored the younger man. Hank was the Rotterdam to reckon with. In fact, as Hank watched their approach, his expression was so openly speculative that Zack wondered if the wily old politician was concocting some sordid rumor about them to foil Zack’s reelection hopes. “What do you know about the glove Bailey found on her range?” Zack demanded the minute his boots reached the taproom floor. Hank leaned his girth back in his chair and propped his boots up on the table. “Shoot, is that why the little lady’s been waving that riding gauntlet under our noses?” Shaking his head, he turned his attention to Bailey. “You gotta know, sugar, if me or my boys had seen any gunnysackers scaring your sheep or cutting your fences, why, we’d have been the first to tan those polecats’ hides. Sorry to hear we weren’t able to lend you a neighborly hand. But me and the boys have been, uh, branding heifers here all nightlong.” “That’s right,” a half dozen cowboys chimed in loyally. Zack frowned, wondering if Hank had paid for his alibi. He liked to think his northern neighbor had more scruples than that, since Hank had taken him under his wing nine years ago. At seventeen, Zack had been reeling under the responsibility of establishing his family’s cattle business in Bandera, and Hank had generously lent a hand. At the time, Zack’s older brother, Cord, had been busy with his duties as 10

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deputy U.S. marshal, and his kid brother, Wes, had been more interested in ladies than in steers. Bailey, however, appeared less inclined to give Hank the benefit of the doubt. She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, so I suppose Nick’s gauntlet just magically appeared by the pile of ashes that was once my fence post?” Hank raised a work-roughened hand. “Now, calm down, Bailey. Nick’s saddlebags got stolen ’bout a week ago, and he lost a sight more than an old riding glove. Just ’cause that hound of yours treed my boy doesn’t make Nick your wire cutter. That cur dog’s had it in for Nick ever since he went and tied a couple of tin cans to Boo’s tail.” Boo growled at his nemesis’s name. Bailey blew an errant wheatcolored curl off her forehead. “I don’t believe you, Hank.” “Well, now, honey, that’s just ’cause you’re upset. Why don’t you let one of my boys take you home and see you get there safe. Shoot. You know as well as I do you wouldn’t be having all these troubles if you had a husband to take care of you and run your spread.” “You son of a — ” Bailey’s chest heaved. When she rounded on Zack, he could see desperation warring with the outrage in her eyes. “Are you going to let him get away with this — this blackmail?” Zack fidgeted. Personally, he thought Hank’s observation held a ring of truth. It wasn’t that Bailey didn’t have a good head for business to go with her lion’s heart. She did. The problem was, these were hard times. And hard times could be perilous for a lone woman. “I’m sorry, Bailey, but I have to agree with Hank. Your sheep and your fences wouldn’t be such easy targets if you had more men to protect them.” She gaped. “So you’re saying I deserved to have my ranch raided? Because I’m a woman?” “No, dammit. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m saying you can’t fight wire cutters and gunnysackers by yourself.” “Now, hold on there, Zack,” Hank interrupted, lacing his fingers across his belly. “We cattlemen have certain rights too. Like the right to water our stock. And the right to drive our steers across an open range. You can’t go siding with the little lamb lady that way, unless, of course” — he flashed an oily smile — “you’re siding against us cattlemen.” 11

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Zack felt his hackles rise. Was it his imagination, or had Hank been waiting for this opportunity all night long? “I’m on the side of justice, Rotterdam,” he said tersely. A rumble of dissatisfaction circled the saloon. “Hell, Rawlins,” Nick called down, shoving his shirttail into his jeans as he leaned over the balcony railing, “when Pa was president of the Cattlemen’s Association, the sheepherders and the cowboys got along real fine. There wasn’t any gunnysacking or wire cutting going on. ’Course, in them days womenfolk knew their places. You might find one in the hayloft, but you sure wouldn’t find one in the shearing barn.” 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 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. 12

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“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.” 13

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“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, 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 14

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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.” 15

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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.” 16

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“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.

17

Two 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 nearimpassable 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. Zack’s jaw hardened, and he rose, swearing. Nearby scats and paw prints had verified his original suspicion, which he’d formed after glimpsing the slashes on the wasted flesh. He had a cougar to thank for his double loss — Old One Toe to be exact. The notorious range raider had been named by vaqueros who didn’t quite understand English: the puma had one toe missing, not one toe left. In any event, the name had stuck, and the bounty hunters whom the Cattlemen’s Association had hired to exterminate the pest had never come close to trapping him. One Toe was legendary throughout the hill country, eluding hounds, poisons, baits, and rifle sights. Some whispered he truly did have nine lives. Zack was determined to put an end to all of them. Fighting his way back through the brush to Boss, who was grazing peacefully on spring clover, Zack shoved his gun into the rifle boot and swung up into the saddle. 18

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Two wildcats in two days, he mused grimly, and he had scores to settle with each. He didn’t take kindly to being called a coward. The problem was, he never knew whether to deplore Bailey’s nerve or admire her grit. Admiration had a nasty way of sneaking up on him whenever she pitted herself against a herd of horny cattlemen with only a battle-scarred hound to defend her. Even so, Bailey knew damned well the Cattlemen’s Association wasn’t a law enforcement agency. Even if Hank was behind the county’s latest rash of wire cutting, the best Zack could do was call for a vote to drum him off the roll. The way sentiment was running among the cattlemen, he figured Hank was more likely to be reinstated as a hero than ousted as a villain. Relations between the county’s sheepherding and steer-droving factions had always been strained, but the drought had brought simmering tempers to a boil. Zack was doing everything he could to negotiate a truce with the Woolgrowers, but his own officers were divided on the matter. If troublemakers like Hank Rotterdam and Red Calloway started a mutiny in the ranks, Zack feared he’d be powerless to stop a range war. Was it any wonder, then, that Bailey’s talk of lynching the night before had put his temper at flash point? His current mood made even blacker by thoughts of Bailey, Zack cantered Boss through the rolling fields of wilted, sun-beaten Indian blankets, toward the hunting hounds that awaited him at his — or, rather, his older brother’s — home. Cord and Fancy had insisted he live with them and Aunt Lally. Of course, that had been before the first of their four children was born. When time had allowed, Zack built a bachelor bunkhouse half a mile away. He had intended it for him and Wes, but then his younger brother married a woman with a baby on the way, four orphans they raised as their own, and a housekeeper and hired hand they all loved like kin. These days, Wes’s family lived in the bunkhouse, and Zack was making do with the attic at Cord’s. The sound of deep-throated barking roused him from his thoughts. He squinted against the noonday sun. A rider was cantering out of the west. He recognized the blond palomino with its sassy, high-stepping gait. Next he noticed the great brindled body happily hurtling through his pasture of favored livestock. “Dammit, McShane,” he muttered. Choking back another choice expletive, Zack spurred Boss faster, his hands twitching longingly 19

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for his rifle stock. “Call your dog off, McShane! Those heifers are pregnant!” If the slender, tawny-haired rider heard him, she didn’t respond. Instead, she continued riding toward Wes’s front gate, her waist-length braid gleaming like polished gold against the pewter polka dots of her workshirt. Her hips rolled in an easy, sensual motion that distracted unbidden parts of Zack in spite of his irritation. He didn’t know which was worse, the fact that his body betrayed his staunch resolve never again to desire a McShane woman, or that his anger had him calling her by her last name, as if she were a man. Muttering again at his lapse in decorum, Zack wheeled Boss to intercept Boo, who was romping gleefully through the lowing, milling cattle. Fearing a stampede, Zack tore off his hat and began waving it. “Hey!” Bailey finally looked his way. “Call your dog off!” he shouted again. “Those cows are due to calf!” Bailey turned her head toward Boo, who was rearing up on his hind legs. He lunged toward a particularly low-bellied heifer, and Zack felt his blood pressure soar. He could have sworn Bailey hid a grin when she popped two fingers into her mouth to whistle. “Boo!” The hound’s ears flopped inside out as he spun toward the call. “Come.” Boo obeyed, his tongue lolling and his yellow eyes bright with mischief. Zack clenched his teeth. Aside from being a pain in the rear, Boo was quite possibly the greatest eyesore Zack had ever seen. With his mastiff-sized head, his bulldog-strong jaws, and his ratty tail, Bailey’s cur dog had been known to scare stouthearted strangers on sight. That’s probably why she called the creature Boo. “Bad, Boo. Nasty, Boo.” Bailey’s gaze darted slyly to Zack before she wagged a finger at the canine mutant, panting so adoringly up at her. “Very bad, Boo.” Boo barked in joyous agreement, and Zack was hard-pressed not to wring both their necks. He reined in. “What are you doing here, Bailey?” She grinned up at him, her slouching hat throwing shadows across the smattering of freckles that dotted her nose. “Boo and I are paying 20

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a call on our friendliest neighbor. But if you like, we can visit with you as well.” The front door of the bunkhouse slammed. Zack glimpsed his lanky redheaded brother toting a basket of wet laundry to the clothesline for his housekeeper. The usual gaggle of children, two of them Cord’s, was trotting at his heels. “Wes,” Zack called, hoping to unload Bailey quickly so he could get on with his cougar hunt, “you’ve got company.” Bailey didn’t seem to mind his snappish tone. Jumping to the ground with her usual energetic bounce, she threw back the flap of her saddlebag and pulled out an awkwardly shaped package. “Well now,” Wes said. “Isn’t this a nice surprise?” Strolling closer, he unlatched the gate, and the children raced ahead of him to pet and fondle Boo. As they swarmed all over the hound, he flopped on his back, wagging his tail in doggie bliss. Wes winked at Zack. “Mornin’, Miss Bailey.” “Mornin’, Mr. Wes.” They solemnly shook hands. Zack pressed his lips together. Not that it made any difference, but Wes always managed to get away with using “miss,” “ma’am,” and “Bailey” in the same breath without starting another war. Frankly, Zack didn’t understand it. He was wondering just how long he needed to dawdle there for the sake of bare-bones politeness, when Bailey shoved her hat back with her thumb. A coquettish, sun-streaked curl tumbled across the untanned peak of her brow. “Boo and I are probably the last to come by,” she said to Wes, “what with shearing season and all, but we wanted to pay our respects to our newest neighbor.” “Why, that’s right kind of you, ma’am,” Wes said. “Rorie will be pleased to have the company.” Bailey nodded, taking her usual stance — a hand on one hip and her legs straddled. Zack had always marveled that her mother hadn’t schooled her against this instinctively aggressive pose. Then again, her mother hadn’t stayed around very long. As Zack understood it, Mrs. McShane had gone back home to Boston, leaving her immigrant husband, ten-year-old daughter, and orphaned fourteen-year-old niece to fend for themselves. 21

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“You must be right proud,” Bailey said, her western drawl slightly softened by her daddy’s Scottish burr. “I hear he’s a fine lad, the spitting image of his father.” “Yep.” Wes’s grin was shameless. “Red hair and all. But Little Wes has his mama’s cleft chin. They say that’s a sign of stubbornness.” “Could be. ’Course, I always believed it to be the mark of intelligence, seeing as how it’s a McShane family trait.” “Hmm.” Wes’s eyes danced. “Then I reckon Little Wes would get that from his mama too.” Bailey chuckled, and eight-year-old Merrilee came to hold her papa’s hand. The child rose on tiptoe to better inspect the package under Bailey’s arm. “Did you bring Little Wes a birthday present?” the Indian girl asked shyly. Bailey’s smile was kind. “That I did, lass. Maybe you could help him open it, him being so small.” The next thing Zack knew, Bailey was surrounded by four eager children all tugging and ripping at her gift. At last ten-year-old Topher lifted the stuffed toy triumphantly for his father’s inspection. Wes chuckled, tossing Zack a sly glance. “Why, lookie there. Miss Bailey brought Little Wes a baby woolly. And it’s got real sheep fur too.” Zack scowled. “I sewed the fleece myself,” Bailey said with unmistakable pride. Zack decided he’d lingered long enough, but his sister-in-law chose that moment to come outside with her four-month old, and he was stuck. Tipping his hat, he tried not to telegraph his growing annoyance, for Rorie was a lady, and he respected her. “I thought I heard voices,” Rorie said, smiling brightly at Zack and her husband before turning the warmth of her sun-colored eyes on Bailey. “These men haven’t been badgering you about that team rodeo, have they? Everyone was talking about it yesterday at church.” “No, ma’am,” Bailey said with businesslike frankness. “We’ve been talking about your bairn. Congratulations, ma’am. I apologize for taking so long to pay my neighborly respects.” Rorie laughed, shaking her head and shifting her bundle. “Please don’t apologize. I understand shearing season is terribly busy for you. Besides, Little Wes isn’t likely to leave the ranch anytime soon. Would you like to see him?” 22

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Bailey hesitated, her shoulders tensing as Rorie peeled back the corner of the blanket. Innate female curiosity must have won out over her reluctance though, for she eased closer. The baby cooed. Waving his fists, he smiled up at her with true Wes Rawlins appeal, and Zack, watching everyone else admire the infant, found his gaze stealing to Bailey. What he saw in her face mystified him. Gone was the crusty, no-nonsense façade he had come to accept as indelibly hers. Any threat of her hair-trigger belligerence had melted completely away. In its stead was a sweet, almost childlike reverence for the natural-born charmer now gripping her finger. Little Wes tried to tug her closer, and she obliged, smiling in a half-mesmerized state. Rorie kissed the red-gold down on the baby’s head. “Little Wes has stolen another heart, I fear,” she said to her husband with mock concern. “Have you been up nights schooling him again?” “Yep.” The widest grin Zack had ever seen split his brother’s face. “It’s the only time you womenfolk will let me be alone with him.” He took the child from Rorie’s arms and gave the boy a conspiratorial wink. Rorie laughed. Bailey grinned. Zack fidgeted, suddenly feeling alone. It was a strange sensation, being part of a family yet feeling so isolated. Rorie had always been warm and welcoming to him, and he was fond of her adopted children, but something was missing these days when he visited Wes in his home. Zack felt that something even more keenly than he had at seventeen, when Cord had married Fancy. Maybe it was because Wes was one year Zack’s junior, and in spite of all their childhood sparring, Zack had always counted on his brother’s companionship for hunting, fishing, and drinking — the kinds of things one couldn’t do with women or steers. Wes turned to Bailey, beaming with paternal pride. “Would you like to hold him, ma’am?” Bailey started, the baby’s spell obviously broken. “No! I mean . . .” Red-faced and flustered, she retreated two steps. “I mean I’m not good with bairns. Now, if he were a lamb or a kid, I’d know what to do, but babies are different. Besides,” she added weakly, “I wouldn’t want to take time away from your turn.” Wes blinked, clearly taken aback. Rorie tried to hide her surprise with a gracious smile. Even Zack, knowing better than they what 23

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Bailey was capable of, was somewhat amazed at her atypical behavior. She folded her arms across her chest and cleared her throat. “The talk is,” she said, addressing Wes, “it’s a toss-up between you and Cord as to who’s the county’s best marksman. Since there’s bound to be a shoot-off as part of that cattleman-sheep rancher rodeo, I reckon you Rawlins men are going to have to draw straws. Only one person can represent each ranch, you know.” Wes’s ready humor returned. “Oh, I think Cord and I’ll just have to pass this time so you sheep ranchers get a fighting chance.” “That’s right sporting of you.” Wes chuckled, and Rorie took the baby back into her arms. “I think you were very clever, Bailey,” she said, “to suggest a peaceful way for the people in this county to release tension. Friendly competition should go a long way toward establishing better relations between the sheepherders and the cattlemen. Especially if the rodeo becomes an annual event.” Bailey turned a pretty shade of pink. “Well, some folks” — she tossed Zack a haughty glance — “thought I was loco at first.” “Not me,” Wes said gallantly. “You got this county so riled up thinking about rodeos, no one’s had time to go trespassing for water. So I’d say you were smart. Right resourceful too.” Lowering his head to her ear, he added in a dramatic stage whisper, “Have you ever thought about becoming a Rawlins woman?” Zack bit his tongue to spare his sister-in-law his oath. Bailey’s color deepened to a fiery shade of red. “Speaking of trespassing, Wes,” she said hastily, “there’s some business I need to discuss with you. I reckon Zack hasn’t had the chance to tell you yet, but my ranch got raided last night. Lost about two miles of fencing. I thought Boo had hunted down a suspect, since he tracked the scent of a glove I found, but Zack doesn’t seem jofired to do anything about it. So I thought you and Cord might lend a hand.” “You wait just one damned minute — ” “You had your chance, Zack,” she interrupted tartly. “Now I’m talking to your brother.” Rorie coughed delicately. Wes arched an eyebrow. “Did you pay a call on the sheriff?” he asked her. 24

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“C’mon, Wes.” She sounded exasperated. “Sheriff ‘Cattle Jake’ Jackson?” “He’s the law around these parts, Bailey.” “Sure. If you’re a cattleman.” “Bailey,” Zack warned, “we’ve already been through this. Vigilante justice is going to make matters worse, not better. Cord and Wes have no more legal right to punish wire cutters than you or I.” “But I thought they could — ” “We’re not lawmen anymore, Bailey,” Wes said firmly. “Nor do we wish to be. We have families. A business to run. Now, I sympathize with you. And I’m real sorry you’ve had this trouble. But the best we can do, as your neighbors, is send over a couple of ranch hands to help your pastores patrol your pastures. I’m sure Zack would be happy to head up the command, since he doesn’t have a wife and children to tie him down here.” Wes added the last part so smoothly that for a moment, Zack just blinked at him. Then his blood began to rise. When he peeked furtively at Bailey, she was looking his way with equal embarrassment. “That would be kind of like loosing the fox in the henhouse, wouldn’t it?” she rallied lamely. Wes shrugged, his lips twitching in amusement. “I reckon some might see it that way. You’ve got a choice between Zack or the sheriff. Take your pick.” “I’ll take my chances.” Zack blew out his breath. He didn’t know if he was angrier at Wes for volunteering him in what surely had to be another of his matchmaking schemes, or at Bailey for not agreeing to accept a legitimate offer of protection. A cowboy patrol was the perfect solution to her troubles — except for the part about him heading up the command, of course. He might not have a family to manage, but he did have an onagain off-again courtship with Amaryllis Larabee. Frankly, though, he’d been wondering how much longer he could put up with Amaryllis’s incessant chatter. “Well.” Rorie smiled with forced brightness. “If everyone’s agreed that that’s settled . . . Wes, have you invited Zack and Bailey to lunch? I’m sure there’s enough stew and corn bread to feed an army — ” “That’s right kind of you,” Zack said tersely, “but if Miss McShane’s mind is made up, then I’ve got a cougar to track. Maybe next time.” 25

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Trying to ignore the twinge of hurt in her chest, Bailey watched Zack tug his gelding’s head around. She told herself she should be relieved he hadn’t insisted she needed Rawlins protection, since his silence had made it easier for her to decline his brother’s proposal. Wes had no business joking about her marriage prospects or trying to force Zack into an association with her. Unfortunately, Wes had a mind of his own, three-quarters of which was filled with naughty nonsense. Even if he couldn’t see Zack’s distaste for her, she could. “Everyone, run inside now and wash your hands for lunch,” Rorie called to the children. Wes slipped an arm around his wife’s waist and looked at Bailey. “Coming, ma’am?” She smiled mechanically, shaking her head. “Thank you. But Zack probably needs help tracking that cougar.” “Suit yourself.” Wes tipped his hat as the others waved and called good-bye. Then the door slammed, and Bailey was left alone. She felt her heart quicken as she gazed after the trail of dust Zack had left behind. Her perverse side had a hard time accepting his dislike. She remembered too vividly the bashful seventeen-year-old who had courted her older cousin with honeysuckles and an incurable case of Cupid’s cramp. Bailey had always secretly nurtured the hope that Zack might someday notice her the way he’d noticed Caitlin. She’d done just about everything she’d known during her adolescent tomboy years to get his attention: jumping into the fishing hole to scare off his catch, stealing his cowbells and tying them to a tree, dumping hay on him and Caitlin when they smooched. Later, during her more mature courting years, she’d grown cannier in her mischief, sending him lamb chops and goat’s cheese for Christmas. But after her daddy had died, making her the proprietor of her own ranch, she’d stopped trying so hard to win Zack’s heart. She’d had to worry about more important things than his reasons for never smiling or chasing after her in goodnatured vengeance, the way Nick and Nat had always done when she pulled pranks on them. She supposed she would never understand Zack. Certainly she would never understand why he was so chilly and aloof when Wes 26

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and Cord were so kind. Was it because she wasn’t as round in all the places Caitlin was? Bailey cast a reluctant critical glance down her length. Nick had assured her on her ill-fated twenty-first birthday that she was pretty, and Nat, as if to prove his brother’s words, still trotted after her like a puppy on a string. She grimaced, hastily averting her gaze. Being burdened with a female body was bad enough. Why did she have to have one with such limited appeal? Swinging into her mare’s saddle, she whistled to Boo, who was forlornly wagging his tail after the departed children, and set off down the drive at a brisk canter. By the time Sassy caught up with Boss, Zack was already dismounting before the big house’s veranda. “Zack.” He hesitated at her call, then tossed his reins over the rail. “What’s this I hear about cougars?” she asked. With his dusty, black boot poised on the bottom stair, he looked none too pleased at her delaying him. “One Toe took down a heifer. Could’ve been a day ago. Maybe two. I also lost the calf.” “Sorry.” He nodded, touching his hat brim in dismissal. “I’ve had cougar trouble too,” she called quickly after him. While Zack might never admire her as a woman, she kept hoping she would someday earn his respect as a rancher. That was her real reason for refusing his help earlier. How could he possibly respect her if she became an imposition on his time and resources? “I lost a stud ram last month. Now I keep the breeders close to home. Guard dogs have helped.” He tossed her another glance. “Glad to hear it.” “Need a hand?” she jumped down, ground-hitching Sassy, and hoped Zack would take her dismount as his cue to stay. “With what?” he demanded. “Tracking.” She didn’t know what arrested him more, her answer or her bold march to the porch. He actually looked straight at her. “Tracking?” “Sure. Boo’s treed cats before.” A trace of amusement lighted his eyes. “Calicos or tabbies?” She bristled. Remembering her mission was to earn his respect, not his ire, she fought her resentment down. 27

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“You remember that lion pelt hanging over our mantle?” She stuck her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of her house. “Well, Boo was only a year old when he treed that puma.” “Hmm.” Zack sized up Boo, who was sniffing curiously at a forgotten rag doll near the well. Then he took a heartbeat longer to size her up. She had the fleeting impression of smoke and cinders as his gaze swept up her length to lock with hers. When he finally answered, his voice was cool. “Much obliged . . . neighbor. But I’ve got my own hound. Got a couple, as a matter of fact. Boo would only be in the way.” “What you’re really saying is I would be in the way.” He cocked his head, no doubt considering his answer. For a moment, she thought he might back down, that good breeding or fair play would win out over his integrity. Instead, he nodded. “I reckon so.” She expelled a breath. As grating on the nerves as Zack Rawlins could be, at least he was honest. Sometimes brutally, but she could admire that. It took courage to be honest. She’d been tested enough times to know. “If you don’t care for my company, Zack, that’s fine by me. But don’t go making judgments about my skills until you’ve seen them. Boo’s too. You’d expect the same from any other neighbor, and I deserve no less.” A pale flush rolled up his neck. Momentarily distracted, she watched in fascination as his swarthy good looks turned ruddy. Back in the days when he’d come calling for her cousin, Bailey used to hide up in the apple tree, watching him and Caitlin spark, wondering what her cousin was saying to bring that bashful glow to Zack’s face, or those sheepish dimples to his cheeks. Of course, she’d been too high in the tree to hear their whispers clearly, and she’d always fretted, wishing she could learn more. The day she got brave enough to crawl lower, she took a misstep and nearly landed on their heads. Seeing her cousin’s pride was more bruised than her body, Caitlin had laughed until she’d hiccuped into tears. But forgiveness hadn’t come as easily to Zack — if it had ever come at all. “I reckon that’s a reasonable request,” he said finally, his tone less gruff. “I’ll try to keep that in mind next time.” 28

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“Thanks. And . . .” She drew a bolstering breath before plunging in. “Thank you, too, for not pushing the cowboy-patrol matter. Wes’s offer was misguided but well-intentioned, I think.” A hint of humor crept back into his eyes, making them warmer, like coffee. “You think?” “Well, sure. I know what Hank’s like. He’d find a way to turn any association you have with me into a political debacle for you. And in the long run, that wouldn’t be good for us sheepherders. You’ve done more to bring peace to this county in just twenty months than he did in six years. I always thought it was a shame his daughter had to get sick that way, making him resign right after he got sworn in to his fourth term, but I still say having you fill his shoes was the best thing that ever could have happened to us Woolgrowers. None of us wants him back on the board.” She sensed she’d won some ground, because he sighed, shaking his head as he stepped down to the drive to face her. Now she didn’t have to crane her neck back so far to look into his eyes. Now she was almost tall enough for her head to graze the cinnamon-colored stubble on his chin. “Not that it’s any of my business, Bailey — ” “Then why bring it up?” “Are you going to let me finish for a change?” She felt the rise of chagrin. She didn’t mean to be ornery — well, that wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes she did. For the most part, though, her tongue fired with a will of its own. “Sorry. What’s not your business?” He shook his head again, this time in exasperation. “Neighbor, all that sass and vinegar of yours is going to rile the wrong man someday. If I were you, I’d practice a little patience and a whole lot of prudence where Hank Rotterdam is concerned. Your daddy had the right idea, rallying the sheepmen to establish the Bandera County Woolgrowers’ Association. Groups like yours have already had some influence on the governor. Men who think like Hank are on their way out of the legislature. But the balance of power won’t change overnight. One rash move toward range war, and you sheepherders will lose everything you’ve been fighting for over the last twenty years.” Bailey squirmed on the inside. She really hated it when he took on that preachy tone, but she also knew he was right. 29

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“Like I said, range war isn’t on my agenda. It’s too bad I can’t vote for you, Zack. Hell, they won’t even let me vote in my own association, despite the fact my daddy founded it.” She shrugged and gave him a bitter smile. “Maybe someday, if you ever make it to Austin, you can work on getting us female property owners a couple of the same rights you males have.” She stuck out her hand. The gesture was appropriate, her daddy had taught her, for when two businessmen — two equals — struck a truce. Zack blinked down at the slender, calfskin riding gauntlet hovering a foot or so from his chest. Surely she didn’t mean for him to shake her hand. Well, maybe she did. Discomfort needled him. Just what did she want him to shake on anyway? His handshake was his bond, and he had no authority to get her a vote in her own organization, much less in state government. Besides, men and women weren’t supposed to go around pumping each other’s hands. A mountain of social etiquette existed relating to ladies and their body parts, and while his courting techniques might be a bit rusty, he felt confident that one rule was still in place: Ladies were supposed to keep their hands discreetly to themselves. An uneasy moment dragged by. Then another. He watched the spark of belligerence rekindle in her eyes, and he grew even more uncomfortable. He didn’t want to treat Bailey the way he treated men. Women were special, and they should be honored as such. Why did she always make him feel like the worst kind of cad whenever he tried to show her the respect her gender was due? Fortunately, Cord’s front door squealed open, sparing Zack from Bailey’s impending wrath. “Well, it’s about damned time you showed up, Rawlins,” Hank Rotterdam growled, plunking his Stetson down on his thinning blond hair. “I’ve been waiting on you for nigh on an hour. You’re lucky your Aunt Lally bakes a pecan pie like a dream. If she weren’t so consarned full of opinions, I’d have to marry her. Now. You want to sell me a hunting hound, or don’t you?” Zack bit back an oath. He’d forgotten all about his appointment with Rotterdam. “Where’s Cord?” “How should I know? You’ve got more damned relations on this ranch than I can keep count of. That sister-in-law of yours tried to 30

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strike a deal with me though.” Hank snorted. “Thinks she’s a regular sharper, the way she kept haggling over the price. So I told Miss Fancy to go do business with her soup kettle. I’d wait for a man to get home.” Zack glanced into the hallway beyond Hank’s hulking frame. If he was speaking even a modicum of truth, Hank was lucky Fancy wasn’t standing behind him with a shotgun, or at least a pot of boiling soup to dump over his head. “Simmer down, Rotterdam. You’ll get your pick of the litter just as I promised. But it’s going to take another three weeks before those pups are weaned.” Hank’s color rose, and he lowered his head as if to butt horns. “My grandson’s birthday’s in two days.” “Yeah? Well, if you don’t like the arrangement, go see Rob Cole. I hear his bitch whelped six weeks ago.” “What would my Jeremy want with some stinking collie? He’s chasing coons, son, not sheep.” “Glad to hear it, Hank,” Bailey interjected dryly. “For a while there I was beginning to think troublemaking ran in your bloodline.” Hank started, then peered over Zack’s shoulder. “Well now, lookie who’s here.” Hank’s anger blew away as quickly as it had come, and he gave Bailey a horsey grin. “Have you sheepherders come begging for mercy already? Shoot. We ain’t even decided on the contest’s events yet.” To her credit, Bailey handled Hank’s ogling of her chest with more than passing aplomb. Zack, however, wanted to punch the old skirtchaser’s lights out — a confusing feeling that he attributed to the disrespect Hank had shown Aunt Lally and Fancy. “Don’t go betting the ranch just yet, Hank,” Bailey said. “We sheepherders have a couple ideas of our own about how that contest should be run. I expect there’s going to be a contract drawn up whenever you boys quit stalling and agree to meet with us Woolgrowers.” “Stalling?” Hank darted a speculative look at Zack. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Don’t tell me you’ve been holding out on the little lamb lady, Zack. That there’s a rodeo planning meeting you called for tomorrow night, ain’t it?” Bailey sucked in her breath, and Zack felt absurdly guilty. Damn Hank anyway, it wasn’t as if he’d been the one who’d neglected to invite Bailey. The sheepherders had been responsible for alerting their own kind. 31

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“Nice try, Rawlins.” Bailey folded her arms, and Zack felt the temperature between them drop a few degrees. “Did you think you could keep the Woolgrowers’ board from participating?” “Now, hold on a minute, Bailey. President Eldridge and Vice President Cole were contacted in plenty of time to get the word out to their planning committee — ” “What planning committee?” “Sounds to me like someone’s been keeping secrets from you, hon,” Hank drawled, his sympathy about as genuine as fool’s gold. “Seems a shame your Rawlins neighbors can’t be straight with you after the hardships you’ve had to face all by your lonesome these days. Now, I’m not as versed in cattlemen’s business as I used to be, since a certain young whippersnapper filled my presidential boots, but I recollect hearing something about a group of volunteers coming together about sevenish tomorrow night at the Reedstrom Hotel to discuss that rodeo idea you’ve been peddling.” “Oh?” Pint-sized as she was, Bailey could be powerfully intimidating when that blue norther rolled across her stare. “And when were you planning on telling me, Zack?” Zack shot a quelling glance at Hank. The old rancher looked mighty pleased with himself. “Vent your spleen on Will Eldridge, Bailey. Or Rob Cole. I wasn’t the one who decided which names to include on the Woolgrowers’ roster — ” “Tarnation, Zack,” Hank interrupted, “if the McShane ranch was left off the invitation list, it seems to me you should have paid closer attention to the details. Why, Bailey went and built herself the biggest spread in this here county when she outbid you on old widow Sherridan’s property. Shoot. You didn’t go and forget her out of spite, did you?” “No, Hank.” Zack’s fingers were itching to form a fist. “I didn’t forget her, although it seems to me you must have some agenda of your own for making her think so.” Hank arched his brows. “The little lady thinks I cut her fences. I’m just trying to show her who her real friends are.” “Oh, for God’s sake, stop it,” Bailey muttered. “I will not become another campaign bone for you two to fight over.” “I’m just watching out for your best interests, honey,” Hank said. “It’s true your daddy and I weren’t on good terms when he died, but 32

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I don’t hold our differences against you. We Rotterdams think of you like family, and we don’t like to see you struggling all alone to fend for yourself. Tell you what, sugar. Why don’t you let me send my boys on over to your spread to help you take care of business, patch up your fences, and see your wells stay safe?” “Safe for whom, Hank?” Zack demanded irritably. He didn’t know why it should bother him so much to hear Hank speak of Bailey and family in the same breath. After all, Bailey and Nick’s affair was common knowledge. Bailey smiled mirthlessly at Hank. “Much obliged for all your neighborly concern. I know how much my eight thousand acres mean to you, Hank. Rest assured that drought or no drought, I’ll manage them — and all their water — efficiently. Because, you see, that’s what a good boss does. And I am a good boss, Hank. No one’s going to bully me off my land.” She nodded curtly, then turned on her heel, whistled for her dog, and mounted up. Hank grinned, admiration in his gaze as he watched the gentle rolling of her hips as she rode away. “It’d be hard to measure the spunk in that little bitty filly,” he said almost wistfully. “She’s gonna make me a heap of fine grandbabies someday, eh, Zack?” Their eyes locked, and Zack stiffened. There was an unmistakable warning in that cagey blue gaze. Hank smiled, tipping his hat. “Be sure to give my regards to Miss Amaryllis for me, would you, son?”

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Three Thanks to her search for a lost lamb, Bailey arrived later than she had intended for the rodeo meeting the next night. She was still smarting from the Woolgrowers’ trying to exclude her from the proceedings, and she wasn’t particularly pleased she’d had to compromise with her foreman about her plan. When she’d confided her battle strategy to get on the team, Mac had insisted he accompany her to help keep her temper in check. “Lass,” he’d said in his quiet way, “I dinna like what they’ve done to ye any more than ye do. But there might be a reasonable explanation. And like it or not, ye’re going to need a friendly face in that meeting if this plan of yers backfires.” Well, her plan wasn’t going to backfire. She’d tear the hotel down timber by timber before she left the building without her rightful berth on the sheepherders’ team. She supposed she shouldn’t resent Mac for coming along. It wasn’t his fault she was a woman and that men took her seriously only if she had a man at her side. She should probably be grateful for his offer of support, since she knew she could trust him never to contradict her in public or try to take matters out of her hands. Mac, bless his heart, understood how much his interference would cost her in the eyes of other men. She just wished he would hurry up and stable the horses. Loath to spoil her grand entrance, Bailey ducked out of sight of the arriving Woolgrowers and camouflaged herself behind a potted prickly pear cactus near the registration counter. Unfortunately, the position left her no recourse but to glare at the vision of peach-chiffon loveliness greeting the male committee members at the meeting room door. 34

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Amaryllis Larabee had absolutely no business being here tonight — no ranching business anyway. Since any meeting these days between the sheep and cattle factions was a potential powder keg, Bailey could understand why Amaryllis’s father, County Judge Larabee, had decided to make an appearance. Larabee wasn’t just representing the law, he was protecting the hotel, which he owned along with every other business on the south end of town. But why on God’s green earth had he brought Amaryllis? That question pretty much answered itself a few minutes later, when the street door swung open to reveal a trio of rugged, sun-darkened cattlemen. Zack was escorted by Cord, Wes, and a Winchester rifle, its brass receiver flashing in the lamplight above his black-gloved fist. Rough-shaven and wind-groomed, he stole Bailey’s breath away as he strode across the hotel lobby, his spurs chinking and his buckle winking low over his narrow hips. Bailey wasn’t the only one to take notice of the Cattlemen’s president. Amaryllis’s china-blue eyes practically ate Zack alive. The hands and mouth of Bandera’s reigning belle would have gladly done the same, Bailey felt certain, if convention and Judge Larabee had allowed. Frowning, Bailey studied the way her nineteen-year-old rival fluttered her lashes and pouted her perfectly painted lips. Such behavior had always mystified Bailey. It seemed . . . well, unnatural somehow, yet all the unmarried girls seemed to do it, especially when they were talking to bachelors. Bailey wasn’t completely immune to the loneliness her way of life had forced upon her, and she wondered if things had been different, if she had learned more about she-stuff than sheep, would Zack have noticed her the way he noticed Amaryllis? Just then Amaryllis loosed one of her girlish giggles. Bailey cringed. The struggling female side of her, the side that wasn’t quite sure how to express itself, balked at the idea of fawning over a man like Amaryllis did. Even so, Bailey was secretly wounded to know Zack preferred a sweetheart who was all fluff and no substance. If she were a man looking for a wife, she told herself staunchly, sawdust-forbrains was the last thing she’d settle for. She gazed wistfully after the Rawlins brothers as they passed her hiding place. Halting first before Judge Larabee to surrender his 35

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firearm, Cord Rawlins doffed his hat with his usual economical politeness and nodded to the preening Miss Larabee. A smirk peeked out from under Wes’s auburn mustache, and he followed Cord’s example. Then he furtively nudged Zack. Bailey wasn’t sure who scowled more at this brotherly ribbing, her or Zack, before the two married Rawlinses strolled into the meeting room. Zack never got the chance to stroll anywhere. Her ambush unfolding to plan, Amaryllis latched on to his arm like a cockleburr that couldn’t be shaken off. Not that Zack was shaking too hard, Bailey observed irritably. If he let that girl get any closer, she’d have to be pried from his hip with a crowbar. No wonder the biddies at Arbuckle’s General Store were tittering that the county’s most eligible bachelor would be hitched by year’s end. Cord or Wes needed to sit Zack down and talk some sense into him. Either that, or dump a wagonload of ice down his britches. “Oh, Zack,” Amaryllis cooed, “I was so worried when Daddy told me you’d be in the thick of things tonight if that wretched McShane spinster comes around, spouting off about her nasty, smelly sheep. She just loves to cause trouble, you know. I guess she can’t help herself since she doesn’t have a marriage-minded beau to pay attention to her, and probably never will.” Well, that was the final straw. Bailey marched forward to surrender her own firearm to the judge. When she drew her .45, she had the satisfaction of watching Amaryllis’s eyes grow rounder than a terrapin’s shell. “Evening, folks.” Snapping open the cylinder of her Colt, Bailey dumped out the bullets, pocketed her cartridges, and smiled deliberately as she spun the wheel. It made a well-oiled clicking noise that she knew from experience would put prissy Amaryllis on edge. “Nice night for a bushwhacking, eh. Miss Larabee?” The belle’s knuckles whitened on Zack’s sleeve. “I’m sure I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about, Miss McShane.” She tossed her copper-colored ringlets over one shoulder. “Then you just think on it a spell, miss. I’m sure that pretty head of yours is good for something more than looks.” While Amaryllis sputtered, trying to decide whether or not she’d been insulted, Bailey handed her gun butt-first to the judge. He was frowning at her, much as Zack was. Larabee’s fatherly disapproval 36

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she could understand, but not Zack’s. Damn him anyway. If a conceited little twit was the kind of female he favored, he was welcome to her. “Miss McShane.” Larabee glared down his long, aquiline nose at her. “I’ll have no trouble from you or anyone else at this meeting tonight. Do I make myself clear?” “Like a bell, sir. Nice of you to show up to see we sheepherders get a fair shake. Must be nearly election time again.” With a thin-lipped smile, she tipped her hat and stalked into the meeting room. Zack gazed after his neighbor with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Bailey the Pistol had arrived. If truth be told, Zack had been looking forward to seeing her. He supposed a lot of the reason had to do with Hank. Zack’s ornery side just couldn’t stand to be told whose skirts he could chase. “Oh!” Amaryllis stomped her foot, which set her dainty curls to bobbing. “I declare, that McShane woman is beyond bearing! However do you manage to put up with her as a neighbor, Zack? It must be dreadful for you.” For some reason, Amaryllis’s acrimony rankled more than usual this night. Her eyes were as blue and transparent as Bailey’s; Zack had little trouble seeing the spite that always seemed to lurk there. The more he saw it, the less he liked it, and the less he liked Amaryllis. Aligning himself with the Larabee clan had once seemed politically advantageous. Since Amaryllis did all the jawing, she was about the easiest filly Zack had ever courted, but God help him. When he spent more than an hour with the girl, his brain began to buzz as if a hornet had flown inside his head, and he started longing for the relative peace of a saloon. “I hardly ever cross paths with Miss McShane,” he said brusquely. “That must certainly come as a relief.” Amaryllis flashed a sugary smile at Nick, who grinned as he strolled past her, then returned her attention to Zack. “I heard all about the disturbance Miss McShane caused last weekend at the Bullwhip Saloon. And I heard how she chased Nick Rotterdam up the stairs into a soiled dove’s cote! Not that I’m surprised. You know what they say. Birds of a feather . . .” Her smile turned catty, and Zack had trouble masking his distaste. 37

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“Your father’s the only one in this county fit to judge somebody, Amaryllis.” He detached her hand from his sleeve. “The rest of us don’t have any such license.” He nodded to her, then entered the meeting room and took a seat at the center of the Cattlemen’s board table. The Woolgrowers’ board sat at a table immediately adjacent. After Zack called the meeting to order, a spirited discussion ensued. Zack said little, and Bailey, observing him furtively throughout the debate, searched for some sign of accord beneath his perpetual frown. She wondered how much his irritation had to do with the discussion, and how much it had to do with Nick, who stood at the back of the room whispering to a giggling Amaryllis. After ten minutes of this distraction, Judge Larabee ordered his pouting daughter outside, and Nick flounced down in the vacant chair in front of Mac, who was seated at her side. The officers of the Woolgrowers’ Association were in favor of individualized events such as target shooting, since sheepmen were accustomed to working alone. Hank and his cronies, of course, wanted team events, such as branding. Soon it became clear that more than professional pride was at stake: Most sheepmen were older and physically shorter, but were much better read than the average cowhand, who was likely to be a twentyish stud with a high enthusiasm for action and a mighty contempt for books. Bailey suggested a team event in well drilling, a personal interest of hers. Her idea was greeted by groans from the cattlemen. “Aw, hell, this rodeo’s supposed to be fun, not work,” Nick said, standing and ignoring Zack’s gavel. “I cast my vote for team whoring. ’Course. . .” He turned to taunt Bailey, much to the delight of the snickering cattlemen. “I reckon that would keep you out of the contest, sugar, unless you got something you want to stake.” Mac roughly kicked the young upstart’s chair into the back of his knees. Nick floundered onto his seat, and Zack shot him a look that would have iced Satan’s furnace. “Another outburst like that, Rotterdam,” he said, “and you’ll be riding my boot home. Now, shut up and stay seated. And if anyone else has something to say to Miss McShane, it had better be courteous, or you forfeit your ranch’s right to compete. Do I make myself clear?” 38

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The cowboys fidgeted, murmuring agreements, and Nick hung his head. “Sorry, Bailey.” She nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Glancing at Zack, she hoped to convey her gratitude, but his attention had already been claimed by the next speaker. She got nothing more than a fleeting peek at his handsome, square-jawed profile. After three hours of haggling, an agreement was finally reached. The committees agreed to stage one two-man competition, fence stringing. The rest of the events would be individual competitions: bronc busting, target shooting, and pig herding. Sheep and cattle herding, of course, were out of the question. No one seemed able to suggest a tie-breaking event to satisfy both sides. Sheepmen claimed log splitting favored the ablebodied cowboy. Cattlemen refused to participate in a horse race, since the Woolgrowers’ president, Will Eldridge, had just about recouped his drought losses by taking odds on Sure Bet, his mustang stallion. Looking short on patience, Zack finally stood up and waved the bickering men into silence. “I say we make the final event a team event, something we all have a vested interest in.” “Yeah?” Seated in the front row with Nat, Hank snorted to convey his opinion of such a pipe dream. “And what might that be?” “A hunt.” Zack’s dark gaze nailed every one of the ranchers to his chair. “To bag One Toe.” Bailey caught her breath at such an inspired idea, and her heart quickened when she saw reluctant approval dawn on the craggy faces around the board tables. “How would a hunt work?” Nat asked. “What if somebody bags One Toe before we do?” “The chances of that are slim, since Texas’s best bounty hunters have given up,” Zack said. “One Toe’s luck will probably hold out long after Independence Day if we ranchers don’t work together and take up the chase. “Since the rodeo’s still two weeks away,” he continued briskly, “I recommend we start the hunt immediately. Whether it takes hours or weeks to bag that cougar, neither team will be declared the winner until One Toe’s pelt is finally produced.” 39

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“Not so fast, Rawlins,” Hank interjected. “Red Calloway’s still on his cattle drive. We’re going to want him on our team, seeing as how target shooting’s part of these games. Outside of your brothers, Red’s the best marksman we’ve got.” “Yeah,” the cowboys chimed in from the right side of the room. “No one bags One Toe till Red gets back,” Hank said. He leveled a baleful look at the sheepherders’ side of the room. “Now, hold on a damned minute.” Will Eldridge rose, his short, wiry frame tensing as he confronted Hank. “I’m not sitting on my rear end for two weeks, letting that cougar raid my stock. If he comes to my range, I’m bagging his hide.” Bailey raised her hand, trying to get Zack’s attention. “Then you forfeit the rodeo, Mr. Eldridge,” Hank said. “You aren’t in any position to make the rules here, Mr. Rotterdam,” Eldridge fired back. Bailey gave up and simply stood. “For crying out loud, everyone wants that cougar dead. What difference does it make if he’s bagged now or two weeks from now? I’ll throw in five hundred dollars cash to the man — or woman — who brings me One Toe’s pelt. I rather fancy tacking him up beside the female puma hanging over my mantel.” That proposition knocked the wind out of every rancher’s sails. She could feel the stunned stares from thirty men drilling into her. “Five hundred dollars?” Rob Cole repeated in disbelief. He glanced at Mac, as if looking for confirmation. When the Scot made no visible response, the Woolgrowers’ vice president raised his troubled gaze to Bailey’s. “Why would you want to do that? Your daddy bought his first flock for less than five hundred dollars.” Bailey put on her best business face, but inside, her heart was racing faster than Eldridge’s mustang. This is it. The chance I’ve been waiting for. “One Toe’s been preying on my sheep. He took down a stud ram a couple of weeks ago. I have a stake in that cat’s hide just like the rest of you, and I mean to see he’s wiped out for good. There’s just one condition,” she added with masterful aplomb. Eldridge muttered something about “trouble” and “women.” “Yeah?” he demanded suspiciously. “And what condition might that be?” 40

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“I compete on the sheepherder’s team.” The Cattlemen’s side of the room instantly dissolved into laughter, but Bailey stood her ground. She was counting on pure old-fashioned greed to get the sheepherders to see her way. If they didn’t, then she figured the cattlemen would pressure them into it. Even Mac had thought her plan would work, although he hadn’t been encouraging. He thought pride was a poor reason to spend five hundred dollars. “You’re out of order, woman,” Eldridge barked at her. “Sit down.” “Hey, old man!” Nick started to rise. “You can’t talk to her like that!” Good old Ick, Bailey thought. No one was allowed to mistreat her except him. Zack, meanwhile, was hammering the table with his gavel. “All right, all right, simmer down, Rotterdam. Miss McShane, you do not have the floor.” “I’d say she just bought the floor, son,” Hank drawled, turning to give her a wink. “But seeing as how President Eldridge doesn’t want to give the little gal a voice in this discussion, I’d like to know where she plans on getting that five hundred dollars. It seems to me she can’t have it handy, since she was complaining to me and my boys only the other night that some lowdown wire cutters cost her that much.” She raised her chin, finding herself in the awkward — not to mention vexing — position of needing Hank’s support. She knew Hank would throw his considerable weight behind her only if he saw some personal advantage in it. “I’m sure my mohair crop will yield at least twice that amount, Hank. But in the less than likely event mohair prices bottom out between now and the fall shearing, I’m sure I can think of a dozen or more ways to raise five hundred dollars.” She paused before casually throwing out the bone. “Like leasing my eastern pasture to some drought-stricken cattleman.” A murmur of interest rushed like wildfire along the cattlemen’s side of the room. The sheepherders fidgeted, and Rob wore a dire look as he shook his head. Bailey ignored her father’s old friend. “You mean old widow Sherridan’s sweet little homestead with the spring-fed stream?” Nat asked, sounding awed. “The very same acreage you outbid Zack for?” “That’s right.” 41

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A big, cheesy grin split Hank’s face at this revelation. “Hell, then I say you sheepherders sign up Miss Bailey right away.” Eldridge’s lips tightened in a thin line. “You can’t tell us who to put on our team,” he snapped at Hank. Then Eldridge turned to her, and his iron-gray eyebrows plunged. “Your pa would be rolling in his grave, young woman. If you had a lick of sense, you’d be mending the fences you lost the other night, not bribing your way into our rodeo.” A ripple of applause wound through the Woolgrowers’ ranks. “You mean my rodeo, don’t you?” she flung back. The cowboys snickered. “Bailey.” It was Zack’s voice, strained with frustration. Or was that concern? She couldn’t tell, since as usual, he was frowning when he addressed her. “I know how much you want to be on the sheepherders’ team. But President Eldridge has a point. In the face of your recent business losses, it doesn’t make good sense to put up that kind of prize money, especially if you have to lease your land. If this drought goes on through the summer, the old Sherridan spring may be all that stands between your flocks and disaster.” “That’s why I have windmills, Zack,” she retorted, reluctant to admit even to herself that the risk of disaster could possibly exist. “While your concern for my well-being is appreciated, gentlemen,” she continued, addressing the upturned faces and their condescending smirks, “frankly, it’s unnecessary. I intend to bag that cougar myself.” At that jibe, hoots and whistles circled both sides. Zack shook his head, banging his gavel again. “All right, that’s enough.” He nodded at her, indicating she should take her seat. “Let’s get on with the business at hand. You sheepherders can settle your differences in some other meeting. If Bailey’s hell-bent on putting up five hundred dollars as incentive for us to bag One Toe, that’s her prerogative. Putting her on the sheepherders’ team roster is the sheepherders’ prerogative. Neither of these things has anything to do with our business tonight, which is to finalize the rodeo events. I need a motion to make the cougar hunt a team competition, beginning July fifth and continuing until One Toe’s hide is produced.” 42

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Bailey battled panic as Zack neatly foiled her plan. She couldn’t let the discussion about the team rosters die now. Without the cattlemen to rally around her, the Woolgrowers’ Association would never let her compete. If she didn’t compete, she’d never be able to prove she was every inch the equal of these men! Ignoring the warning bells in her head, she did the only thing left to do. She dragged Zack back into the fray. “You seem awfully eager to end this discussion, Mr. Cattlemen’s President. What’s the matter? You scared I might get on the team and you’ll have to compete against me?” A rumble, half amusement, half discontent, reverberated through the room. Bailey was treated to the full force of Zack’s smoking stare. “Come again?” “The way I see it” — she hoped he couldn’t see the red burn creeping up her cheeks — “Nick’s the cattlemen’s best bronc buster. Hank’s already pointed out Red Calloway is the best marksman on the team. As for fence building, you have less than a mile of barbed wire on your range, and that’s only to form the livestock pens near your barn. Without steer roping and bull riding on the agenda, your only real chance at winning one of these events is herding. And that’s the competition I plan to win.” She heard her foreman’s soft intake of breath, but she couldn’t let Mac’s disapproval sway her. She’d come too far to turn back now. Hank chuckled, looking immensely pleased with this newest wrench in the works. “Seems like Miss Bailey has a point, boys.” He raised his eyebrows at Zack. “’Course, I reckon you could always back out, son, claiming that campaign of yours is keeping you too busy to rodeo.” The twins took their cue. “Hell, you ain’t gonna do that, are you, Zack?” Nat called. “She’s gone and made it personal!” Nick clucked, flapping his elbows like chicken wings, and snickers circled the room. “Personal or not, I don’t take advantage of women,” Zack ground out. “Seems like you’re the only one worried about losing the advantage, Zack,” she said, torn between shame and excitement. She knew her behavior was inexcusable, but damn. There was no denying she 43

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had Zack’s attention now. “I’m a woman. So what? I’ve never asked you to treat me differently.” He looked to his brothers for help. Wes shrugged, looking hardpressed to hide his amusement. Cord cleared his throat. “It seems to me if the girl wants to compete that badly, she should have the right,” the elder Rawlins said. “I’m with Cord,” Hank drawled. “You sheepmen are just plain crybabies, coming up with one excuse after the other to keep her off your team. Bailey can shoot. She can ride. Hell, she can probably do it as well as any of you old mossy horns. Tell you what, Zack. If you’re that worried about pitting your skills against a woman’s, we’ll see she gets a handicap.” Color flooded Zack’s face, and his eyes narrowed till they looked like agate spikes. To Bailey’s surprise, he ignored Hank’s taunt. Instead, he looked at her — really looked at her — his gaze raking her from head to toe. Angry and insolent, audacious and daring, his gaze burned into her hidden self, striking sparks from places she hadn’t even realized she possessed. She felt naked and hot — hot enough to melt. A fine dampness misted on her upper lip, and her palms turned moist. She tried to ignore the speeding of her pulse as the full power of his masculinity bored into her feminine core. When his eyes at last rose to hers, smoldering with a challenge she’d never before met, her knees went a little weak. It was the most exhilarating sensation she’d ever known. “All right, McShane.” His smile was swift, dark, and potently male. “You want to take me on? Then give me your best shot.” Days later, Zack still wasn’t sure how he managed to officiate over the rest of that meeting. His thoughts had spun in an uproar, whirling dizzily among disbelief, outrage, and wounded pride. He simply could not conceive why competing in the rodeo was so important to Bailey that she’d throw away five hundred dollars, risk her most reliable source of water, and court utter humiliation at his hands. She couldn’t possibly hope to outdo him, so why hadn’t McTavish spoken up, warning her against her foolhardiness? Hadn’t the man been listening when she’d made her challenge? If Zack had been in the Scot’s shoes, he would have thrown the little wildcat over his shoulder and carried her out the door 44

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before she could wreak any more havoc. Bailey had gone too far this time, and Zack was tired of being her cavalry. She’d deliberately set out to make him a laughingstock, just like she had when she’d snatched the old Sherridan property out from under his nose. Now, thanks to her, the gossips were having a field day at his expense. What was worse, in the five days since the meeting, some wiseacre had started a rumor linking his name romantically with Bailey’s — much to Amaryllis’s indignation. Now Amaryllis was badgering him about churches. Anyone with eyes should be able to see he and Bailey mixed about as well as kerosene and dynamite, but telling Amaryllis that was no more useful than barking at the moon. In fact, he was growing damned weary of Amaryllis and her bell chasing. If the girl had half a brain, she would realize no man in his right mind would marry a woman who’d publicly goad him to a showdown. Bailey was marching him to war, not the altar. He just wished he didn’t relish the thought of their impending battle so much. Zack wasn’t the only one avoiding the gossips at all costs. A couple of days after the meeting, Bailey had made the mistake of visiting Arbuckle’s General Store, and she left with both ears ringing. Folks there had cornered her to tell her flat out she ought to be ashamed of herself, humiliating Zack Rawlins that way. Some hardy souls dared to voice their admiration, taking the stance that a five-hundred-dollar prize would insure the participation of all the feuding ranchers. But nobody seemed to think she had the right to force herself onto the sheepherders’ team, a fact that still vexed her no end. In the face of this heated opposition, Bailey was hiding out at her ranch and trying not to let self-doubt gnaw at her peace of mind. She was used to being called eccentric, undisciplined, or just plain crazy. She told herself she didn’t care what other people thought — except, perhaps, for Mac. Still, it was hard to stick to her guns when something as important as her whole future was at stake. Her righteous female side assured her five hundred dollars was a small price to pay for the respect of the other ranchers. Unfortunately, her ever-practical side, the side that made all her business decisions, wouldn’t let her conscience rest that easily. Win 45

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or lose, it reminded her, she had no guarantees. Maybe she would have been wiser to keep her mouth shut and use the money to drill another well. Sighing, she dumped a bucket of water into her stud rams’ trough. Grumbles, her favorite breeder, sauntered over for a drink, snorted at a younger ram, then butted the youngster out of the way. She watched the cantankerous Merino establish his dominance as a matter of course, not because the water was precious. God knew, she personally made sure the breeders got their water each day. Most sheep owners let their foremen direct the livestock’s care, but Bailey liked to keep her hand in the business because she loved animals so much. Sheep were stupid, God bless them, and they needed constant supervision, unlike the hardy, quick-witted goats the Mexican pastores, whom she employed, liked to eat. That’s why she was experimenting with a handful of Angoras and soliciting the warehousers to determine their interest in mohair. If wool prices dropped because Texas sheepherders were scrambling to thin out their herds to survive the drought, Angora mohair might interest northern rug and upholstery manufacturers. Bailey shook her head. She didn’t know which was her bigger headache — the drought, the gossips, or the officers in the Woolgrowers’ Association. Those old sheepmen were more territorial than their rams. Since the planning meeting, the pastores she employed were the only herders who hadn’t tried to talk her out of competing. Bailey suspected her men kept their opinions to themselves only because she provided their families’ clothing, food, and shelter. As for her foreman, she’d learned over the years not to interpret Mac’s silence as approval. She wasn’t sure he believed she could hold her own against Zack, and that worried her. If anyone knew what she was capable of, it was Mac. Deciding it was time for a powwow with her best friend, she picked up her other bucket and patted Grumbles’s curly horn, a gesture of affection that earned her the usual snort and glare. The sun winked out behind a cloud, bestowing welcome if minor relief from the heat as Bailey tramped through the breeze-riffled grasses. Boo bounded merrily in her wake. Occasionally a butterfly would distract him, and she’d have to call him back from his 46

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impromptu hunts with a sharp word and a hidden smile. She didn’t want him charging the fence along which her ewes and their lambs grazed. “Where’s Mac, Boo? Go find Mac.” Boo’s tail wagged eagerly at this mission, and he spun around, sniffing the wind. He must have smelled the telltale odor of pipe tobacco at about the same time she did, because Boo nearly collided with her knees as she turned for the toolshed. He barked, leaping gaily out of her way, then raced around her in circles, scattering dandelion seeds on the breeze. She had to laugh at him. When he wasn’t tracking game at her command, Boo treated life as one big, endless frolic. Sometimes his antics were the only things that kept her own troubles in perspective and staved off tears. “Mac?” she called, stacking her pail on a shelf inside the musty clutter of her foreman’s favorite haunt, the toolshed. “Out here, lass.” She spied him through the shed’s open rear door. He was out in back, bending over the lamb wagon’s broken rear axle. Beyond the fallen wagon bed a plumelike tail waved, and a handful of geese waddled past, honking indignantly at the owner of the dainty white paws trotting after them. Bailey recognized the work of Pris, and she chuckled to herself. The herding instinct was strong in Border collies. “Can it be fixed?” she called, wading through assorted ranching implements to get to Mac and Pris. “Aye,” Mac said. “But I’m thinking I’ll need to be hammering out this wheel first. Would ye mind bringing the hammer to me, lass?” Secretly glad for an excuse to delay her questions, she obliged. Boo, meanwhile, galloped off to join the goose parade and scattered the flock, much to Pris’s dismay. The two dogs wrestled and romped then, biting and barking and having a tail-wagging good time. Bailey smiled at their camaraderie. When they weren’t working, Pris and Boo were inseparable. “Did you talk to Benito about the tequila?” she asked, handing her daddy’s hammer to his oldest and dearest friend. Patrick McShane had often said he would have gone stark raving mad herding sheep in the Scottish Highlands if lain McTavish hadn’t introduced him to the poetry of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns. In return, Patrick had sailed to America and saved enough money to pay for Mac’s sea 47

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passage. He’d offered to do the same for Mac’s sister if Mac agreed to oversee the ranch. “Aye, I talked to him.” Tugging the pipe stem from his mouth, Mac straightened, his beefy frame not more than three inches taller than hers. “Benito admitted he’d been drinking and lost control of the wagon. Wept like a bairn, he did, over the lamb that got crushed.” Mac pushed back his plaid cap — he only wore Stetsons on the range — and scratched his balding auburn head. “Offered to bring you the twins his best ewe birthed last month.” Bailey sighed. As added incentive to watch over her sheep, she farmed ewes out on shares to her pastores, who were required to return twenty head to her each year per the one hundred sheep she advanced them. This partido system allowed the pastores to work toward their dream of someday owning their own herds. Unfortunately, Benito Vasquez’s lambs were Mexican chaurros, and their wool would bring little value on the market. “Tell him he owes me his first Merino crossbreed.” Mac smiled, the apples of his cheeks as ruddy as their namesake. “He’ll be beholdin’ to you, lass, knowing he’s not out of his job.” Bailey nodded. She was, unfortunately, the only thing standing between the Vasquez family and starvation. That was why she insisted all her herders learn to read English. Squatting beside Mac, she prepared to help him, the way she had when she was a child. “How’s . . . your sister Maggie?” she asked awkwardly, still reluctant to broach the real reason behind her visit. Mac chuckled, shaking his head. “Still lovin’ her Basque, so she says. Enrique scraped together enough money to buy himself a Rambouillet stud, and now he’s got himself a fine crop of spring lambs frolicking in the Rio Grande Valley.” Bailey caught her breath. Rambouillet wool was considered coarser and more uniform than merino wool, and the mutton was of greater value too. “They must have sold everything they own to pay for that ram.” “Aye.” Mac’s warm, smoke-colored eyes met hers, and he winked. “Imagine Aunt Maggie selling her silver and her linens to buy her man a smelly sheep. I reckon running off with that Frenchman was the best thing that ever happened to her.” 48

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Bailey fidgeted at Mac’s unfortunate choice of words. Aunt Maggie hadn’t run off, she’d eloped. It was Bailey’s own mother who’d run off. Spoiled and willful, Lucinda Bailey had insisted she have the handsome young Scot, Patrick McShane, when he’d arrived by clipper ship in Boston. Their one fateful night together — or, rather, their unfortunate night together, as Lucinda had always described it — resulted in Bailey’s conception and the couple’s hasty marriage. Lucinda never let her daughter forget she was to blame for Lucinda’s miserable sheepherding life in Texas. The fact that Lucinda was able to conceive only two more stillborn daughters, never a son, confirmed in her mind that the marriage was cursed. At least that was the excuse she had used when she ran back home to Beacon Street on Bailey’s tenth birthday. Patrick, believing in the sanctity of their wedding vows, had sailed north after his wife, but he came home bitter and disillusioned, divorce papers in his pocket. Lucinda, it seemed, had wasted little time planning her nuptials to an elderly railroad tycoon. Bailey cleared her throat. The silence lengthened unbearably. Through the smoke of his pipe, Mac was staring at her with some chagrin, as if he had guessed her thoughts. He said nothing about them though. As was his way, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and went back to hammering the misshapen wagon wheel. She sighed. It was at times like these when she wished she could love Mac passionately, not like the second father he’d always been to her. She knew she could do a hell of a lot worse than lain McTavish as her mate, even if he was more than twenty years her senior. “Mac, do you think I’m wrong to compete in the rodeo?” He never missed a beat with his hammer. “Do ye want to compete, lass?” “Yes.” “Then what difference does it make what I think?” She squirmed on the inside. That wasn’t exactly the answer she’d wanted to hear. “But do you think I can beat Zack Rawlins? Really?” She watched the corners of his eyes crinkle beside his jaw-long sideburns. “When you set your mind to something, lass, I’ve always seen ye rise above the odds. So I’ve no doubt ye’ll come out a winner, as long as ye keep yer head . . . and yer heart.” 49

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She blushed at that. Iain McTavish knew all her secrets. Season after season, he’d listened to her prattling stream of confessions while she’d worked beside him pitching hay, harnessing horses, dipping sheep, and bottle-feeding lambs. Of course, he also knew her only interest in Zack Rawlins these days was business. She’d been sure to tell him that. “Well,” she said briskly, “I figure I can up the odds in my favor if I practice. You know, find some hogs for Pris to herd. Zack’ll be in Fort Worth next week, lobbying the railroaders to build a feeder line in Bandera, so that won’t leave him much time to get many pig roundups in before the contest.” She grinned smugly at her advantage. “So with me winning pig herding, and the Eldridge-Cole team winning fence stringing — ” Mac raised his bushy eyebrows at her. “I’m not leaping to conclusions,” she said defensively, “I’m looking at the facts. Bandera cattlemen have experience cutting barbed wire. They hardly ever string it.” Mac’s expression turned wry as he shook his head. Setting aside his hammer, he reached for a bucket of grease. She handed him a brush. “And then there’s Octavio Ramirez — you know, Billy Taggert’s new foreman,” she continued excitedly. “I heard he won a gold buckle last year busting broncs in Mexico City. That means we sheepherders might actually have a contender who can beat Nick.” Mac snorted. “Ye wouldna be dealing with gossips, gunnysackers, or rodeos if ye would have let me handle that upstart as I’d wanted to.” She flinched at his tone. She should have known better than to speak Nick’s name. Now she was in for a McTavish lecture, the kind that had made even her daddy squirm. “That lad needs a couple of good swift kicks in the pants,” Mac growled, jabbing his pipe stem in the air for emphasis, “preferably from a man who knows how to wear his. There oughta be a law in this land against what he did to ye. Why, back in Scotland — ” “Now, Mac,” she interrupted gently, “we’ve already been through this. First of all. Nick and I never . . . er, mated.” We have, however, seen each other as naked as jaybirds, which, I’m sorry to say, was my idea, not his. 50

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“Secondly, my reputation couldn’t be any more tarnished than it already is.” Thanks to my mother’s legacy, and how I choose to live. “Thirdly, I have a lot fewer snake oil salesmen beating down my door, professing their undying love for me, when all they really love is my land. I have Nick to thank for that.” “Maybe,” Mac muttered. “But that bastard had no right saying the two of ye were to be wed.” “You’re right,” she said soothingly, still regretting how deeply the news had shocked and hurt Mac. “And I like to think I put an end to that rumor.” A rumor that, ironically. Nick had spread because he thought he was doing the right thing. However, as she’d expected, no one had been more surprised or relieved than Nick when she’d dug him from his hole and set him free. Mac’s jaw hardened. Rising abruptly, he knocked the tobacco from his pipe bowl with sharp, fierce whacks against the wagon. “The fact is, lass,” he said, “I blame myself for what happened to ye. When you came to me all those months ago, wanting me to. . .” His face reddened. “Uh, that is to say, wanting to become a woman, I didn’t handle ye the best way. I should have been more understanding, but I was just so surprised, ye see — ” “I know,” she said quickly, her stomach clenching at the memory. Asking Mac to show her what she was missing, what all the cowboys joked about and what the sheep and cattle, hell, even the birds and the bees all seemed to know except her . . . well, that had been her most stupid idea ever. No, she took that back. Her most stupid idea had been seeking out Nick in an insulted huff after Mac had turned her down. When push came to shove, she hadn’t been able to mate with Nick, and she’d slinked out of the hayloft hating herself and her weakness, but most of all, hating the burden of her femaleness. “Ye came to me because ye trusted me,” Mac said, his hamsized fist white around the pipe bowl, “and I let ye down. Now Nick Rotterdam’s mouth will keep any decent man from asking for ye — ” “You asked for me,” she reminded him lightly, hoping to relieve the mounting tension between them. Instead, his gaze melded with hers, and the usual warmth there seemed to rise a couple of degrees. 51

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“Aye, lass. And my offer still stands.” She drew in a sharp breath, not prepared to see, not wanting to see, what she imagined she saw kindling in the depths of his lonely eyes. Oh, damn, she thought, swallowing hard. He really was serious.

52

Four All of Bandera County must have turned out for the Independence Day Rodeo. The usual events — roping, riding, broncing, and racing — were of course among the attractions, but the main draw for this year’s phenomenal crowd, as Bailey well knew, was the long-awaited competition between the sheepherders and cattle ranchers. The grandstands were filled with cowboys, sheepmen, farmers, and townsfolk, each group assembled in its own loosely defined cheering section. A few early-morning arrivals had rigged canopies over their buckboards and jockeyed them into a ringside view; food and craft vendors had staked tents beneath the live oak trees beside the alarmingly low Medina River. Other than the occasional lady’s parasol, however, little else offered relief from the sun. The shadeless location, coupled with the blistering heat, made barrels of whiskey extremely popular throughout the long day. Sheep and cattle ranchers alike fell under the rotgut’s allure, and more than one drunken fistfight erupted near the livestock pens behind the arena. Nick proved to be the vendors’ biggest customer, and Hank had to heave his firstborn into the river to soak some sense into him, since Nick was dead set on breaking his fool neck in the bronc-busting contest. Luckily for him, Nat got up enough nerve to say he’d ride Widowmaker, keeping the Rotterdam ranch and the cowboy team from forfeiting. Nick’s disqualification from the games kept the whole arena buzzing, mostly with oddsmakers and bettors. Folks seemed to think the bronc competition was up for grabs, what with Octavio’s win in Mexico City. Bailey couldn’t have been more pleased to hear the speculations. As she’d predicted, the fence-stringing competition had gone 53

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to the sheepmen, and the shooting match had gone to the cattlemen. If Nat couldn’t beat Octavio’s time in the saddle, the sheepherders were practically assured of winning the day. All Bailey had to do was beat Zack at pig herding. No big task, right? Shifting from foot to foot, she stood nervously behind her rival at the rear of the arena, where he leaned against the high cedar fence connecting the competitors’ circle to the horse barn. The sun was in the five o’clock position now, throwing his long, lean shadow into the ring. To see it reminded her of the gunfighter showdowns illustrated on so many dime-novel covers. He’d already competed in the countywide competitions, putting on a tremendous show. He hadn’t been gored, trampled, or thrown by his longhorn, and she wondered a little hopefully if being named champion bulldogger for the third year in a row might have tuckered him out. He didn’t look tuckered out though. He looked downright relaxed. Taking off his Stetson, he balanced it on his saddle, which he’d thrown over the fence’s top rail. An occasional puff of wind ruffled the shortcropped waves of his chestnut hair; his pale green shirt cleaved damply to his broad back. When he raised his forearms to the fence, Bailey enjoyed watching his muscles ripple beneath the clingy cotton of his shirt. She enjoyed even more trailing her gaze over the taut derriere above his brown and white cowhide chaps and the hard, corded thighs filling his denim blue jeans. He was a fine specimen of manhood, Zack Rawlins was. She found herself wondering what he thought of her looks — strictly from a stockman’s perspective, of course. When they’d been growing up. Nick had called her Little Butt, and Nat had called her Skinny. Apparently if she’d been a heifer, she wouldn’t have made good breeding stock. She wouldn’t have made much of a breeding ewe either, come to think of it. She worried her bottom lip, wondering how much longer she could safely ogle Zack before one of two things happened: either he caught her, or Nat’s ride began. Because Zack had a good view of the arena in a nice piece of shade, she was sorely tempted to go share it with him. But that meant she would have to talk with him, and she always had the damnedest time talking to Zack Rawlins. 54

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She blew out her breath. Well, one thing was certain. She’d never been one to back down from a challenge. Marching up to the fence, she climbed the bottom rail and gazed out at the arena. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and a minute or two passed. She noticed her heart was hammering ridiculously hard. Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even glare at her. She wondered a tad irritably if she had to climb another rail just to get his attention. Hell, she wasn’t that short, was she? She ventured a glance his way. Only then did she realize he’d shaved his mustache sometime since the rodeo meeting. She caught her breath, unable to keep from gawking at the rugged, clean-shaven face that had haunted so many of her girlish dreams. Now more than ever, Zack Rawlins was her fantasy come to life, and he was standing right beside her. She cleared her throat. She supposed she should say something to him. “You ready for the herding contest?” He cast her a sideways glance. The touch of heat in his mahogany eyes sprinkled goose bumps all the way to her toes. She wasn’t entirely opposed to the sensation, and she felt a fleeting disappointment when he let his gaze slide away. “Yep,” he answered. “Are you?” “Yep.” More silence. Now what? She steeled herself against fidgeting. When she was younger, she used to get Mac’s attention by jumping on his back. Usually, it had made him smile. Then she’d turned thirteen, and Mac had taken her aside and gently warned her against such tomfoolery with boys. He hadn’t been specific, just dire. That lecture had been the first of many he’d given her about her blossoming womanhood. Since his last lecture — and his last proposal — things had gotten steadily more uncomfortable between them, much to her secret upset. The thought of losing Mac and the closeness they’d always shared scared the living daylights out of her. It was just one more reason to find being a woman so annoying. If she’d been a man, none of this nonsense would have happened. She sighed, and Zack arched an eyebrow at her. “Change your mind?” She raised her chin. “Not on your life.” 55

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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 broncobuster 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. 56

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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 as well, 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.” 57

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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?” 58

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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 bow-legged 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. 59

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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 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 off and 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 lain 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.” 60

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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 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. 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 encouragement, 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 61

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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 loose formation. Bailey bit her lip. Two minutes had passed. Now the hogs’ inimitable leader was beginning to put two and two together: The big black animal had food. The boar trotted warily behind Zack’s stirrup, his snout upturned and his pink nose twitching. This behavior was quickly mimicked by the sows, and poor Boss could hardly put a hoof down without endangering a curly tail. With a few deft switches of his rope, Zack managed to guide the spotted cluster of rumps to the open pen. The cattlemen’s grandstand yelled with delight, and Bailey, anxiously rechecking her timepiece, saw that a good half minute remained. Zack seemed to have matters well under control now. Unhooking the corn bag from his saddle horn, he heaved it over the top rail of the pen. The burlap broke, the corn scattered, and the boar rushed greedily inside, closely followed by all of his harem — except for one independently minded sow. She chose instead to snuffle outside in the dirt for overlooked kernels. Zack mouthed an oath as he slammed the gate closed behind the herd. Bailey felt a resurgence of hope. The loiterer oinked in terror when she saw Boss bearing down on her, this time carrying an angry-looking cowboy and a twirling rawhide lasso. She bolted, but Zack’s lariat caught her rear hoof, and she toppled, thrashing, to the ground. Boss backed up, tightening the rope like a good cow pony, and Zack cursed again. Clearly, Boss couldn’t drag the pig all the way across the arena to the pen — unless, of course, Zack wanted to incur the wrath of the pig’s owner. He jumped down, wresting a second rope from his saddle horn, and Bailey snickered as he tried to throw a leash around the sow’s flailing head. The three-minute bell rang. The sheepherders cheered, and Zack scowled in defeat, releasing his squealing quarry with obvious disgust. Bailey did her best to wipe the unsporting smirk off her face as Zack passed her gate, leading Boss across the arena to the stalls at the rear of the ring. She vaulted into her saddle. “We’ve got them now, Mac!” 62

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“Patience, lass.” He unsnapped Pris’s lead. “Dinna go counting yer chickens just yet.” Bailey laughed, too exhilarated to heed such wisdom. Her very first rodeo, and she was going to win, not only for herself but for sheepherders everywhere! Agonizingly slow, the seconds dragged by. Sassy tossed her head, stamping with excitement, and Pris ran back and forth along the gate, sniffing eagerly at the animal smells beyond. Twisting in her saddle, Bailey strained to see how many of the ten pigs still needed to be chased into the adjoining chute. Instead, her gaze was pulled upward, away from the hogs as if by magnetic force. She spied Zack, standing with Wes by the judges’ platform. He was watching her, and when their eyes met, she felt an electric crackle like lightning flicker down her spine. She caught her breath, not quite prepared for the surge of heat and smoke that spiraled outward to her toes and fingers. That charge was the last thing she remembered before the gate flew open, and Sassy bounded with Pris into the ring.

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Five Zack didn’t know which was worse, letting swine make him look ridiculous in front of the entire county or letting his private parts turn him into a fool in front of Iain McTavish and Bailey McShane. God, what was wrong with him? Two years earlier he’d barely noticed Bailey had a rump, much less the saucy roundness of it. Today he’d practically had to rope his hands to his sides just to keep from exploring that taut little fanny. Of course, she hadn’t helped him any by squirming and wriggling, butting his pecker as she’d tried to scramble over the fence. If he hadn’t seen for himself her single-minded concern for Nat Rotterdam, he might have suspected she was teasing him on purpose, just like all the braggarts claimed. Bailey McShane was a handful — more than a handful, God help him — and he didn’t want her messing up his life. If he had wanted his peaceful existence turned upside down by a wildcat, he would have courted her long before now. No, Zack wanted a lady, the sweet, well-mannered, soft-spoken kind. The fact that Bailey had quite suddenly and unexpectedly fired his blood after all these years, when he was well acquainted with her shortcomings, could mean only one thing: He’d been spending far too much time with his steers. He needed a woman. But not Bailey, he sternly reminded his more willful parts. Wes pushed back his hat, giving Zack a cheeky grin as Bailey thundered past them on her palomino. “I don’t suppose you let that pig run by you on purpose, eh?” “No, I did not,” Zack growled. “Hmm.” 64

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Bailey whistled, pointing, and Pris charged the wheeling right flank of the hogs, cutting off their retreat before McTavish could roll the chute gate closed. “Kind of funny, isn’t it,” Wes drawled, “her being female, her dog and horse being females, and you and Boss . . . well, you’re both males.” Zack grunted something noncommittal, secretly impressed with Bailey’s command. She rode in a circular pattern, shouting orders like a five-star general, while that collie of hers raced to obey, barking and snapping at the stragglers until they joined a formation. “’Course, it’s probably just a coincidence,” Wes continued cheerfully, “you and Boss being up against all females. Too bad that sow got away. You would have figured she would have followed her boar.” Zack shot his brother a withering glare. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a damned poor job.” “I am?” Wes did a masterful job of looking contrite. “Here now. Don’t go swallowing an overdose of woe. This contest isn’t over yet. You still got that cougar to bag, and he’s male. ’Course. . .” Wes shook his head, loosing a lusty sigh as Bailey pointed and Pris charged off after the last recalcitrant sow. “There won’t be any living with our womenfolk if Bailey wins. They’re gonna ride us boys but good.” “This business has nothing to do with you and Cord,” Zack said. “It doesn’t?” “No.” “Well, shoot.” Wes’s commiserating tone was thoroughly belied by the twinkle in his eyes. “We’ll make it our business. We wouldn’t want to leave you hanging out to dry all by your lonesome.” “I can handle Bailey McShane just fine, thank you.” “’Course you can. But Cord and me, being married to, er, outspoken ladies of our own, can lend you the wisdom of our experience — ” Zack gave his younger brother a bite-your-tongue-or-eat-my-fist look, and Wes turned back to the arena with a shrug and a smile. “Suit yourself.” By now Bailey’s battle strategy was paying off. Pris had marshalled the sows shoulder to shoulder behind the grand dame, and the whole troop was trotting, somewhat irregularly, toward the gate and the slop troughs at the rear of the pen. 65

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Suddenly one shoat broke ranks. Ignorant of the consequences, she ran merrily ahead to forage, no doubt scenting the corn kernels Zack’s swine had overlooked. General Bailey, of course, didn’t tolerate this breach of discipline. With a slash of her arm, she pointed out the delinquent to Sergeant Pris, and the collie bounded forward, her white tail fluttering like a battle banner. Barking orders, which the pig either ignored or couldn’t comprehend, Pris raced ahead, rounded on the yearling, and flashed all her fangs. This warning was only mildly effective. Even at her tender age, the shoat was twice Pris’s size, so the miscreant ran on. Incensed, Little Napoleon charged after her and nipped a ham hock. One would have thought that pig was going to the slaughterhouse. With a squeal that would have rung tears from a statue, the baby turned tail and ran straight to her mama. The grand dame bristled. Gnashing her teeth, she bellowed a battle cry that would have done a wild boar proud. Suddenly all ten hogs were on the stampede. “Pris!” Bailey spurred her mare out of the way. “Pris, come around!” Canine pride must have been at stake, because the collie ignored the command. Planting her paws, Sergeant Pris lowered her head and barked riotously at the mutineers. They grunted back swine obscenities and charged her at ramming speed. Clearly shaken, Pris stopped wagging her tail. She retreated a step. Then another. In the next heartbeat, Zack and Wes were laughing uproariously with the rest of the cattlemen as Pris shot like a black and white bullet into the pen, all ten pigs in hot pursuit. Bailey slammed the gate, Pris vaulted the fence, and the shoat’s defenders were left to oink their outrage until they discovered the tasty tidbits waiting for them in the slop troughs. “Good girl, Pris,” Bailey called, leaning down from her saddle to ruffle the dog’s fur. Pris wagged her tail in relief to see her mistress in such high spirits. Zack, still grinning, cocked an eyebrow at the judges. They’d gathered together, all muttering and shaking their heads. He glanced at his brother, and Wes shrugged, equally mystified. “Miss McShane,” Bandera’s mayor boomed through his megaphone, “kindly report to the judges’ circle.” 66

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Amid the disgruntled applause of the cattlemen and the wild cheering of the sheepherders, Bailey cantered to the platform and reined in with a flourish. “Mayor Strathmore means the winner’s circle.” She tossed this smug taunt at Zack as she dismounted. Zack folded his arms, equally smug. He didn’t know what had happened, but a second glance at the judges convinced him their decision wasn’t in Bailey’s favor. “If I were you, I wouldn’t embarrass myself with premature claims, neighbor.” He had the satisfaction of watching her eyes narrow as the last judge, pig-farmer Evans, clambered down the wooden stairs to join him, Wes, and Bailey in the circle. McTavish materialized with his usual ghostlike efficiency to hold his employer’s animals. Bailey turned her attention back to Zack. “I beat you,” she retorted, her eyes agleam like polished sapphires. “It’s as simple as that.” “’Fraid not, sweetheart.” “Weren’t you watching?” “Oh, I was watching all right. Watching you lose.” “What?” That jewel-like gaze flashed in warning as she rounded on poor Mayor Strathmore. “What’s he talking about?” “Well, Miss McShane,” the judge said uncomfortably, wiping a handkerchief across the back of his neck, “it seems you didn’t quite abide by the rules — ” “The hell I didn’t.” Her glare snapped back to Zack. “What kind of game are you playing, cowpoke?” “Me?” His jaw hardened. Wasn’t it just like her to cast the blame on him? “You sheepherders had just as much input making up the rules as we cattlemen did.” “That’s right, Miss McShane,” Strathmore interjected hurriedly. Pushing his spectacles up his perspiring nose, he pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the contest contract. “It clearly says here the contestants will herd ten pigs into a corral — ” “That’s what I did. I herded ten pigs.” “Uh, no, ma’am, you didn’t.” Her slitted stare made the man’s Adam’s apple bob. “Are those spectacles of yours working, Strathmore?” “C’mon, Bailey,” chided Farmer Evans, the Berkshire hogs’ owner. “There’s no reason to get personal.” “He’s calling me a cheater!” 67

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“No one’s calling you a cheater, Bailey.” Evans’s voice was soothing, reasonable. “You just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Pris didn’t know better, and I reckon neither did you.” Her fists flew to her hips. “We agreed dogs could be used in the contest — ” “Yes, but dogs were supposed to herd the pigs,” Strathmore reminded her, “not the other way around.” Her jaw dropped. “What?” Zack was hard-pressed not to chuckle. Strathmore did have a point, as convoluted as it was. No wonder he was a law wrangler. “That’s ridiculous!” “Now, Miss Bailey,” Strathmore said a bit indignantly, “both sides agreed beforehand. The judges’ ruling stands. Why don’t you get out of this hot sun and go cool yourself off for a spell?” She shook his hand off her arm. Stalking closer to Zack, she wagged a finger under his nose. “You put them up to this, didn’t you, Rawlins?” It was his turn to gape. “Now, wait just a consarned minute — ” “You said you wouldn’t let me win, and you didn’t!” “You made me make that promise.” “Yeah?” Standing toe to toe with him, she actually jabbed her finger into his chest. “I should have known you’d made that promise too easily. No wonder you’ve been over here all this time standing by the judges’ platform!” He felt his cheeks flame. Well, that put the spurs to his temper. He didn’t take kindly to being called crooked, and he sure as hell didn’t like to be prodded. “You know what your problem is?” he ground out, lowering his face to within inches of hers. “Your daddy spoiled you rotten.” “He did not!” “He spoiled you and coddled you. What he should have done was turned you over his knee.” “My daddy knew how to treat a woman,” she flung back, “which is more than I can say for you, Rawlins!” That was it. The final straw. He’d borne her public insults to his manhood too many times. In a surge of primal instinct, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her hard against him. He heard her gasp as her heels left the ground; he saw the shock widen her eyes. Then his mouth swooped to cover hers. 68

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For an instant, the barest of moments, she swayed on tiptoe. Her hands clutched his shirtsleeves; her chest collided with his. His anger was snuffed out in a flare of desire. He slanted his mouth, demanding an entry to the enticing wetness that lured him deeper. The din ebbed; the crowd receded. Her lips trembled open, and her rigid spine softened, arching, letting him mold her length to his. Her nipples were taut, rubbing against him with each shuddering breath. When she pulled him closer, his heart tripped; when his tongue thrust, she parried. He barely stifled a moan. She was kissing him eagerly now, hungrily, demanding a response that every sizzling part of him ached to provide. But not here. Not now. God have mercy on his soul. Abruptly he pushed her back, setting her on her feet. She blinked up at him, her eyes brimming with wonder. He heard a buzz. Growing, crescendoing, it thundered to a roar. Boots were stomping, hands were clapping, spectators in the grandstands were howling with mirth. Dumbfounded, he stared at the lips that were so moist and swollen from his. Shame burned through him. How could he have lost control? He swallowed hard, thinking he should apologize. He thought he should at least tell the judges to damn the rules and let her take the prize. He should have thought less and paid more attention. A fist slammed into his gut like a miniature locomotive. He wheezed, unprepared for the punch that nearly blew a hole through his spleen. “Dammit, McShane,” he gasped, clutching his searing midsection. Without a word, she turned on her heel, red-faced and tightlipped as the snickering judges parted before her. McTavish glared his resentment. He must have decided Zack had been punished enough though, because the Scot quietly followed her, leading the animals. Wes shook his head after them. “You sure handled her, son.” Stepping closer, he gave Zack’s shoulder a commiserating slap. “Yep, you handled her real well.”

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Six One week after the calamity in the judges’ circle, Zack still wasn’t sure he could look Bailey in the eye, much less Amaryllis. Knowing he’d publicly dishonored them both was a pang in his gut, one far worse than the bruise Bailey had left as a reminder. He figured he was lucky she hadn’t drawn her six-shooter on him, or, worse, sent McTavish across their boundary line with a scattergun. As for Amaryllis, she had just as much right to plug him. He’d probably shocked the devil out of her when he’d locked lips with Bailey in full view of the entire county. Of course, kissing Bailey had shocked the devil out of him too, but he rather doubted Amaryllis — or Judge Larabee — would believe him. Wes, on the other hand, was thoroughly delighted by Zack’s change of heart. He took full credit for Zack’s supposed affection for Bailey, and every chance he got, he did his annoying best to play cupid. For instance, the morning of July fifth, when Zack was riding to meet the cattlemen’s cougar-bagging team, he made the unfortunate mistake of riding westward, within shouting distance of Wes’s front porch, and found himself subjected to his brother’s wayward sense of humor. “I hope you’re bound for greener Scottish pastures,” Wes had called gaily above the heads of his usual three-foot-high audience. “I need a slew of ankle-biters to tell my stories to, and I expect you to pull your weight in the niece- and nephew-making business, just the same as Cord and Fancy.” About three days later, when the bickering cattlemen’s team broke up, declaring every man for himself, Zack rode home in disgust, hoping for a little peace and quiet. Instead, he was cornered by Cord. 70

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Apparently the eldest Rawlins was less interested in the progress of the hunt than in some brotherly matchmaking. He heartily endorsed the idea of Zack chasing a skirt with “more brains than fluff,” and gave his blessing to a Rawlins-McShane union, even if Zack was still digging in his heels. After all, Cord had learned to tame a wildcat named Fancy. “From where I was sitting in the rodeo stands, son,” the Rawlins patriarch drawled, “kissing Bailey McShane looked like it was well worth losing the friendship of the county judge. I’ve always thought it a shame, you not getting to lay claim to the Sherridan spread. But then, I reckon there’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Fortunately for Cord and Wes both, Zack wasn’t a hothead who countered taunts with punches. He had, however, retaliated by packing up his gear and camping out in the hills with his horse and his hound. Boss and Rebel were fine listeners, and they didn’t pester a man with gab, which was more than Zack could say for his brothers. Besides, Zack had vowed to end One Toe’s ninth life. Considering how much head-butting had gone on between the arrogant cusses of the cattlemen’s team, Zack figured it was just as well he was hunting alone. He’d come close to punching out Nick Rotterdam and Red Calloway both, and yielding to that kind of temptation wouldn’t have boded well for his political career. Zack soon learned that the cattlemen weren’t the only ones competing among themselves. By July tenth, the Woolgrowers’ team was just as divided, or at least it appeared that way, because Zack ran across two separate groups of sheepherders tracking cats through the Bandera Mountains. President Eldridge and his followers made up the first group; Bailey, her foreman, Rob Cole and his son, Jesse, comprised the second. Zack crossed paths with Bailey’s hunting party late in the afternoon. When he spied her palomino mare among the trio of geldings, his heart lurched unexpectedly into a full-steam-ahead race. The hammering in his chest was so embarrassing, not to mention confusing, he ducked behind the boulder of his clifftop perch to catch his breath. “Cougar scats. Just like I told you, Bailey,” he heard seventeen-yearold Jesse boast. Leather creaked and spurs clinked. Peeking around his limestone hideaway, Zack saw the Woolgrowers’ vice president dismounted 71

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beside his son. McTavish remained in his saddle while Bailey and the Coles squatted over the cougar droppings. Zack had already inspected them, and he knew they were about two days old. Bailey pushed back her Stetson with her thumb. “They’re cougar scats all right,” she said, resting her weight on her rifle stock as she studied the ground. The sun struck sparks from the curl that spilled across her forehead, and Zack didn’t know where to look next: at her thighs, so sleek and provocative as they spread beneath the straining denim of her jeans, or at the sun-flushed V of skin that plunged to a tantalizing and disappointing end just shy of her breasts. Zack noticed he wasn’t the only male enamored of this view. Grinning like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, black-haired, green-eyed Jesse squatted shoulder to shoulder with Bailey. Hell, he squatted thigh to thigh with her. The pup’s ruse was thinly disguised, since his gaze was glued to Bailey’s neckline, not the cougar’s scats, and Zack had half a mind to tromp down the hill and knock the boy’s teeth out. “These aren’t One Toe’s tracks though,” she continued matter-offactly, as if having a man’s hips practically locked to hers was too common an occurrence for her to get riled about. “Looks like we’re following a cold trail.” “Aye. Ye might try splitting up, lad,” McTavish called wryly from his horse. “Spreading out. That way we can see where those earlier tracks led to.” Bailey rose, and Jesse joined her. To Zack’s inexplicable annoyance, the young sheepherder didn’t look too chagrined after McTavish’s warning. “Maybe there’s a den nearby,” Rob Cole said hopefully, watching Boo snuffle past his son’s boots. “Think your hound’s found something?” “Could be,” Bailey said. “There’s no telling what though, knowing Boo. I like Mac’s idea. Let’s beat the bushes a bit and see what we can find. This cougar’s long gone.” “What if he comes back?” Jesse asked, apparently concerned with Bailey’s safety. “Well now, Jesse,” she said, “if you’re afraid, I’ll have Mac hold your hand.” “I’d rather you held it, ma’am.” The boy grinned shamelessly. 72

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Bailey laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, lad. At least then I’ll know where one of them is.” Zack’s jaw jutted. Well, she certainly seemed to have gotten over his kiss double quick. Feeling somewhat outnumbered, and not at all sure his apology wouldn’t be greeted with ridicule, Zack postponed his atonement yet again, promising himself he would speak to Bailey in private, as she deserved, the first chance he got. To his chagrin, the moment of his penance caught up with him much sooner than he’d expected. Watching the sheepherders fan out upwind of his perch, Zack thought it safe to scramble back over the rocks to the chokecherry tree where he’d tied Reb and Boss. He didn’t count on Reb barking her fool head off when she scented another canine in the vicinity. At least, that’s what Zack attributed her excitement to, when he heard thrashing in the scrubby thickets below. He tried to silence the hound as he led her and Boss down the cliff path, but Reb’s ruff was fairly standing on end. She began growling, straining against her leash. That’s when Boo bounded back into the clearing. With his big ears flapping, he slid to a splay-legged halt and barked raucously at the elm tree dissecting the path. This greeting apparently wasn’t enough though, because in the next heartbeat, he’d charged around the trunk and up the hill, touching noses and wagging tails with Reb. Zack muttered an oath as Bailey’s voice floated up to him from the shriveled canopy of live oaks and cedars. “Boo? Boo! That had better be a hunting bark, you big rutting — ” Her voice abruptly broke off. Zack knew she’d spied him, and his heart tripped. A moment dragged by. Then another. He imagined she was gathering her nerve — or maybe her anger — before she pushed the final cedar branch aside and led her mare into the clearing. “Hell and sulfur, Boo. You dragged me all the way over here to watch you make puppies?” Boo woofed good-naturedly; Reb whined, sniffing Boo’s puppymaking parts; and Zack winced inwardly. It was bad enough discussing the mating act with a woman. Why did he have to do it with a woman he’d just kissed? 73

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“I wouldn’t go hunting with a bitch that’s in heat,” he said gruffly, hoping to disguise the embarrassment staining his cheeks. He jerked his hound’s leads out of the tangle that threatened to trip his feet and send him somersaulting down the hill to land at Bailey’s boots. “Besides, Reb just had a litter.” “Looks like she wouldn’t mind another,” Bailey said, snapping her fingers at her hound. “Boo! Come.” Boo reluctantly obeyed his mistress, turning down the path with one last longing look at Reb. Zack prayed to God no one ever caught him looking that way at a female. “Until that hound of yours gets wind of the right scent, you should keep him leashed,” he called, jerking Reb back to his side before she could bound after Boo. “There are too many hunters roaming these hills. One might shoot Boo by mistake.” He paused, uncertain which protocol to follow next. He finally had his private moment with Bailey, but how the hell was he supposed to apologize with delicacy after she’d started their conversation off with the topic of dog rutting? He’d never been at ease making parlor talk with women, and every time he thought he’d finally gotten the knack. Bailey came along and changed the rules. She drove him crazy. “Oh, yeah?” She planted her fists in the usual place. He’d seen her take that pose so many times, he figured she must have dug little niches into her hips, just so she could fit her knuckles into them. “Just ’cause you kissed me doesn’t give you the license to tell me what to do, Zack Rawlins.” There she went, giving him lip again. He smiled grimly, remembering it was her lips that got him into trouble in the first place. “Er, look, Bailey. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that — ” A screechy “woo-wooing” interrupted him. Zack recognized the call of an outraged raccoon even before the varmint dropped out of the elm tree and landed square in Boo’s path. Whether the coon had fallen or leapt from its den wasn’t clear, but the spittle on its jaws and the clicking of its fangs made its condition alarmingly evident. It was rabid. “Boo!” Bailey’s warning could barely be heard above the explosion of barking and snarling. Zack cursed, struggling to hold Reb back from 74

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the thirty-pound pestilence that threatened Bailey’s hound. He managed to grab his Winchester even as he heard Bailey snap the lever on hers. They were too late. Too sick and crazed to flee, the coon attacked. In the melee of slashing, clawing, and biting that ensued, the coon had little chance. Boo flipped the creature and went for its throat, receiving little more than a scratch and a bite in the struggle. But they were enough. Zack’s throat constricted as Boo let the limp carcass drop from his jaws. He was panting, his eyes shining, and he wagged his tail in triumph. Zack fidgeted. Glancing at Bailey, he saw the shock slowly ebb from her features. He couldn’t ever remember her looking so white. “Boo,” she said again quietly, extending her gloved hand. It trembled the tiniest bit, and Zack felt his gut clench. The hound trotted with his usual happy-go-lucky gait to her side, plopping down on his haunches, his ears pricked, his eyes eager as he awaited her command. She swallowed hard, resting her palm on his great head. “Bailey?” McTavish called anxiously, breaking through the underbrush with a ready rifle. The Coles quickly followed, leading their horses. “What happened?” Jesse asked, peering curiously at the trickles of blood on Boo’s leg. Bailey said nothing. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pressed Boo’s head against her abdomen. Zack cleared his throat. “There was a coon. Near the tree. It came out of nowhere, and . . .” Boo whined, licking Bailey’s glove, and Zack’s words faltered. There was no need to explain the rest. He knew the men knew. Bailey did too. “Lass.” Cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm, McTavish groundhitched his gelding and strode closer. “Were ye hurt a’tall?” “No.” Her voice was hoarse, strained, but its volume was strong. Jesse whistled long and low. “Damn.” He squatted over the coon. “He was a big ’un.” He glanced admiringly at Boo, then up at Bailey. When he saw her stony expression, his enthusiasm ebbed. “Hey, Boo wasn’t bit, was he?” 75

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“Of course he was bit,” his father growled, shifting uncomfortably from boot to boot. “A hound doesn’t fight a coon without getting bit.” Zack felt McTavish’s gaze boring through him. “Came out of nowhere, did he, lad? Leapt to the attack?” Zack nodded. As much as he’d always complained about Boo chasing his cows, it occurred to him he liked the hound. He liked the way Boo protected Bailey. The silence thickened. Mac pushed back his battered cap. “Bailey, lass. It isna natural, a coon starting a scrap with a hound.” Her chin trembled almost imperceptibly as she wrapped her other arm around Boo and hugged him tighter. “’Tis plain to me,” McTavish continued, his words firm, his voice gentle, “there was sickness in the beastie’s blood. Ye willna see a coon by day if he doesna have the rabies fever.” Zack winced to hear Boo’s death sentence spoken at last. Jesse climbed hastily to his feet. “But maybe Boo won’t get rabies,” he said, glancing at his father. “You could pen him away from your livestock, ma’am, watch him awhile for the signs . . .” Cole shook his head and looked at the ground. His heart twisting, Zack watched Bailey. He knew how much she loved her ugly old cur dog. But to expose her entire flock to disease for the sake of one animal, no matter how favored, would be the height of impracticality, not to mention cruelty. The odds were against Boo. Watching an animal grow sicker, madder, more vicious from day to day would be a kindness to no one, least of all Boo. “Bailey,” he finally said, “since I’m not as acquainted with the hound as you and McTavish, maybe you’d like to leave him with me. . . .” Her chest heaved, and she hastily shook her head. “No.” She drew herself up straighter. The gaze that met his was resolute behind the silvery film of tears. “He’s my hound. Come, Boo,” she added quietly. Turning her back on the men, she walked with firm, purposeful strides into the cedar maze, and Boo trotted obediently at her side. If the hound suspected his fate, he didn’t balk, but he did nudge his head beneath her hand, staring up at her as if he sensed her distress. 76

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Zack was glad when the gray-green shadows swallowed them. He drew a ragged breath. The rifle report rolled across the clearing moments later. Jesse flinched; Cole grimaced; McTavish muttered something in his native tongue. Zack wondered if the older man had spoken a prayer or curse, and when he glanced at Bailey’s foreman, McTavish looked at him. There was something vaguely discomfiting about the Scot’s stare, as if McTavish were appraising him, sizing him up. Zack couldn’t help but tense. The minutes ticked by. Reb whined, and Boss nickered. The sheepherders began to fidget. Zack thought about going into the trees after Bailey. He couldn’t help but remember the one and only time he’d had to shoot a hound to put it out of its misery. Rusty had been fifteen — Wes’s age — and Zack had been sixteen. Even though the hound had been nearly blind, arthritic, and unable to chew his food, Zack had felt heinous, as if he’d murdered his best friend. Wes had sobbed like a baby after the deed was done, but Zack, unable to shed his own tears, had retired to the privy to retch. What if Bailey were sick, or, worse, had fainted? He started in her direction, but McTavish stepped forward to block his path. “Leave her be,” he said crisply. “She knows what she’s about.” Zack frowned, wondering how McTavish could bear to stand so calmly by his horse when the woman he’d once courted was probably, at the very least, sobbing her head off a few hundred feet away. If Zack knew one thing about women, it was that they needed comforting when they cried. What was the matter with McTavish? Didn’t he give a damn how Bailey felt? He was just about to challenge the Scot’s apparent lack of compassion, when a twig snapped. A cedar bough trembled. White-faced and gray-lipped, Bailey pushed through the veil of needles, her chin set and her shoulders rigid. To Zack’s amazement, her eyes were dry, but he had never seen them look so hollow. “I can’t bury him deep enough,” she announced in a brittle tone. “Aye, lass. The ground’s too hard.” Zack glared at McTavish. He sensed, even if the Scot didn’t, that it had cost Bailey a lot to admit she couldn’t finish the job on her own, even though she’d dented her rifle stock all to hell. 77

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“Are you packing a shovel?” She directed her question at Zack in a clipped voice, the same voice he’d heard her use in the Bullwhip when she’d squared off with Hank Rotterdam. Zack wasn’t sure he liked her speaking to him as if he, too, were her foe. Before he could tell her about his ax and the hand trowel he’d brought to douse his campfires, Rob put in his two-bits’ worth. “We should probably burn the coon. Boo too,” he added. “You don’t want any critters digging up the carcasses, infecting themselves and everything else in these hills.” Bailey blanched even whiter, if that was possible, and Zack wished he was standing close enough to kick Cole in the seat of his pants. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’ll bury Boo. I’ll see to the coon too.” For the briefest of moments, Bailey’s gaze poured into his. He spied the warmth of her gratitude, the welling relief behind her suffering, and he heard his breath catch. It was the strangest sensation, looking into eyes he’d seen ten hundred times, eyes he thought he knew, and seeing a stranger staring out from their depths. He marveled that he’d never before noticed how captivating Bailey’s gaze could be — or how sweetly vulnerable. “Thank you.” She released a ragged breath. Then, as if she couldn’t bear the intensity of their staring, she turned on her heel and strode to her horse. “I need a whiskey, boys.” She thrust her rifle roughly into the saddle boot. “Who’s buying?” Digging a grave deep enough for Boo’s remains was no small feat in midsummer with an ax and a hand trowel, yet Zack honored his word, pausing only to wipe his brow and flex his cramped fingers. He refused to consider the easier way of destroying the carcass by fire. Boo had meant a great deal to Bailey and, he reflected, Bailey must mean something to him. Otherwise, why would he be out here breaking his back, when he could be turning over a couple piles of ashes? The sun was hanging low in the sky when he finished dousing the coon’s burial pyre. More than two hours had passed since Bailey and the sheepherders had ridden toward town, and Zack considered following them. After the afternoon he’d just put in, he had a powerful thirst, and liquor was a strong temptation. He didn’t drink much, not after watching rotgut make Cord lose control and turn Wes downright 78

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fractious, but he did enjoy a good beer now and then. He also needed to replenish his supplies, and since he didn’t much like the idea of returning home and facing his brothers’ brand of humor, he decided to ride to Bandera. He figured he could get a warm meal, a bath, and a shave before he headed for the saloon. By the time he had tethered Boss and Reb outside the public washhouse, the sun had turned a fiery orange, undulating above the horizon in the shimmering heat waves that it struck from the earth. Anticipating his bath made Zack think longingly of the spring-fed waters he’d lost to Bailey in the Sherridan deal. Two years earlier, he and his brothers had been in the process of expanding their range when the widow Sherridan’s prized water-fed pasturage, located between the McShane and Rawlins ranches, came up for sale. Bailey’s daddy died at the same time, and his funeral was the day of the auction. Zack counted on the funeral to eliminate competition from her, and he offered the widow Sherridan a fair but admittedly low price. He’d never expected Bailey to withdraw her daddy’s life savings after the reading of his will. Racing from the bank in her mourning chaps and duster, she arrived at the auction block with a wad of greenbacks that had fairly made his eyes bulge. “Cash on the barrelhead,” she challenged him. “What good is a promissory note to Mrs. Sherridan when she’s struggling to set up house back in Arkansas?” Zack winced as he recalled that public embarrassment at Bailey’s hands. Still, the hardheaded, businesslike Bailey of the auction block was entirely different from the pale, heartsick one who’d been forced to shoot her own hound. If he hadn’t seen her both times with his own eyes, he would never have believed the two women could exist in the same body. The realization made him wonder what else he didn’t know about this neighbor he called Bailey. As he rounded the corner of the public washhouse, his gaze was drawn to the church at the end of the street and the sun-beaten sycamore dominating the front yard. He couldn’t immediately say what made him hesitate and peer more closely into the leafy shadows that darkened the grasses. Maybe it was the appeal of all that shade, rolling out in gray-green waves toward the picket fence, now tinged a dusky peach in the twilight. Or maybe it was the lone mourner with the wheat-colored hair, who sat, head bowed, against the tree trunk. 79

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Zack chewed his bottom lip. Bailey really looked like she could use a friend. Feeling awkward and not at all sure of his welcome, he walked the two blocks to the churchyard. He doffed his hat as he paused at the gate, suspecting he looked like he’d strolled through a dust devil. That was a regular state for him, thanks to cattle hooves and prairie winds, but he wasn’t among cowboys at the moment, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. He hastily combed his fingers through his hair and he used his hat to beat off the worst of the trail dust. Then, drawing a bolstering breath, he lifted the latch and pushed inside the yard. Bailey was too preoccupied to notice him. She was turning an object over and over in her hands, and as he crossed to the tree trunk, he recognized the leather strap that had once been Boo’s collar. His heart twisted. “Bailey.” She started at his gentle tone, blinking up at him with luminous, tear-filled eyes. He thought he recognized a welcome in her gaze before the embarrassment rolled in. She quickly looked away. “Mind if I sit awhile?” he asked. She hiked a shoulder, her chin jutting the tiniest bit, and he was reminded of his seven-year-old niece, Megan, who often employed the same tactic when she was too proud to admit she was hurting. Gingerly lowering himself beside Bailey, he propped his back against the tree and stretched his legs out beside hers. He couldn’t help but notice how short hers seemed compared with his, or how slender and delicate. He frowned, wondering when he’d last thought of the woman beside him as delicate. A couple of minutes passed. He pondered what he should say as he watched her squeeze Boo’s collar. Her hands were butternutbrown from the sun, small in size, and undeniably feminine, but he imagined their grip must be strong, the fingertips callused. Just to think of her touch heated his insides, and he found himself bending and rolling his hat brim in an effort to work off the electric surge of forbidden yearning. He took small consolation in the fact that her own motions had grown jerky now that his thigh was scant inches from hers. Or maybe she was nervous because she thought he might grab her and kiss her again. 80

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He groaned silently, imagining what she and the rest of the county must have thought of his behavior that day at the rodeo. His Aunt Lally had raised him better than that, and the first chance she had, she’d been quick to remind him of it too. Suddenly he realized his silence had attracted Bailey’s furtive stare. He spied her eyes glistening like blue topaz in the charcoal shadows of her Stetson. He cleared his throat. “I’m real sorry about Boo.” She averted her face. “He was just a dog,” she said thickly, giving him another one-shoulder shrug. “But he was your friend.” When her chin quivered, Zack added gently, “You can raise thousands of animals, Bailey, and for the most part separate your feelings from your business. But every now and then, one’ll come along and sneak inside your heart. Take Boss, for instance. He’s twelve years old now, and Cord says it’s time I started favoring a greener pony. But putting Boss out to pasture feels like cheating him somehow. He likes to work, and I like working with him. Fact is, he’s like kinfolk to me. “There’s no shame in mourning an animal that worked hard for you,” he continued. “Boo protected you. He deserves a special place in your memory, because he was special.” Bailey swallowed hard, fighting down her shameful lump of tears. She didn’t know which was tougher, trying not to cry, or trying not to hug Zack. Whoever would have thought she’d hear Zack “Pragmatic” Rawlins wax poetic about some old cow pony, much less a sheepherder’s hunting dog? She’d fully expected him to eulogize Boo with “good riddance.” In fact, she’d even begun to regret letting him bury Boo, since Zack was the least likely person to give her hound a fond farewell. Zack had surprised her when he’d volunteered to do the job, and now he was surprising her again. She’d spent years secretly hoping to discover a friendlier side of him. To learn for certain he truly did have one was disconcerting. Why was he being so nice to her? She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Why did you kiss me?” He started, and his face flooded with color. She had caught him off guard. Good. It was a business tactic her daddy had taught her, but she’d also found it invaluable in courting, particularly when the beaux 81

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who came sniffing around slipped in and out of the truth as easily as greased pigs. Not that one little kiss made Zack her beau, of course. “Well . . . I reckon I, uh, kissed you ’cause — ” He broke off and tossed her a sheepish glance. “Shoot, Bailey. I kissed you ’cause I wanted to.” He did? Her eyebrows furrowed at this revelation. “Why?” Her question seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. His hat looked in serious danger of being crumpled beyond use, and that was saying plenty, since he’d have to pay a full twenty dollars to replace it. “Because I, er . . . I mean . . .” He released a gusty breath. “You’re an attractive woman, Bailey.” Her lips curved cynically. Other men had told her the same thing right before they’d asked her what the market price was for her sheep. “But I know that doesn’t make kissing you right,” he hurried on. “I want to set matters straight and apologize.” Did that mean he wasn’t ever going to kiss her again? Disappointment pierced the armor of her skepticism. “Why did you wait all this time, then?” He sighed, staring at the uncreased crown of his Stetson. “I know I should have apologized sooner — ” “Hell, I don’t want your apology. I want to know why you waited so long to kiss me.” He blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “Well, it’s like this, Zack. As far as I’ve been able to tell, you didn’t even know I existed until you kissed me one day out of the blue. So when did you decide I was attractive?” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I’ve always thought you were attractive, Bailey.” “You have not.” He gaped at her challenge. “If you’re referring back to the time when I was courting Caitlin, and I called you skinny — ” “You said I’d have to put an anvil in my britches to keep from blowing away.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I did?” “Yeah. And once you said I’d have to stand up twice to cast a shadow. Remember?” 82

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“Well . . .” He cast her a sidelong glance. “I reckon you must have really riled me up for me to say a thing like that.” “I riled you up?” She blew out her breath. “I went and sicced Boo on you that day.” “Now, that I remember.” “’Course, he was only a puppy then,” she said more glumly. “Lucky for me.” Zack flexed his right hand, gazing at the tooth scar below his knuckles. Then he shook his head. “That dog loved the hell out of you, Bailey.” His quiet observation nearly did her in. Biting her lip, she squeezed her eyes closed, struggling hard against the renewed surge of grief and guilt that ripped up her chest. Boo had trusted her. Even when she’d told him to sit, even when she’d raised the gun and pulled the trigger, his yellow wolf’s eyes had never shown anything but loyalty and love for her. Oh, Boo. I’m so sorry. I hate what I had to do to you. I keep praying it was the right thing. . . . The ache swelled from her chest to her throat. She turned her face away, and Zack’s hand closed over hers. “I miss him already,” she whispered. “I know.” He sat with her in silence for many minutes, his leathery fingers wrapped warmly around hers, Boo’s collar gripped between them. As the orange glow beyond her eyelids slowly faded, turning bluer, blacker, with the shift from day to night, she heard the crickets singing to their mates. She heard the tree frogs and an owl, and the voice of some townswoman calling her husband to dinner. Everyone, it seemed, had someone to love. A tear slipped down her cheek. Dropping her head back against the tree, she opened her eyes and stared at the stars, praying to God Zack hadn’t seen her crying. “I’m glad you kissed me, Zack.” His breath caught, and it seemed like a full minute passed before he finally, slowly, released it. “You pack a powerful wallop for a girl who likes being kissed.” “Well . . .” It was her turn to blush. “I didn’t punch you for that.” “You didn’t?” “No. I punched you for saying my daddy spoiled me.” 83

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“Hmm.” His thumb grazed the knuckle of her forefinger. “Then I apologize for that too.” She swallowed, feeling his skin brush hers again. And again. It was nice to know he hadn’t done it the first time by mistake, but his caresses felt scary too. She didn’t worry that he’d overstep his gentlemanly boundaries. That was the last thing she ever worried about with Zack. No, her uneasiness came from sensing things were different. Things had changed between them. Her girlhood fantasy was holding her hand. For the first time ever, her dreams were within reach. Her stomach flipped at the thought. “What do you want from me?” she asked bluntly. His body tensed, his thumb stilled. For a moment, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that her ploy had worked so easily. But a heartbeat later, his thumb began its gentle, deliberate stroking once more. She shivered, uncertainty and confusion chasing down her spine. “I know what I don’t want,” he said softly. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. Think we can call a truce?” His voice had turned husky, and it was her turn to squirm. Tugging her hand from his, she rose in a tightly reined in panic. “Of course,” she said in her most businesslike voice. “I’ve always said neighbors should be neighborly.” He started to climb to his feet. The realization that he would soon be standing over her, the way he’d stood over her a thousand times before, acted like a flash point to her memory. Suddenly she was back in the winner’s circle, his heart pounding into her chest as he arched her backward, his forearm hard around her waist, hugging her hips in steamy intimacy against his. She averted her eyes from his tempting length and stooped, brushing imaginary grasses from her knees. Zack Rawlins was not her beau. He’d held her hand out of kindness; he’d called her attractive to steer her thoughts away from Boo. He’d behaved like a thoughtful neighbor, nothing more. She tried to find some comfort in that. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “I reckon Mac is waiting for me at the saloon. I’ve been gone a long time.” “I’ll walk you back — ” 84

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“I wouldn’t hear of it,” she interrupted briskly, glancing down the road toward the rattle of approaching buggy wheels. “My troubles have detained you long enough.” When she dared to peek at his face, he was frowning. “Bailey, I chose to sit here with you. And I want to walk you back to your horse.” “For heaven’s sake, Zack, I’ll be safe. I’ve got my six-shooter, and the Curly Horn’s just around the block.” “That’s not the point.” “Then what is the point?” His lips tilted in a wry little smile. For an endless moment, he regarded her, his brow furrowed as if he were pondering some weighty decision. The longer his gaze poured into hers, the more it seemed to glow, warm and mesmerizing in the silver shafts of moonlight. She couldn’t break their connection even though she tried. The calling to her female core was simply too strong, too exhilarating. At last he raised his hat to his head. “The point is — ” “Yoo-hoo!” The female greeting jolted Zack and Bailey both, much like fingernails on a school slate. “Well, I declare, Nick, isn’t that Zack Rawlins? Why, I do believe it is!” Amaryllis Larabee called above the sound of clopping hooves. Zack muttered an oath, recognizing the thinly veiled spite in her tone even before he recognized her voice. As Aunt Lally would say, the time had come to pay the piper — which, admittedly, was nothing more than he deserved — but damnation. Why did Amaryllis have to show up when he was about to go beyond the truce-striking stage with Bailey? He’d been thinking he might even like to call on her at the end of the week, just to show more neighborly concern about Boo, of course. But judging by Bailey’s I’d-sooner-claw-your-eyes-out-than-speakto-you look, which she was giving both Nick and Amaryllis at the moment, Zack wasn’t sure his offer would be accepted. Hell. She actually appeared to be jealous. After all the ways Nick had hurt her, did Bailey still have feelings for the cur dog? Nick reined in, halting his buggy alongside the churchyard gate. He was wearing his usual cheesy grin, a crisply starched white shirt, and a turquoise-studded bolo. His vest and pants appeared to be of black 85

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broadcloth, and in the moonlight his boots looked dust-free. Remembering the bath he’d delayed, Zack couldn’t help but stiffen to see his rival so well turned out. Nick might have been five years younger than he, but unlike Zack, he’d never lacked for confidence around women. Even if Zack believed only half the rumors Nick had spread about his persuasiveness with the ladies, he suspected Nick knew just as much as he did about courting. Maybe more. Amaryllis wrinkled her dainty nose. “Oh, and it’s you too, Miss McShane. I thought you were somebody . . . else,” she added breezily. “’Evening, Bailey,” Nick drawled, pushing his hat back with his thumb. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of you since the rodeo.” “After all the whiskey you guzzled, I’m surprised you remember anything you saw at the rodeo,” she retorted none too charitably. “Oh, I remember.” His gaze seemed uncharacteristically sharp when he glanced at Zack. “Some things more than others.” Amaryllis tittered, linking a possessive arm through Nick’s. “He’s talking about my gooseberry pie,” she confided with well-rehearsed modesty. “He kept declaring over and over again how it was the very best in the county, and wouldn’t you know? That blue ribbon I won proved him right. He asked Papa if he could come calling on me right there on the spot.” Sidling closer to Nick, she flashed Zack a syrupy smile. “’Course, Papa was just delighted.” Zack smiled mechanically in return, wondering if he’d been deaf, blind, or just plain stupid to see anything appealing in Amaryllis. Of course, she was well within her right to be uppity with him, after he’d humiliated her in front of the whole county. His only concern was that she’d chosen Nick in her bid for revenge. Beneath her know-it-all bluster lay a desperate need for the attention that her wealthy parents had rarely shown her. Amaryllis was a lamb ripe for slaughter, and Nick was a wolf on the prowl. “Well, Nick,” Bailey said in a strained voice, “it looks like you finally found someone you deserve.” Zack wondered how much of her upset stemmed from grieving over Boo, and how much was a direct result of seeing Nick with his new sweetheart. “Why, thank you, Miss McShane,” Amaryllis cooed. “How nice of you to say so. And how sporting, too, after all that you and Nick have . . . er, meant to each other.” 86

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Zack wished he could spank Amaryllis. Nick, however, appeared to be enjoying the tension between the two women. He gave his sweetheart’s hand an affectionate squeeze, but his eyes remained fixed on Bailey. “Bailey’s a great believer in letting bygones be bygones, aren’t you, hon?” he drawled. “Sometimes more than others.” Stepping forward, she unlatched the gate. “Whatever were you two doing here anyway, after dark?” Amaryllis asked before Bailey could escape. “I mean. Preacher Underhill isn’t here at this time of night. Is he?” Her anxious gaze darted to Zack. “Amaryllis Larabee,” Bailey answered, “if you don’t stop driving around in an open-air carriage with Nick Rotterdam and no chaperone, you’re going to have the answer to that question sooner than you think.” “Well!” Amaryllis puffed up like a bullfrog. “I never.” Nick frowned, watching Bailey as she skirted his horse. “Hey! What were you two doing here? Where’s McTavish?” “None of your damned business,” she snapped, turning a cold shoulder on him. Zack started after her, but Nick kicked off the brake. The buggy rolled forward just enough to trap Zack against the fence, and he glared at the young upstart. “Oops,” Nick said with his trademark grin. “Zack, you wouldn’t . . .” Amaryllis stared down at him. “I mean, you didn’t have to go and marry her, did you?” she whispered in something close to horror. “Of course not,” he said, feeling his neck heat at the very suggestion. “Are you going to let me pass, Rotterdam?” “I reckon.” He was watching Bailey turn down the alley that led to the saloon. “Just as soon as you tell me what you did do to get her so riled up.” Zack thought about reaching across Amaryllis’s lap, grabbing Nick’s collar, and dragging the smart aleck off the carriage. He didn’t give in to temptation only because he recognized a semblance of concern behind Nick’s challenge. “Boo got in a fight today with a rabid coon. She had to shoot him.” “Oh, is that all?” Shrugging, Nick finally backed his mare out of Zack’s way. “Well, it’s good riddance, if you ask me.” 87

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“I didn’t.” Reining in his temper, Zack crossed stiffly in front of the carriage. For his own sake, he would have liked to give Nick a black eye. For Bailey’s, he would have liked to do a whole lot more. At twenty-one years of age, the Rotterdam heir had already caused more brawls, more scandals, and more broken hearts than had Zack and both of his brothers combined. Frankly, Nick Rotterdam was a sorry excuse for a man, and Zack couldn’t imagine what Bailey still saw in him. In his hurry, Zack’s long strides made short work of the moonlit alley that connected Church Street to Main. But if he’d hoped to catch Bailey and ask whether she’d finally come to her senses about Nick, he was sadly disappointed. By the time he reached the Curly Horn’s hitching post, both her horse and McTavish’s were gone.

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Seven After the talk with Bailey in the churchyard, Zack grew more and more confused about the way things stood between them. One minute she’d been telling him she liked his kisses, the next, she’d been picking a fight with him. He’d never been attracted to a woman that forthright before — or that downright ornery. Was she interested in sparking with him or not? And if she was, was he willing to face the political repercussions? At least with Amaryllis, Zack had always known where he stood. She’d set her cap for him because she had some idyllic fantasy about living the life of a wealthy rancher’s wife. Zack suspected Amaryllis would have lasted less than a week as a rancher’s wife. However, he’d been slow to convince himself of that, since he’d been hoping to further his acquaintance with Judge Larabee. Now he wished he’d told Amaryllis from the beginning that he was flattered by her attention, but that a match between them would have been as long-lasting as a cold freeze in San Antonio. He’d finally come to realize that a pretty sweetheart with an influential father wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Unfortunately, he could trace this revelation back to the very same moment when Bailey had gotten under his skin. Zack wasn’t sure why the legs he’d seen a thousand times should suddenly make his insides heat, or the mouth he’d so often longed to muzzle should suddenly tempt his lips beyond restraint. One thing was certain though: He couldn’t keep mooning over Bailey. As desirable as kissing her was, he doubted he could endure that mouth of hers for very long. He’d worked too hard building his political future to let his baser instincts keep him from someday sitting in the state 89

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legislature, or maybe even the governor’s mansion. He’d be safer taking the high road, ignoring any longing he might have for the sheepherding wildcat next door, and find himself a nice cattleman’s daughter who could spark his fancy. Still, as long as Bailey was his neighbor, he’d have to live beside her in a peaceful way. He’d taken the first step by striking a truce with her, and he planned to honor it. He wanted to prove to her — and to himself — that he could be a good friend, not just a randy suitor. That was why he was so pleased Friday afternoon when the perfect opportunity came his way. Nearly four days had passed since Boo’s burial, and Zack had been wanting to pay his respects. He’d been hesitant to act on the impulse though, since Bailey always seemed to give him a hard time over such courtesies. Then Merrilee, Wes’s adopted daughter, gave Zack an idea when he found her playing on Cord’s doorstep with her kitten. The Indian child was gently scolding the tabby for latching its baby claws onto the great satin bow that was drooping from its neck. Fragments of crimson ribbon littering the stoop around her, Merrilee sat patiently constructing a new bow to replace the shredded one, while the kitten inched its belly along the ground, stalking the length of satin that was snaking between Merrilee’s fingers. “Hello, Uncle Zack,” the child called, and smiled her usual shy smile. His attention diverted by the drought, his thinning herds, and his growing preoccupation with his neighbor’s kisses, Zack nearly bowled over his niece and her furry playmate before he realized they were in his way. He halted before them, managing a smile. “Pocahontas and I came to make bows for the puppies,” she explained, gazing up at him with ocean-sized brown eyes, “so they will look pretty for the children. Where are all the puppies, Uncle Zack?” Zack blinked at her, taking a moment to realize she was referring to the last two whelps of Reb’s litter, which he’d gladly given away to the county orphanage the day before. Between the hounds owned by his brothers’ boys, and the bossy pup he’d decided to keep for himself, the ranch had enough dogs to feed. “Er, they’ve already gone to their new home, Merrilee. I’m sorry.” 90

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“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. Settling Pocahontas in her lap, Merrilee began the thankless task of looping the new bow around the playful kitten’s neck. “Do you think Runt would like a bow?” “Runt?” She nodded, her black pigtails bobbing. “That’s what Topher calls your puppy, ’cause he’s so scrawny-looking.” Zack shook his head in amusement. It was true the pup was small, but he was a fearless fur ball of a tyrant, with a brash bark and a keen mind. He had run circles around the rest of Reb’s litter, but local ranchers like Rotterdam, who’d come to buy pups, had valued size and strength over intelligence. “I’m sure that, er . . . Reb’s son” — surely, Zack told himself, he could come up with a less ignominious name than Runt — “would be mighty pleased to have a bow.” Merrilee smiled, holding Pocahontas up to admire her handiwork. The kitten swiped futile paws at the bow now tucked behind her head and out of reach. Pocahontas mewed, sounding peevish. “Do you think Miss Bailey would like a kitten?” Zack started. Bailey was the last topic he’d expected to come up between him and Merrilee — even though Wes was encouraging the child to draw big fat hearts pierced by arrows and teaching her how to spell their neighbor’s name. Every time Zack thought about his brother’s matchmaking, he wanted to throttle him. “I don’t know,” he said warily. “Why?” Merrilee turned grave eyes on him. “Because Miss Bailey is sad about Boo,” she said in her wiser-than-her-years voice, “and when I am sad, Pocahontas makes me happy.” As slow as Zack sometimes was to use his imagination, he liked to think he made up for it on occasion with bursts of divine insight. This was one of those occasions. He thanked Merrilee for the inspiration. Within the hour, he had bathed, shaved, and changed, and was riding westward to the McShane spread with a dashing red-ribboned puppy balanced eagerly on his lap. The first thing Zack always noticed when he rode into the sixty-acre box canyon that sheltered Bailey’s pride breeders and her lambs was the near absence of people. More windmills dotted the gently rolling landscape, with its spring-fed pastures and barbed-wire fences, than did pastores. An occasional Mexican ranch hand might be seen with his 91

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shepherd’s crook and dog, and sometimes Zack would spy the pastores’ families harvesting apples from Bailey’s orchard or a team of workers drilling a well. But for the most part, the McShane outfit was a virtual ghost town when compared with his spread. Of course, Bailey didn’t have nine nieces and nephews romping through her yard, or a half dozen adult relatives scurrying in and out of her buildings, which probably accounted for the peace Zack always felt the minute he climbed the canyon walls and gazed down on the pastoral setting of her home. A plume of smoke spiraled upward from the chimney of the roughhewn cedar ranch house with its tin roof and sprawling porch. The family’s big house nestled in the curve of Bailey’s much-envied stream, which, thanks to Patrick McShane’s windmills, glistened like a spring of sapphires as it wound down to a cluster of weather-beaten buildings that stood a half mile away. Dominating that group was the barn, and adjacent to its rustic gray walls were the smokehouse, toolshed, chicken coop, and a shack Zack knew to be McTavish’s sleeping quarters. Beyond the ranch buildings were pens holding goats and sheep, fleecy white dandelion puffs with legs, which grazed against the backdrop of browning grasses, a hard blue sky, and chalky limestone walls. Zack inhaled deeply, for once unoffended by the sheep and goat odors. He smelled precious water on the wind, and he sighed, attributing the scent to Bailey’s spring. How much longer would this damned drought go on? It occurred to him, as Boss descended into the canyon, that Bailey was one of the county’s few ranchers who could still adequately water her livestock. That could mean additional trouble for her, and not just from thirsty predators like One Toe that were descending from the hills. Desperate cattle ranchers who thought her springs were wasted on sheep and goats might try to force her hand. As much as she liked to pretend she could fend for herself, eight pastores wouldn’t be much of an army if she found herself caught in a range war. God, how Zack wished the cattlemen and sheepherders would go back to their usual civil relations. Maybe then he could enjoy campaigning for reelection. With the puppy squirming in excitement and barking uproariously at the ewes, Zack somehow managed to keep a grip on his gift and 92

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his reins. He saw no one stirring around the big house, where, to the best of his knowledge, Bailey lived alone, so he skirted the sycamorelined shores of the peninsular driveway to Bailey’s home. The bridge that crossed the stream was at least a wagon wide, and the echo of Boss’s hooves on the planks startled a gaggle of geese. They dived into the water, honking in indignation. The puppy happily hurled canine challenges after them, and Zack, juggling the little noisemaker to his other arm, wondered if his gift would bring an end to the pastoral peace. As Zack halted Boss inside the circle of ranch buildings, Bailey herself emerged from the barn, looking flushed and agitated. The normally tight weave of her braid had slipped, spilling tendrils of wheatcolored hair across her cheeks and throat. Her blue jeans looked a tad the worse for wear, soiled as they were with splotches of mud and damp straw. She shadowed her eyes against the setting sun, squinting up at him in a way that suggested she hadn’t at first recognized him. When she did, a brighter shade of crimson stole up her cheeks. “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 con93

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cerned 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 his hat back, 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 hardpressed 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 his neck back 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. 94

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“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 nicking 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 panicinduced 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.” 95

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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 threequarter-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 redbrown color as the cow’s flank. She 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. 96

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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 a brow 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 dwarfsized 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. 97

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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 98

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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. Yet to watch him, to hear him, one would think he cared nothing at all for those inconveniences. One would think he put as much stock as she did in a heifer he’d never before laid eyes on, and that he was as eager as she to witness a four-legged blessing as it came into the world. “We’ve got the hindquarters,” he called triumphantly. Bailey breathed another prayer, this one of gratitude mixed with hope. “Aye, and the head,” Mac huffed moments later, his ruddy features creasing in a grin. There was no need for Mac and the rope after that, since the calf’s forelegs followed naturally, sliding into the straw after the rest of its 99

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body. Zack untied the hemp, and Bailey scrambled up the stall wall to let Buttercup twist her neck and peer behind her. “Come on. Buttercup,” Mac urged, squatting down to give the beast’s rump a helpful shove. “Ye did yerself proud, graduating from heifer to cow today. On yer feet now. Time to greet ye’re bairn.” Zack scooped the dazed red and white calf into his arms and deposited it near its mother’s nose. The baby heifer flailed feebly, seeking the musty warmth of Buttercup’s flank, and Bailey, sitting on the wall, watched anxiously as the cow sniffed her newborn. “C’mon, Buttercup,” she murmured, shifting her buttocks impatiently on her splintered seat. “C’mon, stand up. You can do it.” Zack stepped back to join her, offering his silent support during that crucial, agonizing moment — a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time. If Buttercup was permanently paralyzed, she would have to be destroyed. Bailey held her breath as Buttercup’s great body heaved. The cow’s forelegs thrashed, and she rolled onto her belly. “The hindquarters, girl,” Bailey heard herself mutter, vaguely aware she was wringing her hands. “Throw your hips into it.” Slowly, as if the entire world were operating at molasses speed. Bailey watched Buttercup drag her rear knees under her weight. She saw Mac’s slow nod; she heard Buttercup’s long-drawn-out breaths and the steady, drumlike beating of Zack’s heart — or maybe the echo in her ears was her pulse. Then Buttercup’s knees trembled. They held. She hiked her tail and thrust her rump into the air. Her head, neck, and forelegs quickly followed. Bailey was so happy, she whooped. If she’d had her hat, she would have thrown it into the air. Instead, she threw herself sideways, hugging Zack’s neck to thank him, and planted a wet kiss on his lips. She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by that kiss, him or her. She’d meant to kiss his cheek, but he’d turned so quickly when she’d whooped, perhaps thinking she was falling, that he’d thrown off her aim, and her balance. The next thing she knew, she was toppling off the wall, flailing like a windmill until he caught her in his arms. She knew a breathless moment, blinking up into his eyes, feeling his heart thumping against her breasts. In a rush of heat that had little to do with the summer night, she felt her skin sizzle and her nerves spark, 100

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shooting electrical currents to her toes. The sensations left her mystified — and more than a little intrigued. Never before had she been able to tolerate more than a perfunctory hug from her daddy, Mac, or any of her suitors. In fact, she had never been able to understand why Caitlin would practically purr with anticipation, relishing the thought of a beau’s embrace. As Bailey understood it, hugging led to kissing, kissing to mating, and mating to children. No mystery there. But with Zack’s body pressed close to hers. Bailey at last had an inkling of the comforts a manly embrace might bring. She wished she could explore this newfound pleasure further; she wished, with a pang of guilt, that the pastores weren’t on their way to the house and that Mac had long since retired to his sleeping quarters. She even dared to wish Zack would kiss her again, as he had at the rodeo, only longer and more leisurely this time, so she could finally learn what she’d missed when she’d run off all her beaux. Her face warming with embarrassment and an unexpected yearning, she forced herself to make light of their intimacy. “Nice catch, cowboy,” she said with brassy brightness, “but you can save yourself the trouble next time if you’d just pucker up.” Zack’s face turned as red as the sunset behind him. When he hastily set her on her feet, she hoped he wouldn’t notice the trembling in her legs. They felt like melted butter. Eager to put their relationship back on its safe, familiar footing, she pointed, directing his attention to his patients. “Well, what d’ya know, Zack?” Buttercup had accepted her calf and was eagerly licking its fur. Bailey turned to Mac — her rock, her confidant — and winked. “Looks like you and Zack are fathers now. Reckon that makes me a mother.” Mac held her gaze for a long, deliberate moment before stooping and gathering up the rope, broomstick, and stool. She was surprised, not to mention discomfited, by his reticence. Usually Mac was as excited about babies as she was, but he’d had a long afternoon, and she supposed he was tired. After all, lambing was never as much work as calving. “Someone best go tell Jerky he has a new baby to spoil,” she said, trying again to dispel the tension, “or we’ll never hear the end of it. Reckon I can do that when I wash for chow. You’re staying, aren’t you, Zack?” 101

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He glanced at Mac, who kept his gaze riveted on his task, and his jaw squared. Fidgeting, Zack looked down his soiled length. “Reckon I’m not too presentable right now — ” She waved away his protest. “You can use Mac’s shower bath. It’s right around the corner. Seems like the least we can do after all your help is put some vittles in your belly and fit you with new duds.” She crossed her arms, sizing him up. “Hmm. Someone on this ranch has gotta have legs as long as yours. I still have a trunk full of Daddy’s old clothes. . . .” “Uh, that’s okay,” he said quickly. “I have some spare rigging in my saddlebag. Don’t ever travel without it, seeing as how I never know when I’ll be spending a night or two on the range.” Mac snorted, dunking his hands in a pail of water and lathering his arms with soap. Bailey tossed him an exasperated look. She was beginning to suspect weariness wasn’t the only thing messing with her foreman’s mood. If he had something to say, why didn’t he just say it? “That’s good to know,” she said to Zack, reaching for his hat and sailing it to him with practiced skill. His eyes lit appreciatively, and when he caught it, she grinned. “Then you can mosey on over to the big house when you’re ready. Deal?” “Deal.” His smile was fleeting, almost bashful as he set the Stetson on his head and tipped the brim. Turning, he headed into the barnyard, and Bailey stifled an admiring growl when she watched his buttocks, so enticingly taut and round, fade into the pewter blue of the coming night. Too bad she and Zack could never be more than neighbors . . . Feeling Mac’s gaze on her again, she cleared her throat and closed Buttercup’s stall door, stepping briskly to join him at the bucket. “I feel like celebrating. How ’bout you?” she asked. “It depends.” He plucked a ragged towel from a wall peg and scrubbed his arms dry with such briskness, he left them nearly as red as the hair sprinkled over them. “What are ye celebrating, lass?” “The birth, of course.” “Ah.” She frowned, shaking the water from her own hands. “I should think another dairy cow is cause for a whoop and a holler at least. You got some reason to be so solemn?” 102

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His smile was dry as he passed her the towel. “Not if ye know what ye’re about.” She sighed. God knew, she loved the man, but not his riddles. “You want to shoot from the hip, or are you just going to take potshots at me all night long?” Some of the old humor flickered in his smoke-colored eyes. “Ye sure ye can take a straight shot, then?” “Give it your best.” “All right. Bailey, lass, I’m worried about ye. For all yer spit and fire, ye’re still green when it comes to sparking.” “What, you mean that wisecrack I made to Zack about puckering up?” She snorted, tossing the towel over the manger with a nonchalance that, she hoped, hid her embarrassment. “Come on, Mac. I was only pulling his leg.” “I know, lass. But I canna say he does.” She groaned inwardly. Zack was so serious half the time, may he hadn’t thought she was teasing. But then, would that be so awful? The question was a disconcerting one. Unlike Amaryllis, Bailey knew next to nothing about she-stuff and sparking. She could talk cows and ranching all night long with Zack Rawlins if she had to, but when it came to behaving like a lady . . . well, the very idea made her knees weak. She was bound to say or do something wrong, and then Zack would laugh at her. She couldn’t bear for him to ridicule her unschooled femininity. That was why she’d always been so careful to show him her good side — her male side. “If Zack Rawlins can’t take a joke after living with his brother Wes his whole life long,” she said testily, “something’s wrong with him. Besides, I’ve always made it clear to Zack I’m courting his friendship, not his acreage. Things haven’t been too neighborly between our spreads since Daddy died — well, since Caitlin eloped, truth to tell — and I’d like to see that change. We could use a cattleman on our side. God knows. Hank Rotterdam isn’t going to do us any favors.” “Is that what ye want, lass? A favor?” “You know very well what I want,” she fired back, not deceived for a moment by Mac’s carefully neutral tone. The man was hell-bent on suspecting the worst of Zack, and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why, other than that Zack was a cattleman, of course. “I want peace of mind. I want an end to these damned range wars. I 103

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want to know my livestock have only coyotes, cougars, and wolves to fear.” “What do ye think he wants?” “The same things, most likely.” Mac didn’t look convinced, and she muttered an oath, her good mood rapidly rolling downhill. “Look, Mac. Among other things, I’ve got a drought to worry about. And so does Zack. We don’t have time for a courtship.” “The lad’s got more than droughts on his mind, lass, judging by that kiss he gave ye at the rodeo.” Her face turned chili-pepper hot. She should have known Mac’s silence about that incident wouldn’t go on forever. It was moments like these when she was sorely tempted to remind him who was the boss and who was the foreman. “Is that so?” She tossed her head. “Well, I think I did a pretty good job of putting him in his place that day, don’t you?” “Hmm.” Mac’s diplomacy was belied by the challenge in his eyes. “Ye rattled his horns a bit, that’s for certain.” “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I slugged him to encourage him?” “’Fess up, lass. Ye didn’t mind him kissing ye one bit.” “I did too!” she lied, too ashamed to admit otherwise. Mac had feelings, and she didn’t want to step on them. After all, when he’d refused to let her sacrifice her virginity to him, she’d led him to believe she desired him sexually. She couldn’t very well tell him now that moonshine and hurt pride had been talking for her that night. “I’ve got my life, and I’ve got my sheep, and I don’t need some cow-poke coming along to muck up either one of them.” “So ye’re against cowpokes, eh, not husbands?” She fidgeted. Why did she suddenly feel like he’d opened an old can of worms? “Mac, you know very well how I feel about husbands. They have to like sheep. And they have to love me.” And not just like a father loves a daughter either, she added silently. For the sake of that precious paternal love, though, some things were better left unsaid. Mac had his pride too. “I’m not marrying any man out of convenience or desperation,” she continued firmly. “He’s got to be the right match, the perfect mate, 104

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someone who belongs on this ranch as much as I do myself. He might not make himself known anytime soon, of course. Heck, he might not come along at all. But I figure there’re worse things than being alone through life. I watched Daddy suffer long enough with my mother to know that.” “Bailey, love,” Mac said quietly, “I wouldna take loneliness so lightly.” “I’m a sheepherder, Mac. I’m used to being alone.” “That may be, lass. But a man’s a creature of comfort. He likes to have a woman by his side.” “I reckon women must be different, then. I don’t need a man that way.” Mac’s smile was melancholy. “Ye’re young yet, lass. Ye’ve got time to change yer mind.” She shrugged, busying herself with the task of rolling down her sleeves. “I’ve got all I’ll ever need right here, Mac. A mate would just be like an extra helping of cream.” He was silent so long, she glanced up, wondering what he could possibly be thinking. She noticed his eyes had turned a rainy shade of gray. “Well, then, lass,” he said quietly. “I just hope ye recognize this perfect mate of yers before he gets tired of waiting around for ye to need him.”

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Eight As he pulled the chain on the shower bath sluice, Zack gritted his teeth, grateful for the ice-cold spring water that flooded the compartment. More than that, he was glad for the wilting effect the chill had on his more heated parts. Confound Bailey, he couldn’t decide what to think of her behavior in the barn. But then, when had that girl ever made things easy? He smiled crookedly at that thought before forcing his mind back to a stern practicality. He’d gone there for one reason and one reason only: to start mending fences with his neighbor. Therefore, it had seemed natural at the time of his arrival to offer his assistance while Buttercup calved. Considering the ill will between him and McTavish, particularly after the rodeo, he supposed he should have expected the Scot’s less-thancordial welcome. What Zack couldn’t possibly have anticipated, though, was Bailey’s boisterous sparking — and in front of a man who clearly hoped to win her. Even Amaryllis, when she’d wanted to kiss him good-bye at the doorstep, had limited herself to hinting with eye fluttering and sighs. She’d never jumped bodily into his arms. Not that he’d minded Bailey’s unconventional way of getting her point across, he thought with that same unbidden smile. He liked knowing his advances were welcome. In most cases, a man was simply supposed to read a woman’s mind when it came to sparking, and Zack had always resented being forced to grope in the dark, so to speak. Since a female rarely divulged beyond a shadow of a doubt her sparking preference, be it a caress, a hug, or a peck, a man had to take his chances, praying the moon was right and the stars were 106

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agreeable, and that her daddy wasn’t within shouting distance with his scattergun. Bailey’s newest invitation to kiss her came as a welcome relief to a man who wasn’t comfortable being forward. Or it should have. But she was a McShane — and, worse, a sheepherder. He groaned, shaking the water from his hair and combing the strands back with rough fingers. He couldn’t imagine a quicker way to political disaster than courting Bailey McShane. His secret affair with Marybeth Clemens would surely pale in comparative sinfulness. Smiling ruefully, Zack reached for his ruined shirt and sopped up the water still clinging to the chestnut hair on his arms and legs. Marybeth Clemens. He hadn’t thought about her for a good long spell, not since he’d heard she’d borne her third son, and that had been nearly four years earlier. He’d met her shortly after Caitlin McShane had eloped, leaving him to choke on her cloud of dust. Eighteen, painfully bashful, and wounded to his virgin’s core, he’d met the “widow” Clemens and her two boys when he’d gone hunting for mavericks across the Kerr County line. Their wagon wheel had rolled loose, and Marybeth was at a loss to fix it. He obliged, and before he knew it, he was back on her farm, eating her fried chicken, talking woefully about Caitlin, holding Marybeth’s hand . . . and letting her lead him into her bedroom. Their affair lasted nearly six months, and he’d told no one, not even Wes, because he’d been too embarrassed to admit to his younger brother that he’d waited three years longer than Wes to become a man. Eventually, he came to fancy himself in love with Marybeth, and he even decided to ask her to marry him, despite their nearly fifteen-year age difference. Hat and flowers in hand, he’d been on his way to propose to the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, when he found Robert Clemens’s horse hitched to Marybeth’s front porch rail. Apparently her so-called dead husband had only been detained and imprisoned in Mexico; later she claimed she’d been as shocked as Zack to discover the truth. He fidgeted at the old, forgotten pain. Caitlin, Marybeth, Amaryllis. In the name of love, they’d all used him in their schemes to get someone else, something more, or somewhere further. He was almost tempted to ask Bailey what the devil she 107

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wanted from him. He wasn’t charming like Wes, or heroic like Cord. If he were, he’d have heaps of women trying to marry him instead of casting him aside like some old worn-out boot. That’s why he couldn’t figure out Bailey’s game back in the barn. Had she wanted to make McTavish jealous? Frowning, Zack tugged his blue jeans up over his rump and stabbed his arms into the sleeves of his pale-green cotton shirt. Well, McTavish could have her, he thought sullenly. He hadn’t come there to court her. He hadn’t come to roll her in the hay either, despite what her foreman clearly thought. The Scot’s disbelieving snort, when Zack had mentioned his spare set of duds, hadn’t been lost on him. Finished dressing, Zack trotted Boss over the wooden planks of the bridge that linked the barnyard to the big house’s yard. He found that Bailey and three of her pastores were waiting for him on the porch — or so he thought until he drew close enough to realize they were all eagerly speculating on whether the cloud that had rolled over the canyon might burst into rain. He dismounted, tethering Boss to the hitching post beside the porch steps, and tuned his ears to the buzz of conversation. As usual, Bailey was in the midst of the debate, as Pokey happily crunched a marrowfilled bone by her feet. Zack wasn’t much interested in Pokey though. His gaze was drawn like a magnet to the clingy softness of Bailey’s fresh cotton shirt. The rounded curves that it hugged were in marked contrast to the brassy angles of the too-large buckle that anchored the belt encircling her waist. Judging by its size, Zack suspected the buckle had once been her father’s, a memento of some shearing contest, perhaps, since it was a bit on the ornate side. It was the one vanity he had ever seen Bailey allow herself, and he smiled, remembering the day she’d strode into Preacher Underwood’s church bazaar and clunked down a bag of her mother’s earbobs, pendants, brooches, and bracelets. “Sell it all, preacher, and keep the proceeds for the orphans,” the sixteen-year-old Bailey had told the flabbergasted cleric. “Caitlin took all the trinkets she wants, so I don’t see much sense in keeping the rest. I can’t shear my sheep wearing fofarraw.” Bailey had once again made herself the talk of town gossips that day, Zack mused, most of whom had dubbed her shameful for discarding her mother’s heirlooms. Yet with their next breaths, they had 108

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demanded from Preacher Underwood the price he would charge for the ivory and silver Bailey had donated. Zack’s mind wandered back to his inspection of the woman herself. He told himself he had no business assessing Bailey’s appearance, especially when his gaze touched the golden sheaf of hair that fell to her waist. He couldn’t quite keep from noticing, however, how she’d brushed it out, opting to keep it loosely bound instead of braiding it as usual. His gaze traveled appreciatively over the ripples that gleamed like amber fire, thanks to the wedge of lamplight that spilled from the doorway. In spite of his better sense, his gaze was drawn irresistibly lower. He admired the long, firm thighs he’d watch grip many a pony’s withers, and the sleek calves encased in the soft leather of her high-heeled, round-toed Justins. Unlike the sass and flash of her buckle, her boots were no-nonsense muleys and sported none of the elaborate tooling — or fumadiddle, as he derisively called it — so often worn by East Coast dudes who fancied themselves real ranchers. But then, for better or worse, Bailey was a real rancher. A real sheep rancher. The rising warmth in his loins cooled a bit at the thought, but not enough to give him the respite the shower bath had. He wondered how in good conscience he could walk into the woman’s home and eat dinner at her table with his private parts so eager to make her acquaintance. Heat rose to his neck as he imagined himself indulging in a luscious, sweet-lipped dessert, and he was immensely grateful a heartbeat later when her voice, with its intriguing blend of burr and drawl, distracted him from his forbidden fantasies. “You’d best not count your chickens — or in this case, your ducks — before they hatch, Ramirez,” she said, slapping the shoulder of one whiskered, middle-aged Mexican who’d optimistically worn his yellow fish to the house. “I hear Sheriff Jackson arrested a man a while back ’cause he was wearing his slicker.” Ramirez’s eyes practically bugged out. “But, señorita,” he protested anxiously, “it is not a crime to wear the slicker in Tejas, no?” She nodded, her expression solemn. “’Fraid it is in drought season, Ramirez. Sheriff Jackson said the man was out disturbing the peace.” Zack half smiled as the pastores all murmured in Spanish, trying to decide whether or not their boss was pulling their legs. 109

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“Dinna worry yerself, lads,” McTavish called from his perch on the railing. “Sheriff Jackson is not likely to leave the Bullwhip long enough to come chasing ye out here.” “Señorita,” another pastore said, turning his battered felt hat in his hands, “do you think, if it rains, the vaqueros will be satisfied and will keep their cows away from our spring?” Bailey’s jaw hardened, and she glanced Zack’s way. The pastores followed her lead. It was the first time, as Zack stood quietly by his horse, that any of the Mexicans seemed to pay him any mind. Or maybe, as the cattlemen did, the pastores had formed a sort of fraternity that ostracized any man who dared to befriend the enemy. “What do you think, Zack?” she asked. Now that he’d been noticed, Zack wasn’t entirely sure he appreciated becoming the focus of five unwavering stares. “Well,” he began carefully, “that’s hard to say. Chances are that cloud’s carrying only a dry rain anyway, like the last couple of thunderheads whose raindrops evaporated before they ever reached the ground. As for Miss Bailey’s spring, all the cattle ranchers in the county signed a pledge to her, saying they wouldn’t cross the McShane boundary line till after the contest is settled. I reckon they mean to stand by their word.” Silence answered his speculation, but the doubt in the air was far heavier than the trace of rain that blew down from the canyon walls and taunted the thirsty sycamores. It made him wonder if he might not be wiser to make his excuses and skip dinner, even though he’d have to ride a good two hours to get home, and his belly rumbled at the thought of munching beef jerky on the trail for a meal. But Bailey smiled at him. Smiled kindly, in fact. She alone looked like she wasn’t ready to call for tar and feathers. “See? I told y’all that cowpokes could be reasonable.” She winked at Zack. “Besides, our spring’s not in any danger. This here’s just a little bitty dry spell,” she added drolly, hooking her thumbs over her belt. “Why, my daddy told me that back in sixty-four, this ranch went so long without rain, the fish in yonder creek carried toadstools for parasols.” A couple of smiles broke out on the weather-lined faces. “But, Señorita McShane,” said a youngish, slender Mexican whose eyelashes were thicker than his facial hair, “what if this drought is like that drought of sixty-four?” 110

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“It won’t matter, Vasquez,” she said firmly. “My daddy made sure we’d never go dry again when he dug the wells and erected windmills.” Her assurance seemed to bring the pastores relief, and Zack had to admire how convincing her show of confidence was. Bailey had an easy way with her ranch hands, and they seemed to have faith in her leadership. He wondered, though, if she privately doubted the capacity of her wells. He found himself wondering, too, whom she turned to when she needed to unburden herself from her ranching concerns. Was it McTavish? He glanced at the Scot, who sat with one boot propped beneath him, the other swinging to some agitated inner rhythm. For once McTavish wasn’t glaring at him. He was looking at the roiling expanse of cloud cover that blotted out the stars and nearly swallowed the light of the moon. An angle iron clanged. The dinner signal came from somewhere behind the house, and Pokey eagerly raised his head, his ears pricked. Bailey laughed at the pup. “Know all about that sound, do you? I reckon lots of dinners get served on the Rawlins spread. No wonder you’ve got the makings of a belly.” She grinned at Zack as the pastores filed past her into the house. “What other bad habits do I need to train him out of?” He couldn’t help but smile at her teasing. Thanks to Cord’s four children, Pokey was on the verge of graduating from apprentice to master moocher. “He likes to chase things. If it has a couple of legs and runs, that’s even better.” Bailey shook her head, tossing him a mischievous glance as she scooped the dog and its bone into her arms. “Hmm. Then I hope you run fast, Pokey dog. I’ve got a ram who doesn’t take guff from anybody. Not even Pris.” As Zack doffed his hat, following Bailey inside, he realized little had been changed in the house since her father’s death — even since Caitlin’s elopement. Bailey might be the lady of the house, but she apparently didn’t devote her spare time to decorating. No needlework, timepieces, porcelain figurines, or photographs adorned the first-floor rooms, although the sitting room did have an open trunk filled to overflowing with books. In fact, the sitting room, which had always served as the family gathering place on the Rawlins spread, had an unmistakably masculine 111

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feel, thanks to its gun racks, animal trophies, cushionless rockers, and boot-scuffed floorboards. None of the windows bore curtains, and a thin veneer of dust was the closest thing to a carpet on any of the floors. The downstairs was tidy though, so tidy, one might think Bailey didn’t do her living there. Passing down the hallway, Zack stole a glance up the wooden stairs with their plain railing, but he saw little to convince him that Bailey spent much of her time on the second floor either. The gallery-style landing was bare of potted plants, chests of drawers, and chairs. Two of the three doors were closed. Only one wall bracket held a lamp, and it looked in need of kerosene. Zack wondered what Bailey did after dark, rattling around in this big, empty house without children to tuck in or a husband to make the midnight oil burn a lot hotter. Did she ever get lonely? Like he sometimes did? To Zack’s amazement, he soon found the dining room was as spartan as the rest of the house. He wondered at the lack of porcelain and silver on the bare oak table, for he knew Bailey’s ranch was profitable, and by all rights she should be able to afford such indulgences. Because she had never struck him as a penny-pincher, he could only assume she had no interest in setting a fine table, much less keeping house. She clearly kept Jerky around to feed her hired hands, so Zack suspected she couldn’t cook worth a damn either. How on earth did she expect to catch herself a husband? He was distracted from his thoughts when Jerky slammed a platter of lamb chops down in front of him. Bailey, seated to his right at the head of the table, eyed him with amusement. He could feel the silent challenge in Mac’s gaze all the way from the foot of the table, and the pastores, to a man, paused in mid-service, their ladles or forks hovering in the air. Meanwhile, the irascible dwarf — Zack decided Jerky had been aptly named — folded his arms, and remained standing beside Zack in a fairly good imitation of intimidation, except that Zack could never be intimidated by a man whose head didn’t reach his ear. He smiled politely. “I take it that’s the mutton?” “Yep.” Jerky fixed him with a hard, fierce glare, a pronged instrument like a pitchfork rising out of his gnarled fist. “You eatin’?” “Yep.” 112

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Zack reached for the platter. Jerky snorted, and Bailey chuckled, spooning a hearty helping of boiled potatoes onto her plate. Zack wasn’t sure whether Jerky was disappointed or satisfied as he stomped away with Pokey, but the pup’s feelings were clear. He gazed forlornly over the cook’s shoulder at the feast that would never be his. The meal passed amicably after that. Zack said little, but he did a lot of listening. As the Cattlemen’s president, he’d always tried not to voice his prejudices against his sheepherding neighbors, and he’d come to think of his silence as proof that he’d finally learned to let bygones be bygones. That night he realized just how many biases he still had, and how many of them were unfounded. For instance, mutton tasted good. Damned good, in fact. It didn’t curdle a man’s stomach, twist a man’s mind, or any other such nonsense. It was just another source of meat, for God’s sake, and yet, if Hank Rotterdam had caught him dishing a second “plate of sheep,” he would have been drummed off the board and out of the county. Then there was the cattlemen’s overall impression that sheepherders were crazy. Listening to Bailey talk about her plans to raise Angora goats to offset financial losses during the drought, Zack’s instinctive cattleman’s protest dissolved in a flood of admiration. The girl had a head for business all right. Her idea even made him wonder if diversifying livestock might not be in his best interests too. Zack also wondered during the course of the evening just how much truth was in the cattlemen’s vociferous claims that sheep were largely responsible for the county’s water crisis, since, according to sentiment, sheep drank more water than steers. Curiously, cattlemen, not sheepherders, seemed to be the ones hardest hit by the drought. If Bailey’s spread was any indication, sheepherders could water several armies of livestock and still have enough left over to irrigate a fodder crop. Meanwhile Zack, like the rest of his colleagues, woke every morning praying he could keep his bulls, yearlings, and breeding cows alive until a drill struck new water or the clouds burst. God knew, he didn’t want to sell his herds for two dollars a head, which was the offer some speculators were making to desperate cattlemen who’d already driven their steers to market and were now facing the loss of their breeders and calves. 113

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When the conversation turned to Old One Toe, Zack found himself sympathizing with his sheepraising neighbors. “Señorita McShane,” Vasquez said, fiddling with his coffee cup. He leaned sideways, as if to confer with her privately. “You have been kind to send my little Pedro the potassium gargle for his quinsy, and I will repay you for the quinine powder and the doctor’s fee, but . . .” He took a long, shuddering breath before continuing in a hush. “It is my sad duty to ask once again for your favor. My cousin Esteban, you see, has been mauled by el diablo and I am without the means to — to pay for his stone marker.” Vasquez had practically whispered this last piece of information, but everyone had heard. Silence fell like a thunderclap over the table. Bailey’s shocked gaze darted to Mac, and he looked just as horrified as she was by the news. “Benito,” she said gently, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. When did this happen?” The young man’s face twisted with grief. “It was yesterday, señorita, on Señor Cole’s hacienda. El diablo, the one you call Old One Toe, left his tracks in Esteban’s blood. There were several sheep carcasses, along with the dog’s . . .” Vasquez shuddered, raising moist eyes to Bailey’s. “La puma es loco, I think. Or else, like el diablo, he taunts us.” Zack bit his tongue on an oath. Damn that cougar, would it take a thunderbolt from heaven to kill him? “I’m sorry too, lad,” McTavish said quietly. “I know ye were dose to yer cousin. I hate to press ye, but I have to know. Did Cole say how it happened?” “No, señor. Only that Esteban’s rifle was not fired, and that the dog’s entrails were, uh — ” He glanced uncomfortably at Bailey. “He died trying to protect his master, we think.” “Damnation.” Bailey drummed her fingers on the table. “It was bad enough when One Toe killed just sheep — ” “And cattle,” Zack interjected grimly, no longer willing to sit in silence. “If man-killing isn’t incentive to bring that bastard in, I don’t know what is. Tell your cousin’s family,” he continued, addressing Vasquez, “and Rob Cole too, that they can count on me and my Winchester if they need us.” Vasquez dropped his eyes. “Gracias, señor.” 114

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“That’s very generous of you, Zack.” Bailey gave him a strained but warm smile. “It’s nice to have a cattleman on our side for a change.” Zack fidgeted at her gratitude. He’d only done what came naturally. He hadn’t thought of his offer as siding with the sheepmen, but rather as the humane thing every man should do. Still, it was nice to see her eyes go all misty soft. McTavish cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to Cole about the headstone. I’m sure between our two ranches we can come up with something special to remember Esteban.” “Señor Cole wishes to form another hunting party,” Vasquez said, “but I wish to bag el diablo myself.” His fist clenched with his first real show of vehemence. “Only then will Esteban be avenged.” Mac and Bailey exchanged worried looks. “Well, that’s certainly something to talk about,” she said carefully. “In the meantime, I think it would be wise to pair up the McShane flocks so at least two men stand watch over each. Benito, can you help Mac get word to the outlying pastures?” “Sí, señorita,” Vasquez said more docilely. The pastores rose, hats in hand. Murmuring their thank-yous and good-nights, they began to file from the dining room. Vasquez took one of the lanterns to light their way. Rather than fall in behind his men, though, McTavish hesitated, his brow creasing as his gaze traveled from Zack, who had made no effort to exit, and Bailey, who was shoving the last helping of sweet potato pie his way. Zack had the unpleasant notion that McTavish had shotguns on his mind when the Scot’s eyes bored into his. “I willna be gone long, lass, you can count on that,” he said darkly. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Mac.” She winked at Zack. “If any predators come this way, I’ll just sic Pokey on them — if Jerky hasn’t fed him so much he can’t walk, that is.” Her grin faded, and her tone grew somber when she added, “Give my condolences to Mrs. Vasquez, will you? And the Coles too?” “Aye, lass.” Nodding curtly to Zack, McTavish strode from the room. The banging of the front door was muffled by a low growl of thunder. Zack looked down at the pie wedge, then up at Bailey, whose lamplit eyes glowed an expectant periwinkle blue. 115

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“Well? You’re not going to make me explain to Jerky why your plate isn’t scraped clean, are you?” “Heaven forbid.” He smiled, forestalling his better sense, which told him to call it a night and follow the men. “I reckon Jerky tans hides, eh?” “Shoot. He stuffs ’em.” She grinned. He might have grinned back, except he was suddenly and forcefully aware that he was alone with her. Completely alone. And the lights were low enough for sparking. In a jangle of nerves, his mouth dried and his palms grew sticky. He reminded himself, as he reached awkwardly for his fork, that he wasn’t courting Bailey McShane. He was eating her hired hand’s grub. Still, the bashful eighteen-year-old in him couldn’t be put at ease. His affair with Marybeth Clemens had started out this way: just the two of them sitting at a dimly lit dinner table, with a second helping of pie waiting on his plate. He wasn’t even sure he’d finished that oozing slab of cherries. . . . “So what did you think of Jerky’s lamb chops?” He started. He might have jumped a mile at Bailey’s question if his knees hadn’t banged the table. “Uh,” he mumbled around his fork, chewing hurriedly and gulping down a piece big enough to choke a horse. “They were good.” “Ever eat sheep before?” “Nope.” She was silent a moment, as if waiting for him to elaborate. “Think you will again?” His face heated beneath her gaze, so he carefully kept his eyes on his plate. “Hard to say,” he managed to get out after another swallow. “Why’s that?” He fidgeted. Usually she was full of her own opinions. Why had she developed this sudden interest in his? “I reckon ’cause I don’t come by them too often.” She propped her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “You could change that, you know.” He groaned inwardly. Was she making some kind of invitation? He couldn’t rightly remember, but it seemed like Marybeth had said something similar right before she’d sidled up to his chair and dropped a hand on his knee. Damn, he thought. Why hadn’t he made a break for it when he had the chance? 116

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Leery of making the same mistake, he decided the safest answer to give Bailey was a noncommittal shrug. She drummed her fingers on the table again. After an endless minute of silence, she blurted out, “Vasquez shouldn’t go cougar hunting alone. It’s too dangerous now that One Toe’s a man killer.” When he neither agreed nor disagreed, she prompted impatiently, “What do you think?” He toyed with his fork. “Same as you, I reckon.” “Why’s that?” He ventured a glance at her. She was frowning. Hell, he thought she’d wanted him to agree. He wished he had just one quarter of Wes’s experience with women. Maybe then he’d understand them better. “Well, he’s got that boy back home with quinsy . . .” Bailey nodded eagerly, as if to encourage him. “And?” He grimaced. How many reasons did the woman need? “And . . . there’ll be no one to tend his flock,” he finished, hoping this answer would satisfy her so he could escape back into silence. She cocked her head, staring at him for a good long spell. Her eyebrows were furrowed so thoughtfully, she looked as if she were reading his mind, learning his secret dread. That idea was enough to make his Adam’s apple bob a time or two. He wished she’d ask another question. Or that he could think of some topic to distract her from her scrutiny. He racked his brain. “Uh . . .” Weather is always safe. “Think it’ll rain?” She laughed, bell-like peals of mirth that danced deliciously down his spine, shooting shivers to his toes and a flush to his cheeks. “What?” he demanded suspiciously. “Zachariah Rawlins, I think I finally figured you out.” “Yeah?” He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “What’s there to figure?” “Oh, I don’t know.” She was smiling again — grinning actually, kind of like the Cheshire cat. “You thirsty?” Momentarily distracted, he glanced at his empty cup. Between all his jawing and all that pie, he sure could use a swig of bellywash. “Yeah. I reckon.” He reached for the coffeepot, but she snatched it away. “Forget that sissy stuff.” With a thoroughly indecent smirk, she jumped up to drag 117

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a bottle from the bottom cabinet of what should have been her china cupboard. “Here.” Straddling the back of her chair like a boy, she plunked the jug down between them. “You need this even more than I do.” He blinked at the three black X’s painted across the jug’s belly. “You don’t mean — ” “Sure I do.” She popped out the cork and poured him a shot, stopping precisely at two fingers’ worth, as if she had the natural-born instincts of a barkeep. “Jerky makes the best white lightning in the county.” “I don’t suppose he drinks it too,” Zack said dryly. “Of course he does.” “No wonder he’s stranger than a sidesaddle on a sow.” She chuckled, shaking her head at him. “You big baby. A little moonshine won’t kill you. Go on, drink it. It’s high time you started loosening up.” His flush was on the rise again, so he cocked an eyebrow, taking refuse in sternness. “I don’t drink with ladies.” “Well, that shouldn’t stop you tonight, since I’ve never claimed to be one.” She poured herself a shot, gulped it down in one swallow, and slammed her cup back on the table. Reaching to pour herself another, she raised her eyebrows at him. “Am I gonna have to spoon-feed you, cowpoke?” He shook his head, uncertain whether to be annoyed, amused, or concerned. “Bailey, you’re only half my size, and you couldn’t possibly keep up with me if I decide to — ” “The hell I can’t. Talk’s cheap, pard, so put up or shut up. ’Course, if you’re afraid Little Miss Bo Peep might show you up . . .” He snorted. “Girl, you don’t have a prayer.” “Yeah?” She jabbed his cup closer with her forefinger. “So quit stalling.” He couldn’t quite swallow his smile. The little minx was so damned sure of herself, sitting over there with that mischievous glint in her eye and that curl coiling so jauntily on her forehead. Besides, how powerful could Jerky’s moonshine be if Bailey had tossed back a belt without batting an eye? Maybe she’d stop pestering him with challenges if he humored her for a spell before riding home. Maybe 118

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she’d even stop bragging like some adolescent schoolboy hell-bent on proving himself, and start acting like a proper female for a change. She raised her cup. “To your health, neighbor,” she said solemnly. “To your health.” He tossed back the shot and nearly died. Fire burned a path from his gullet to his gut; his tongue burst into flames; and his ears, he was certain, blew plumes of smoke. It was all he could do not to cough and sputter as the busthead went down. Bailey thumped him helpfully between his shoulder blades. “Good stuff, eh?” He wheezed, and she chuckled. “There, there. You feel better now, don’t you?” He had to squint in order to glare through his watering eyes. “You sure there’s no rat poison in this?” She wore a look of affronted innocence. “Now, would I be drinking from the same jug if I wanted to poison you, cowpoke?” He muttered an oath and wrapped his forefinger around the silverdollar-sized handle. “Careful, Zack,” she warned silkily. “A little busthead goes a long way, and I wouldn’t want you riding out of here on a sow with a sidesaddle.” “Bailey, that tongue of yours is meaner than a mule on a sawdust diet.” He swallowed another round and grimaced, much to her unabashed amusement. “You drink with all your guests?” he asked, managing not to wheeze this time. “Nope. Just the bashful ones.” He knew he’d turned beet red. “The hell you say.” She gave him a few consoling pats on the forearm. “Aw, don’t feel bad, neighbor. Even I was bashful once.” “Once?” He hiked a dubious brow. “Sure.” She started pouring the next round. “It was my thirteenth birthday, and Caitlin sewed me my first party dress. It was a godawful thing, with ruffles and lace and sissy little flowers embroidered on the back ribbons.” She made a face, and Zack chuckled at the irony. His niece, Megan, would give her eyeteeth to wear a dress like that, and she was only seven. 119

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“Anyway, Caitlin was so damned proud of ragging me out that she invited the preacher and half his congregation to come see. She knew all my hiding places too — up in the apple tree, down in the sheepdipping vats, out under the back porch — so I couldn’t elude her for more than a quarter of an hour at a time. She threatened to hog-tie me to the front gate if I didn’t stand still and look pretty.” “So what did you do?” he asked, propping his elbow on the table. She donned a smile far sweeter than any fallen angel’s. “I sent Boo to roll in the mud, and I let him jump all over me.” “Bailey.” He shook his head. “Well, it was better than dressing Boo up in the ghastly thing — which I would have done, too, except I figured my best friend deserved more respect than that, even if he was a hound.” At the sound of Zack’s rich, warm laughter. Bailey felt her defensiveness melt away. She laughed, flushed and exhilarated by her small triumph. The moonshine was actually working! It was breaking down Zack’s tendency to be terse. Better yet, it was keeping their conversation from deteriorating into the usual argument. They seemed to be chatting good-naturedly for once, like real compadres. The idea appealed so much to Bailey, she wanted to dance on the table. Friends were hard to come by when you were female and raised sheep. Maybe she could get Zack to like her enough to call again. She didn’t dare hope for anything more than companionship, but at least as friends they could have some fun together, like steal honey out from under some queen bee’s nose or go coon hunting by moonlight. “I’m sure sorry I missed seeing you in that party dress,” he said, his elbow sliding the tiniest bit closer to her place setting. A strand of chestnut hair spilled across his forehead, and she watched, fascinated, as the dancing lamplight struck sparks of auburn from it. He’d combed his work-roughened fingers through the wavy mass, much as her fingers were itching to do. The tan on his hands was only a shade lighter than the color of his eyes, which at the moment were crinkled and shimmering with mirth. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach did a dizzying flip as she realized she wouldn’t have to reach very far if she wanted to touch his cheek, stroke his hair, trace his lips. . . . She decided she needed another drink to drown these female urgings. She’d worked hard to make Zack respect her, and she didn’t 120

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want to change his mind by betraying her near inexperience at sparking. Of course, if he gave her some kind of sign that he might actually like her to pet him, well . . . that would be different. “All right, Bailey McShane, ’fess up. I’ve never, in the nine years I’ve known you, caught you wearing a dress. How come?” “Hate ’em,” she answered promptly after her gulp. “Why’s that?” She shrugged with a passable show of nonchalance. “I don’t cotton to she-stuff.” “Yeah?” he said softly, his gaze mesmerizing in its quest for truth. “Your cousin did. And your mama did too, as I understand it.” “Well, I’m not like them.” She winced. She hadn’t meant to snap at him, even if he had compared her with Lucinda. “Besides,” she said more congenially, “bad things always happen when I wear a dress.” “Like what?” One corner of her mouth twitched in a mirthless smile. Well, there’d been the time when she was eight years old, and Billy Dean Logan grabbed her skirts, trying to drop a fishing worm down her bloomers. Nick and Nat beat the tar out of him for it too. But her mother, outraged to find a boy-sized handprint on her fanny, refused to listen to an explanation and sent her to bed with a whipping and no supper. That night, Bailey had trembled in bed, listening to one of her parents’ knock-down-drag-out fights. Her mother accused Daddy of turning her into a trollop with his gifts of blue jeans and spurs. Daddy fired back in his heavy Scottish burr, “Like mother, like daughter, Lucy, lass.” Bailey hadn’t even known what a trollop was then, but ironically, fourteen years later, she figured she must have grown up to be the oldest virgin in Bandera County. There had also been an incident during the spring of her ninth year, when her mother had miscarried a daughter for the second time. Devastated, Daddy had ridden off with Mac to drink. Left with only Caitlin to advise her, Bailey listened to her older, wiser cousin’s counsel to try to cheer her mother up by putting on a dress. But when Bailey, with daisies in hand, entered her mother’s sickroom, Lucinda took one look at her only living child and screamed, 121

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“This is all your fault. Your fault, Arabella. You were spawned from the devil’s own lust, and now my womb is poisoned forever!” That night. Daddy had put his fist through the wall after learning from Caitlin why Bailey was locked in her bedroom, crying. Lucinda began taking long vacations to her native Massachusetts after that, much to Bailey’s relief. Only Daddy ever admitted to missing her. To this day, Bailey couldn’t understand why. Each time Lucinda returned home, Bailey contemplated running away, but then Mac would take her under his wing and teach her how to whistle with two fingers, or bait a line for fishing, or throw a ringer in a game of horseshoes. Daddy could have taught her the same things, of course, but he was usually too busy running the ranch — or mouth fighting with her mother — to pay her much mind. “It’s like this, Zack,” she answered carefully, keeping her gaze trained on the sparkling moonshine that flowed into her cup. “Dresses get in the way. Just like being female gets in the way. I can’t do anything about being female, but I sure can do something about dresses.” Swallowing, she banged her cup back on the table with a satisfied sigh. The world was starting to grow warm and fuzzy around the edges, and Lucinda Bailey was fading into a distant, if painful, memory. “Hey!” She looked suspiciously at Zack’s cup and scowled, jabbing an unsteady finger at him. “You’re a round behind, cowpoke. Drink up.” His grin turned lopsided, and he obliged. “So what’s so bad about being female?” he drawled, resting his head on his hand and sliding his elbow back across the table toward her. She snorted, cupping her chin in her own hand and doing the same. Now their arms touched. A whisper of breeze slipped between their faces, gusting from the inky blackness of the pregnant air outside. The taste of rain wafted in through the open window, teasing her lips, and she ran her tongue over them. She’d acted in innocence, but she noticed that Zack’s eyelids drooped, as if he were watching her mouth. A strange tremor raced through her limbs at the notion. When she spied the primal spark kindling in his dark eyes, it made her toes curl in the most delicious way. “Obviously, you’ve never been a female,” she retorted a little huskily. 122

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“Can’t say that I have.” “Then consider yourself blessed.” She cleared her throat. She liked gazing into the smoky molasses of his eyes, but those kinds of indulgences reminded her all too forcibly that she was female — a virginal female, no less. “’Cause if you were a woman,” she told him as briskly as her thickened tongue would allow, “you wouldn’t be able to run for the Cattlemen’s Association, or sit on a jury, or vote for your pal Judge Larabee. Worst of all, you’d have to put up with men, none of whom would ever listen to a damned thing you said, even if you were right — which you probably would be.” Laughter danced in his eyes. “Is that a fact?” “Yep.” She nodded solemnly, which was hard to do, short of sticking her nose in her palm. “Ye’d just be told something like ‘That’s mighty fine, little lady. Now, why don’t ye jest mosey on over to the quiltin’ bee, and let us menfolk spit tobaccy, and scratch our privates, and cuss a blue streak long enough to run out of this here rotgut. Then we’ll all adopt yer idea and call it our own.’” “Aw, c’mon. It’s not as bad as all that, is it?” “Aye, i’tis.” Oops. She giggled, realizing her burr was slipping out. His dimples creased, but whether at her accent or her giggle, she couldn’t say. She supposed in light of their newfound friendship, it didn’t matter. Not as long as she kept her pesky feminine longings on a leash. “I’m the boss, so it’s my turn to ask questions,” she said with an imperious wave of her arm that swept her fork onto the floor. She giggled again. “You’re the boss, eh?” “That’s right. Around here I am.” Squeezing one eye closed, the surefire way for improving her aim, she poured them each another round. At this rate, they were bound to be best friends by midnight. “What I want to know is, how come a man like ye isn’t hitched yet?” she asked, eager to get to the confidence-sharing stage. “Shoot, ye’ve got to be about the best catch in the county.” “That’s mighty nice of you to say so.” His lashes fanned lower, hooding the merriment in his eyes. “Just who are you asking these questions for anyway?” She tossed her head. “Don’t go climbing on yer high horse, cowpoke. A straight question deserves a straight answer.” 123

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“All right.” He swallowed his moonshine, propped his head back up, then fixed her with a grave if somewhat glassy stare. “I reckon I’m not married ’cause I haven’t asked anyone yet.” “Ye haven’t?” She blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “But what about Amaryllis? Everyone says ye’re altar bound.” “Oh, yeah? And who’s everyone?” “Well . . .” She frowned, trying to sort names from her foggy memory bank. “Amaryllis says it the most, I think.” He laughed, a hearty peal of mirth that made his shoulders quake. She grinned at the sound. She liked to hear his laughter. It sounded so carefree and friendly. She wondered why he didn’t laugh more often around her. “Amaryllis would say a thing like that.” “Ye mean she’s telling windies?” He smiled at her dumbfounded look. “Let’s just say she leapt to a conclusion I never reached.” “Oh.” Disappointed by his answer, she wasn’t exactly sure what to think. Did he plan on continuing his courtship with Amaryllis? Or was he going to call it off for good? She furrowed her brow, searching for a roundabout way to get her answers. After all, she wouldn’t want him to think she was one of the hundred or so calf-eyed females who’d set their sights on him. “Would ye marry someone if ye loved her?” “I reckon.” “So how would ye know ye were in love?” Her question seemed to throw him. He frowned for a moment, as if he was thinking on it. “Well, Wes says love kind of wallops a fella. It turns him upside down and inside out before he can figure out what hit him.” Bailey wrinkled her nose. “That doesna sound too pleasant.” His smile turned soft, almost dreamy. “Oh, I don’t know. Wes and Cord are still doing somersaults, and I’ve never seen them look so happy.” Bailey fidgeted. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Caitlin do a somersault. And she knew she’d never seen her daddy do one. Mostly, McShanes just yelled when they were in love. Gulping down her shot, Bailey gathered all her courage for her next question. “Have . . . ye ever been in love?” 124

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Zack’s gaze was still keen and discerning enough to make her squirm inside. “Hmm. I thought I was, once.” “Once?” She swallowed, dreading his next answer, but inexorably drawn to the truth. “With Caitlin?” she whispered, fearing a yes would place him hopelessly out of her reach. If she had to, she could wallop Amaryllis. But Caitlin was her cousin, and Bailey had a code of honor against punching out her own kin, especially kin that got weepy at the drop of a hat. She held her breath. “No,” he said quietly. The air fled from her lungs in a rush. “Caitlin and I had something going all right,” he added, “but it wasn’t love.” She heard a trace of pain behind his cynicism. “Caitlin never meant for ye to get hurt,” she said uncomfortably. “It’s true she didna use her head, eloping like she did. But she was in love with Teddy — she’d always been in love with him — and everyone knew it. Including Teddy. That’s why he acted like such a damned wolf on the prowl before ye came along. He figured she’d always be around, waiting for him to sow his oats, and so . . . she used ye to make him jealous. I’m not saying what she did was right,” Bailey added quickly, anxiously. “But she’s happy now. Do ye think ye can be happy for her?” She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused by her defense of her cousin. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I can be happy for her.” She smiled in relief. “What about you?” “What about me?” she countered, feeling somehow lighter and freer, knowing Zack was well over his infatuation. Maybe she could find a way to win him after all, if she could just get him to admire her and stop mooning over ladies. She wondered if inviting him to hunt Old One Toe with her tomorrow might help. Thunder set the walls to trembling and chased her idea away. The hurricane lamp rattled from a gust of wind that shook its smoking flame. Zack didn’t seem to notice though. He was too busy hypnotizing her with the glow in his eyes. “Seems to me like you’ve got a few suitors of your own, Bailey McShane.” 125

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Unnerved by the gaze that seemed to be melting the iron fortress around her feminine core — that vulnerable, feeling part of her that she’d never dared to show anyone except Mac and Caitlin — Bailey rallied her defenses with humor. “Oh, them.” Raising her cup, she waved away Nat, Nick, and all the other ne’er-do-wells who’d ever sought her favor. “They dinna come here to make me their bride. They came here courting my land and my springs.” The corners of Zack’s mouth turned down. “So is that what McTavish is after? Your land?” Bailey blinked. How on earth had he come up with that idea? “Mac’s not after my land. He’s not even after me.” It was Zack’s turn to blink. Despite the warm, cozy feeling that was permeating all his defenses, he still had enough presence of mind to recall the dark looks and thinly veiled warnings he’d received from McTavish. It bothered him to realize Bailey didn’t see that she was precisely what her foreman was interested in. It bothered him even more, though, to think McTavish might be steering suitors away from her because of his own desire for her land. He was just about to ask — and none too diplomatically — if McTavish was the one who’d seeded Bailey’s doubts against all her former suitors, when a hard, fierce splattering resounded on the tin roof over their heads. In the next instant, a whoosh of wetness sprayed them both through the open window. Bailey’s eyes grew as round as silver dollars. “Rain,” she whispered. She jumped to her feet and ran a bit unsteadily to the window, planting her hands on the sill and sticking her head and shoulders outside. When she turned her face to the skies, wind kicked up her sheath of hair, and thunder crashed like two colliding locomotives, shaking the wooden frame around her. She giggled like a child. “Rain!” she shouted, turning to face him, her cheeks streaked by the droplets that were sliding into her collar. His lips quirked. “I can see that.” “Let’s go watch!” Before he could draw breath enough to answer, she grabbed the room’s lone lamp and raced into the pitch blackness of the hallway. Thrown into darkness, he muttered an oath, not waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed before he pushed back his chair. The moonshine 126

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hit him full force then, and his knees wobbled. The very idea that some slip of a sheepherder was holding her liquor better than he was enough to make the blood rush to his head. He grabbed his hat and fanned his face. “C’mon, Zack!” Her voice floated in to him above the banging of the front door, and he grinned. He couldn’t help it. Rain, by God. There was actually rain! Draping his Stetson haphazardly over his brow, he hurried across the unfamiliar floor, banging his shin on the doorstop and stubbing his toe on a sitting room chair. He hardly noticed though. He was too eager to follow that beckoning light to the circle of brightness it cast on the parched and withered yard. Bailey had balanced the lamp on the porch railing, and when he pushed open the bottom half of the door, he spied her dancing in its yellow blaze. Laughing, she spun like a top, her arms outstretched, her face turned to the heavens. He stumbled to a halt, simply staring. Her exuberance had loosed her hair from its leather thong, and it whipped around her like slick amber tongues, twining around her upper arms, slapping her buttocks, caressing her thighs. The rain had plastered her jeans to her skin, and the white cotton of her shirt was almost transparent. He swallowed hard, unable to do the gentlemanly thing, unable to tear his gaze away from that sheer clinging fabric and the feminine peaks and valleys it outlined so faithfully. “Come out, come out, ye puddocks! ’Tis a fine wet storm,” she was shouting, jumping up and down like the frogs she was apparently hailing. When she clicked her heels in the air, he let another grin slide across his face and thrust his hands into his pockets. “You keep that up, McShane, and your behind’s gonna say howdy to that puddle.” “Ha!” She whirled to face him, her boots scrambling in the mud to keep from bearing out his prediction. When she regained her balance, she flashed a triumphant smile beneath the sodden curtain of her hair. “Shows ye how much ye know.” She swept the mass out of her eyes. “What are ye still standin’ under that roof for, ye old mossy horn? ’Fraid ye’re gonna melt?” He snorted to hide his amusement. Old mossy horn, indeed. “Where there’s thunder, there’s lightning, sweet pea. You’d best come back inside before you get yourself cooked.” 127

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“Aw, I ain’t afeared o’ lightnin’, pardner,” she said, stomping through the mud on exaggerated bowed legs. “After all . . .” She gulped a lusty breath and threw back her head. “‘I am a Texas cowboy,’” she belted out in a brassy, off-key soprano, “‘just off the rainsoaked prairie . . . ’” He chuckled, and she hooked her thumbs over her belt, swaggering closer to the porch. “‘My trade is hosses, steers, and skirts; I rope ’em ne’er to tarry . . .’” He raised his eyebrows in mock protest, and she grinned, strutting up the stairs. “‘. . . When a bolt of lightning comes, I snare it, ’tween my knees, and with my spurs and lariat, I ride it where I please.’” She halted toe to toe with him and crooked her forefinger in a beckoning gesture. “C’mere, cowboy,” she said huskily. Her steamy warmth gusted over him, and he felt his pulse do a strange little two-step, dancing like white lightning through his veins. “Yeah?” His eyelids drooped, and he leaned closer, relishing the rainwashed scent of her hair. “What for?” he drawled. “So I can do . . . this!” Before he could guess her intention, she snatched the Stetson from his head and dashed back into the slashing downpour, whooping like an Indian in a rain dance. “Hey!” He couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Give me back my hat, woman!” “Not unless you catch me first!” A wicked pleasure spiraled through him at her game. “I’ll catch you all right,” he growled, jumping off the top step and charging after her into the yard. Thunder rolled around the canyon, but the darkness remained pristine, unmarred by spears of storm fire. Only the lantern over the calf’s stall and the dim reflection of the full moon behind the thick cloud banks brought any relief from the foggy pitch of night. Zack could spy Bailey skipping backward, a silvery wraith with pale hair and an even paler shirtfront. “Come and get it, cowpoke!” He lunged, and she shrieked, dodging his arms and racing ahead. He heard the startled honking of geese, saw the vague arc of beating wings. Then came a peal of Bailey’s laughter, breathy and mischievous 128

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and full of childlike glee. His heart bobbed on that ripple of sound, feeling lighter and freer than it had in the years since he’d helped his Aunt Lally bury her husband, since he’d taken the responsibility of her ranch onto his seventeen-year-old shoulders. “You’re a goner, McShane,” he threatened good-naturedly, giving chase through the growing slop of dirt-turned-mud and the plump summer raindrops that splashed his face and hands. Her heels clattered on the planks of the bridge. “I’m quakin’ in my boots!” she flung back, balancing precariously on the rail-less edge. “One more step, and the Stetson gets it!” “You wouldn’t dare!” he shouted above a thunder rumble, watching her dangle his hat over the gurgling stream below. “Oh, wouldn’t I?” The felt brim fluttered in the wind. Zack planted his fists on his hips. “Only a coward takes prisoners. Come down here and fight, McShane!” “Come up and make me, Rawlins!” She pirouetted, holding the hat over her head like an umbrella. He was just about to rush her, when he heard her gasp. Suddenly she wobbled. Her arms and legs flailed. In the next instant, she was toppling and shrieking at the top of her lungs. “Bailey!” He heard her splash. He heard a choking, coughing sound as she went under. Then there was silence. A deafening, blood-chilling silence.

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Nine “Bailey! Dear God, no!” Panic, dark and tangible, seized Zack’s heart. Without thought for his boots or spurs, he ran for the stream-bank. Slipping and sliding, he scrambled through the rain-slickened reeds and plunged into the tepid waters. All he could think in that terrible, mind-numbing moment was that he’d lost her. He’d lost his precious Bailey. Then he heard a splash. It was followed by a giggle. A shadow rose before him, spilling water in cascades, dumping another hatful over itself when it crammed the Stetson onto its head. “That was fun!” the shadow shouted cheerfully. Zack felt his blood start pumping again. “Goddammit, McShane.” He grabbed her arm, which threw them both off balance, and the next thing he knew, they landed side by side on their butts in about two feet of water. Bailey laughed uproariously, kicking her feet, which drenched him from head to toe all over again. “Fooled ye, didn’t I?” He scowled, water dripping from his lashes, his nose, his chin. He had to toss his hair from his eyes to see her clearly, and when he did, he saw the outline of his drooping Stetson still perched upon her head. “Why you little — ” She squealed, trying to dive away from him, but he caught her around her waist, pulling her into his lap. Another shower doused him as she sank between his knees. She squirmed, but his thighs closed around her, and when she twisted, he pinned her breasts to his chest. Her gaze locked with his, her eyes widening for the shortest of 130

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moments. He could feel her shuddering breaths and hammering pulse as if they were his own. Then she had the audacity to smirk. He glimpsed it as a purely wicked flash of feline teeth. “Ye give up yet, cowpoke?” She stuck out her tongue at him. Well, that was it. The final straw. With a feral sound that was half frustration and half mirth, he fastened his lips over hers, drawing her tongue deep into his mouth. With a hunger he hadn’t realized he possessed, he tasted and feasted, plundering the hot, wet mystery behind her breaths. His craving grew more insistent, more demanding with each intoxicating moment. She gasped his name, and he pulled her hard against him, arching her spine over his arm. He reveled in the feel of her breasts, full, firm, and exquisitely taut, jutting into his sodden shirt. He’d never kissed a woman in the rain before. He’d never wrapped his legs around the sweetness of a female’s core and let the satiny black currents of a stream suck his rising maleness gently, irresistibly toward her forbidden treasure. His liquorfogged brain was nearly overcome by the temptation to fumble with buttons. “Bailey,” he groaned, struggling to remember his code of honor, struggling to beat back the desire that crackled along his electrified nerves. “Honey, don’t pretend you’re hurt again. Please. You scared the devil out of me.” “I did?” She drew back an inch and blinked. She looked thoroughly mystified, perhaps even dazed by his concern, and in truth, he couldn’t blame her. His jumbled feelings had caught him unawares too. For a heartbeat, a fleeting measure of time, he gazed into her eyes. Raindrops streamed down her cheeks, and he felt them spill like liquid silk into his collar. He felt the warm, sweet caress of her breath on his lips and the tantalizing heat of her womanhood seeping through the wet denim that spanned his bulging crotch. Then the moment was over. She wrinkled her nose mischievously and punched him on the shoulder. “Good! It’s about time you started worrying, neighbor.” 131

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He hid his grin and shook his head, striving for a tone of firm reproof. “Bailey McShane, if you weren’t too damned roostered to remember a well-deserved lesson, I’d paddle your behind.” “I am not roostered!” “Uh-huh.” She began squirming again, much to his sinful delight, and he took wanton pleasure in tightening his thighs around her hips, until her only battle recourse was to glare. “Ha!” Water lapped in frothing waves around them. “Ye freighted yer crop a whole lot faster than I did.” He snorted, inordinately amused. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to laugh so much. “Hell, my Aunt Lally’s lemonade packs a stronger wallop than that shepherd’s juice that’s got you so pickled.” “Humpf.” She tossed her hair, spraying water all over him. “Liar. If ye keep this up, yer pants are gonna catch fire.” He felt a lightning-quick surge to his loins, and he blushed, grateful for the night and the rain. Did Bailey have any inkling how close her words were to the truth? “All right,” he said gruffly, “it’s time you dried off.” “Ye mean out, don’t ye?” She laughed gaily, whooping at her jest. He stifled a snicker. Summoning the last shreds of his sobriety, he turned her in his lap, doing his best not to be tempted by the sagging derriere of her jeans when he boosted her to her feet. The instant he released her buttocks, though, she splashed without ceremony back between his knees. “Oops!” More giggles followed. “I think I’m losing my pants!” “Bailey,” he warned, delighted, scandalized, and beguiled by her behavior. “Oh, yeah.” She flashed an impish smile at him. “I promised not to scare ye.” That smile was enough to light the night and dazzle his befuddled brain. He worried he was tottering on a precipice. The thought of two moon-white buttocks cupped between his hands in all their satiny softness was nearly enough to push him over the edge into damnation. And what a glorious hell it would be, he mused, to ache in every body part that only a woman’s touch could cure. God save him. God save him from seeking the remedy with Bailey. 132

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“On your feet, woman,” he growled, “before you catch your death of cold.” She threw her arms around his neck as he staggered to his own feet. “Would ye come to my burial?” “Yes,” he said, steadying her against his fevered length in spite of his better sense. “Would ye miss me?” Her breathless whisper wrapped around him, unraveling yet another fiber in his fraying cord of restraint. He swallowed. The need to kiss her was so urgent, it left a tremor in his limbs. But surely to taste her a second time would only plunge him past the point of no return. “Yes,” he said more quietly. “I’d miss you.” She sighed, her smile almost dreamy as she gazed up at him through the misting rain. “I’d miss ye too, Zack.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now — ” “Uh-oh.” Her features screwed into a comical look of distress. “’Tis terrible!” “What happened?” He eyed her suspiciously. She looked truly agitated, so he glanced around them, trying to see past the gloom and the shadows, not entirely sure what was frightening her. “What’s wrong?” She shook him in something close to panic. “Ye’re all wet!” He blinked, her joke taking a moment to sink in, and she dissolved once more into gales of mirth, backing away to splash him with her hands. “Bailey!” He raised a forearm to defend himself, and she waded merrily behind him, soaking his back with another wave. “All right, woman, that’s enough.” Plunging through the spray, he grabbed her around the waist and knees and hoisted her into his arms. “That was fun too!” “McShane, you’re a mess.” She kicked her legs, her husky giggles tickling his ear. “Just don’t tell Mac, okay?” “Trust me. I won’t.” She beamed up at him. Then she patted his dripping hat down onto his head. “There, cowboy,” she said with dubious solemnity. “That’ll keep ye nice and dry.” 133

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When he shook his head at her, the world started spinning, and he staggered, stumbling a step closer to the shore. She threw her arms around his neck. “Don’t drop me!” “I’m not going to drop you, sweetheart,” he murmured, feeling her heart slam into his chest. He hugged her closer, and she peered up at him through wet, spiky lashes. His own heart bumped giddily at how completely she had placed herself in his care. “Where are ye taking me?” she asked, sounding childlike and uncertain as he waded toward the reeds. “Inside, out of the rain.” “What for?” “So you can change your wet clothes.” She seemed to think about that for a moment, worrying her bottom lip. Then she loosed a dreamy sigh and dropped her head against his shoulder. “Okay. Ye’re a nice cowboy.” “I am, eh?” “Uh-huh. I always wanted ye to be the one . . .” He didn’t have the vaguest idea what she was talking about, but he figured it didn’t matter, since moonshine was wielding her tongue. She snuggled cozily against him, stifling a yawn and occasionally swinging a leg as he trudged through the stretch of mud that once had been her sun-cracked yard. He could have put her down anytime, of course, but some ornery part of him refused. He invented a dozen excuses for not lightening his load: She’d sink in the mud; she’d dash back to the bridge; she’d trip in the dark and break her fool neck. When he got to the porch, she smiled drowsily, her expression soft, almost shy as she blinked up at him in the pool of lamplight. His excuses only multiplied then, so he told her to hold the lantern while he held her, prying his boots off his feet with the help of the jack by the door. Squishing inside in his soaking socks, he climbed the stairs. He would see her safely to her room, he told himself. He would wrap her in blankets and tuck her in bed, nothing more. After all, he had an election to win, and the last thing he needed was a torrid affair with his neighbor, a woman who, God bless her, raised sheep. “It’s the open door,” she whispered when the bobbing circle of light reached the landing a step before he did. 134

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Heading for what he guessed to be the master bedroom, he strode across the threshold and caught a glimpse of a gigantic pineboard bed. Beside it was an unadorned box of an armoire and a saddle stand, over which was draped a coiled lariat. A mounted bobcat snarled over the mantel, and a china doll peeked out from under the wrinkled linen duster that had been tossed over the back of a rocker. He had a moment to marvel that Bailey even possessed a doll, much less was letting it occupy space in this otherwise masculine sanctuary. Then he caught her peering up at him through her veil of lashes. “What now?” she whispered with uncharacteristic timidity. Her question set his loins to throbbing in the most immoral way, so he quickly distracted himself from his unbidden desire with a question of his own. “Why are you whispering?” He spoke as normally as his racing pulse would allow. “Surely we’re the only ones in the house.” She blushed prettily. He’d never before realized how enchanting a rosy bloom could be on cheeks the color of golden ivory. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I just figured it went with the territory.” He nodded, setting her on her feet. When he took the lamp from her hands, she shivered. “I’m cold.” He hiked an eyebrow. “It’s at least seventy degrees in here.” “Doesna matter.” She hugged her arms to her breasts, trembling in the puddle she was making and gazing up at him with shining blue eyes. “Will ye make me a fire? Please?” An unbidden smile curved his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever asked him to do anything, much less affixed a “please” to the request. Usually she was ordering him out of her way, snapping at him that she could open her own doors and mount her own horse. Woe be to the man who dared, as he once had so foolishly done, to tell her how to aim her Winchester. “All right.” He kept his tone businesslike, hoping to stave off his body’s response to being in steamy proximity to a wet female in a translucent shirt. “Do you have any wood up here?” She nodded, pointing to the box that shared a corner with a tattered, well-rumpled cushion. The sprinkles of dun-colored dog hair 135

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served as memorial to the cushion’s missing owner. Zack caught a glimpse of her chin. It quivered the tiniest bit. “Why don’t you make yourself warm?” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheek. He couldn’t help himself. She needed the comfort, and he longed to give it to her in ways that transcended a touch and a kiss. What was it about this woman that drew him like a bee to a flower? And what the hell was he doing in her bedroom? In her father’s old bedroom, for God’s sake? Abruptly breaking contact with those captivating eyes, he set the lamp on the mantel and squatted before the hearth. Making a fire wouldn’t take long, he consoled himself. Then he could stagger back down the stairs, heave himself onto his horse, and ride off to sleep under some rock. He doubted whether he could stay astride long enough to find his way home. In the meantime, while his back was turned, he hoped she would strip off her clothes and dive under the covers to save them both any further embarrassment. But Bailey, being Bailey, didn’t do that. “I canna get my boots off,” she complained, trailing a quilt over her shoulders like a great checkered cape. She plopped down beside him and propped her heel on his thigh. “Help me?” Dropping to his knees, he turned reluctantly from the kindling he’d just coaxed to combust. Her playful expression was back, vying with an endearing vulnerability that he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her wear before. He tried not to notice how it tugged at his heartstrings. Please, God, no more pranks from her tonight . . . He popped the first boot from her foot, and it gushed water. She giggled. He poured another inch from the second one, much to her delight. He smiled wryly. Then she was pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders and snuggling under his arm. “Uh, Bailey . . .” He swallowed, his amusement ebbing as she dropped her head back on his shoulder. Her heat, far more alluring than the incipient fire, lapped over him. “Don’t you think you’d be warmer out of those wet clothes?” She sighed, a blustery, contented sound, and turned her face up to his. “Okay.” 136

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Okay? He gazed blankly at her expectant expression for a moment before he realized she’d just given him permission to undress her. He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Uh, what I meant was, you should go back by the bed to undress while I finish building the fire.” She pouted, sliding her cheek closer to the throbbing vein in his throat. Her breaths gusted in steamy little bursts over his tingling skin. “I want to stay here with ye.” God knew, that was what he wanted too. His traitorous hand had already begun stroking her hair, smoothing its long, wet tangles down her spine and over the soft, sweet swell of her hip. “Bailey,” he murmured, fighting the tremor in his hands as he gripped her shoulders and shifted her firmly, reluctantly, away from him. “You’re making this too damned hard on me.” “I am?” She looked for all the world like she was perplexed, even confused by his confession. “I dinna mean to.” Dropping her gaze to her bodice, which had sagged just low enough to reveal a tantalizing frill of the lace on her chemise, she shrugged out of the quilt and reached for the buttons on her shirt. “Here. I’ll help.” Zack tried not to gape. The cotton parted beneath her fumbling fingers like shucks of maize, and the mounds of her breasts, as pale gold as corn silk, glimmered in the firelight. He blamed the moonshine for his unnaturally slow protest, particularly when she pushed her shirt off her arms, leaving only her transparent undergarments to shield her from his stare. “Is that better?” she whispered, the tiniest bit breathless. He noticed the goose bumps that sprinkled her skin. Then his gaze was lured by two shimmering pools of indigo, inviting him to dive in. He was nearly undone by the longing in her stare. Like a drowning man fighting his way to the surface for the third and final time, he grabbed the quilt and pulled it back around her shoulders. “Bailey, honey, you’re cold. And you need to sleep.” She leaned within the circle of his arms, a frown puckering her brow. “But I dinna want to sleep. I dinna think you do either,” she added with a pointed glance at his crotch. He didn’t need to follow her gaze to know his body was straining to get closer, much closer than even she had dared, and there wasn’t much he could do about it except ride out the rising storm. 137

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“Wanting something doesn’t make it right or proper,” he said in a gravelly voice. “And you know it too. If your father were alive, I’d be picking buckshot out of my behind right now.” “Is that what’s got ye strung tighter than a fiddle string? The ghost of my daddy?” Her eyes sparkled, laughing at him in pure pleasure. “Zachariah Rawlins, ye are a special man. And I thank ye for caring enough to want to do the right thing. That means a lot to me.” She smiled softly, touching the hair that peeked in rain-swirled curls from his neckline. “I dinna care what anyone else thinks though, Zack. Ye know that.” He swallowed hard. She’d certainly always acted like she didn’t care. . . . She slipped the first button on his shirt. Then the second. His skin shivered under the caress of her work-roughened hands. “Do ye know how long I’ve wanted to touch ye like this?” she whispered, sliding her hand beneath the damp folds of fabric, trailing her fingers through the tufts of hair that sprinkled his chest. “Bailey — ” “I knew ye were the one to wait for,” she said, her voice unmistakably breathless now. “I knew it the first day I laid eyes on ye. I tried so hard to make ye notice me, but I never could compete with Caitlin.” “Bailey, that’s not true,” he whispered, his heart leaping as her hand paused, trembling, above his buckle. Her palm inched lower, excruciatingly slow. If she had been any other woman, he would have described her petting as timid, uncertain. But he knew Bailey and her reputation. The notion that she might have had more lovers than he was unnerving. She hesitated another second, and he held his breath, his heart beating in a frenzied rhythm. Then her direction abruptly changed, abandoning the path to his fly. He nearly strangled on the rush of air from his lungs. Her teasing was driving him crazy. “What do ye like, Zack? Show me.” With both hands, she was gathering fistfuls of cotton, tugging the tail of his shirt from his jeans. The rough hemline dragged over his buttocks and grazed his groin; the final two buttons scraped the underside of his fly, making him twitch. He ached to grab the brass square that winked so enticingly from her own belt. 138

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As consolation, he reached unsteadily for her face brushing his finger across the satiny flesh, cupping her cheek in his hand. “Kiss me,” he answered hoarsely. “I like to be kissed.” She obliged, throwing her arms around his neck and scooting closer until her knees circled his hips. The knowledge that he need only lift her onto his lap to rub against the apex of her thighs was a merciless temptation, and his mind spun, as intoxicated by the idea as he was by the unabashed eagerness of her kiss. She took him deep into her mouth, treating him to a feast of sensual pressures while she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, kneading his arms, his back, his buttocks. The strength of her hands was an electrifying surprise after the fluttery prodding he’d born from Amaryllis. He liked the way Bailey gripped him, stroked him, boldly communicated her own desires. Lured precariously off center, he rocked forward, and when she wrapped her legs around his waist, he toppled, driving her shoulders into the quilt. He heard her tiny gasp as his hardness sank into her tender places, and he reveled in the way she pressed back, arching her spine, flattening her breasts against his chest. This was a woman who knew what she wanted, not some calf-eyed virgin who needed him to figure out what pleased her. Not that he’d ever had a virgin before, he reminded himself dimly, sliding a shaking hand beneath her buttocks, tipping her hips and rubbing his ache into the sweet, steamy heat that promised blessed relief. The worst he’d ever allowed himself with a virgin was a fondled breast. He would never have dreamed of grinding his arousal into an innocent’s skirts — or jeans. Bailey whimpered, squeezing her knees to pull him lower. He obliged with a heady rush. Moving his hips in a teasing rhythm, he tickled her ear with his tongue, sucking the velvet hollow until she squirmed. He liked the way her nipples jutted past the wilted lace of her chemise and burrowed into his flesh. He liked the clinking when her buckle scraped his; the crashing of her heart against his ribs; the ripping of her breath below his ear. But what he liked most of all was the dampness that sizzled, growing ever hotter between them. Her willingness to be mounted was a dangerous enticement. He found himself peeling the muslin from her flushed and puckered breasts. She helped him, rolling the tangled undergarment past her waist and kicking it from her feet. Then she reared up, clutching his 139

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belt. His pulse careened at her eagerness. As wildly as he wanted to oblige, he still worried about his technique. He wanted to satisfy her too, not just quench his own desire. So, brushing her hands away, he pushed her shoulders down and fastened his mouth to her nipple. His name tore from her lips. His nerves fired at the sound, and his pecker chafed against its denim prison, straining to be free. He didn’t know how much longer he could withstand the way she writhed and mewed before he started tearing at the buttons on her fly. She’d twined one hand through his hair, tugging it mindlessly in her rising ardor; the other she used to torment him, squeezing his buttocks, scratching his back. With each foray to his waistband, she grew increasingly bolder, working her fevered hand beneath his belt, trying to stroke him. When she succeeded, loosing a throaty growl, he gave up any hope of a tame mating. “Bailey.” He grabbed her wrist, halting the explorations that were costing him his sanity. “Know this.” Drawing a shuddering breath, he caught her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “A man can’t stop after a certain point. And I’m at that point now.” A vein hammered in her throat. He watched her eyes for any hint of uncertainty. They’d turned so darkly blue, he could see his reflection, see his own primal urgency like a feral mask upon his face. She licked her lips. “It’s about time,” she whispered hoarsely. “I passed my point when ye stuck yer tongue inside my ear.” He should have blushed, but instead he grinned. He couldn’t help himself. She was shameless, God help him, and he thrilled to the prospect of riding her out, wet and wild as she bucked beneath him. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he commanded. She obeyed, and he rose on all fours, his mouth feasting on hers. With a surge of power that made his head spin, he heaved himself to his feet and strode to the bed. She clasped him tighter, riding higher on his hips, and her spreading female parts bumped in rhythmic invitation against his sensitive head. It was more than he could bear. He toppled, tearing at her buckle even as he pressed her to the sheets. Panting, she was quick to imitate him. The rational part of him that still remained thought it right and just that he was having the same frenzied effect on her that she’d been having on him for what seemed like forever. He assured himself he would spill his seed so there would be no danger, no regrets, no scandal for her to shoulder. 140

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She would be safe, and none of the voters need ever know he’d had this ruinous, one-night affair. She was swollen, wet, sensitized to his slightest caress. To find her so ready, so eager beyond his bawdiest fantasies, fanned his hunger to a ravenous pitch. He didn’t waste much time on fondling; he gripped her hips, dragged her lower, and plunged into the creamy fire of her core. The yelp that tore from her throat nearly shattered his eardrum. For a moment, an awful, heart-gutting moment, he froze, his fogged mind trying to make sense of her pain. Thinking perhaps that his weight was too great, he shifted. She whimpered, her body growing tauter than a bowstring when he repositioned himself inside her. “Bailey . . .” He could hardly hear his own voice above the sawing of his breath. Blinking back the haze of liquor and lust, he focused on her face, so pale it made the white linens look colorful. She was biting her lip, her eyes nearly black with shock. Or was that fright? “God in heaven,” he choked, the specter of suspicion taking on an ugly, concrete shape. “You’re a virgin!” Confirmation was etched into every trembling line of her body. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” His voice exploded with his outrage, and she shrank, cowering beneath him. “I — I did,” she retorted tremulously. “I told you I’d always wanted you to be the one. I thought you understood. . . .” I knew ye were the one to wait for. Her confession finally sank into his brain, taking on an ominous clarity, one that the moonshine had blurred. Merciful God. He hung his head, squeezing his eyes closed against the truth. What have I done? Her hips eased higher in a tentative, conciliatory way. “Don’t move!” he snapped, clutching great handfuls of the pillow, dragging breath after sobering breath into his lungs. Reeling with guilt, dizzy with desire, he feared he would never be able to rein in his need if she started moaning and writhing like she had on the floor. “Zack . . .” He shuddered, fighting every screaming impulse to push deeper. Half in, half out, he could go either way. And either way was a direct path to hell. “Zack,” she repeated brokenly, “please. Don’t hate me.” 141

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He ground his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly shut. He couldn’t brave the pain in those indigo pools. He couldn’t face the consequences of his loutish stupidity just yet. “I wanted my first time to be special,” she whispered. “I’ve waited so long, and — and I’ve dreamed of this so often. Please don’t leave me like this. . . .” Her words trailed off into a sob, and he almost cried himself. He remembered a time long ago when he’d had dreams about love, about holding a special someone through the night. But Caitlin had used him, and Marybeth had jaded him. The occasional companionship of whores had left him cynical and aloof. He knew what it was like to have his heart carved out and his innocence stripped away. He couldn’t do that to Bailey. Hugging her instinctively, protectively, he touched his lips to the salty dampness on her cheek. “I don’t hate you,” he murmured, stroking her hair, cradling her hips. God, she felt so fragile. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Bailey swallowed, afraid to breathe when Zack nuzzled her mouth, sipping the tear that had pooled in the corner of her lips. She really had thought he’d understood when she spoke of her virginity, but she’d also figured there was nothing she could do to prove the truth if he chose not to believe her. After all, she’d been riding horses, climbing trees, and falling off both of them most of her life. The chances of her virginal barrier still being intact had seemed a long shot. That’s why she’d been so surprised. That’s why she had cried out. In truth, she hadn’t expected the twinge of pain either. Caitlin had described mating with Teddy in glowing, blissful terms; she’d never once hinted there might be anything unpleasant about the act. “If you love the man, Bailey, it’s sheer heaven,” Caitlin had confided. “You have to try it. You have to find your special one.” Well, Bailey had thought she’d found him . . . until now. Confused, disappointed, she tried to understand what had gone wrong. She’d enjoyed touching Zack, holding Zack, and she’d desperately wanted him to enjoy it too. According to Caitlin, though, the ultimate joy was the copulation itself, so Bailey had rushed eagerly to that end. But in mating, as in every other area of her life, being female had proved a liability. Why couldn’t God have made her a man? 142

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“Bailey, honey,” he whispered, his breath caressing her cheek. “Don’t cry. I’ll make this right for you.” She nodded bravely, but she felt like crawling under the bed. When Zack had kissed her in the stream, turning her playful chase into a passionate possession, she’d thought he’d finally given her the sign she’d been waiting for. When he’d carried her upstairs on the pretext of changing her clothes, he’d only confirmed for her fogged mind that he wanted her and that he meant to have her. It had been a dream come true. But now he was upset with her. He’d probably never want to mate with her again. Considering how she was lying beneath him, bleating like a wounded ewe, she couldn’t blame him. God, she hated tears. Why couldn’t she keep them from trickling past her lashes? He slipped a hand between them. She tried not to shy away from his gentle probing, even though embarrassment, not pain, made her cringe. She was afraid to look at him, much less touch him, and when he turned her face toward him, she wished the mattress would open up and swallow her whole. He smiled though. It was the tenderest expression she’d ever seen. Probably the saddest too. “No turning back, remember?” A sweet, slick warmth dampened his fingers. She could feel him gently rub it over their fused flesh, each patient touch spreading a little more of the lubricant. With a start, she realized that silky libation was coming from her. “Wh-what are you doing?” she asked anxiously. “What I should have done from the beginning,” he murmured, his head lowering and his lashes fanning down over the molten fire in his eyes. His tongue traced her lips, wooing an invitation, and she gave it hesitantly, not exactly sure what was required of her. Should she try to move? He’d told her not to. Or maybe she should simply be honest and tell him something was wrong. Her body hurt. That meant he mustn’t be her special one, so he should stop now. He didn’t give her long to ponder such things though. With a coaxing, snaking motion, he made space for his finger inside her. She gasped, unprepared for the ripple of pleasure that accompanied his bold petting. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her thighs 143

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trembled, spilling wider, welcoming the unfamiliar touch with an eagerness that seemed to come from some ancient source of knowing that she’d never tapped before. “Relax,” he whispered, his voice a husky caress against her lips. “I won’t let it hurt anymore. I promise.” Another ripple, much stronger this time, shot through her, drawing her hips up, arching her back like a bow. He slid smoothly to the center of her being, and she gulped as wave after wave of sensation washed over her. When he started to withdraw, a dizzying moment of disappointment threatened, but he plunged in again, deliciously slow, his finger still milking sweet cream from her core. Her senses began to spin. She moaned, and he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, mimicking the primal ebb and flow of the tide he was raising between them. She clutched his shoulders, needing an anchor, a mooring, as he lured her irresistibly into the undertow. “Bailey.” She could barely hear his voice above the sawing of her breath. “Honey, I’m sorry. I want to go slow. I’m trying, but . . .” He groaned, and the sound was an exhilaration that danced down every nerve. “God, I want you so much.” She rocked beneath him, knowing not what she did or how she did it, only that it felt good — so good that she wanted more. And more. She bucked harder, and he thrust deeper, clasping her hips in an intractable embrace, digging his fingers into her hair. She squirmed, liking the way his chest pinned her, loving the way his arm trembled as he tipped her higher, rode her faster, pulled her to him with an urgency that made her female places twitch. She was racing the tide, swimming madly after some elusive thing that kept bobbing out of reach. It was so close, so excruciatingly, tantalizingly close. . . . Suddenly the wave crested. She gasped his name, locking her ankles over his buttocks. He cried out a warning. The thunder of sensation crashed through her, drowning out all sound, sweeping her into a swirling abyss, a bottomless, glittering ocean of ecstasy. Zack sank helplessly, racked by spasm after spasm of a rapture so profound that for an endless suspension of time, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t worry. He couldn’t feel anything except a blissful oneness with the woman who had wrapped herself around him, burying him deep inside the first volcanic explosion of her core. His heart melted in that fiery union, rushing out with hers toward some 144

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boundless, radiant sea, where lovers basked in the perfection of their united spirits. But the lava flow was cooling. Shock waves tremored through his limbs, and piles of ash fell thick upon his tongue. Good God, how could he have let himself get trapped in the throes of his desire? Sickness clutched his stomach. Withdrawing shakily, he propped himself on an elbow and squeezed his eyes closed, gulping steadying breaths. Panic was insidious though, creeping ever closer on silken tendrils of fear to suffocate his reason. He knew that when he opened his eyes, his world would be changed forever. The nightmare would begin, not end, when dawn tinged the eastern horizon. She could be pregnant. “Bailey,” he whispered anxiously, his mind reeling from the ramifications of moonshine, lust, and sentimental lunacy. “We have to talk.” She sighed dreamily, curling into a ball like a contented kitten. “Dammit, Bailey . . .” Her fingers wrapped around his, and he tensed. He wanted to rage. He wanted to vent his guilt and frustration, accuse her of tricking him, blame her for the mistake that would cost him his dreams of a legislative office and, even more important, a happy, loving marriage. But it was already too late. She’d fallen fast asleep.

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Ten Bailey woke to a golden stream of sunshine that couldn’t begin to compete with the warmth in her heart. She stretched luxuriously. Zack. Dearest Zack. Never had she realized what a man’s touch could do. Never had she dreamed that being a woman could be so . . . heavenly. Caitlin had failed to do mating justice. Joining herself body, heart, and soul to Zack had been an indescribable sensation. She felt gifted. Blessed. There simply was no better way to describe being in love. Sighing happily, she reached for the pillow next to hers, only to find it empty. She opened her eyes. “Zack?” A shadowy figure moved, blocking the sunshine that had waked her with its cheerful welcome. “You’d best get dressed,” he answered grimly. Pulling the sheet to her chin, she sat up and squinted against the glow that blazed around him. His appearance matched his tone. Pale and haggard, as if he hadn’t slept a wink, he stood stiffly at the foot of her bed, his mud-splattered shirt tucked neatly into jeans that seemed to fit a little tighter after their soaking in the spring. She didn’t spend more than a heartbeat admiring his virile silhouette however. With his arms folded and his jaw squared, he looked about as friendly as a hanging judge. “Get dressed?” she repeated, not quite able to hide her disappointment. She’d been hoping for a repeat of last night’s wild ride, but she would have settled for a cuddle beneath the covers. Right now, though, she’d sooner cuddle with a grizzly bear than Zack. “That’s right. The sooner we get to town and get this over with, the better.” 146

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Even against the backdrop of sunshine, she could spy the muted fury burning in his eyes. She winced, raising a hand to her head. Suddenly, it felt as if it were being bludgeoned by a blacksmith’s hammer. “What are you talking about?” “A preacher, Bailey,” he said irritably. “I’m taking you to a preacher.” She caught her breath. Stunned, excited beyond words, all she could do was stare while her midsection tied itself in knots. He was talking about her secret dream. Zachariah Rawlins, her lifelong infatuation, the one man for whom she would actually have considered wearing a dress at the altar, was proposing marriage — not very graciously, mind you, but he was offering to wed her. There was just one little problem with this dream come true. “You don’t want to marry me, Zack,” she whispered. “I don’t have a choice.” She flinched, his words cutting deep. Some starry-eyed part of her had apparently hoped for a denial, but his hard, flat tone left no room for doubt. It hinted at rage, maybe even hatred. Her chin quivered at the thought, but she quickly controlled it. Damn him. And damn his arrogance. “You always have a choice, Zack,” she said in resignation. Pulling the sheet across the mattress, she wrapped it around her nakedness and stood. Marrying Zack now, when he so clearly resented her, was out of the question. She adopted her crispest businessman’s voice. “Look, Zack. I don’t want to argue with you. Last night was special to me, and I don’t want to ruin its memory by saying goodbye with hard feelings. We shared a moment that I’ll never forget. But that’s all it was. A moment. Just because you deflowered me doesn’t mean I have to turn my life upside down for you.” “What?” If she hadn’t forced a smile, she might have cried. He’d been so busy playing tragic and noble that he hadn’t once bothered to consider she might refuse his offer. “You don’t love me, Zack.” “What does that have to do with anything?” His vehemence came like a bolt out of the blue. She blinked. Here she was, staunchly ignoring every female impulse to marry him now 147

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and worry about making him love her later. Instead, she was taking the logical route, the male route, and setting him free. The least he could do was be grateful. Then again, she supposed nobility of character prevented men like Zack from showing relief when they were saved from the bonds of matrimonial servitude. As she recalled, Nick’s outrage hadn’t been quite as believable, God bless his philandering soul. She managed once again to stave off a repeat of the previous night’s tears. Even though his pride was hurting, not his heart and soul, like hers, she supposed she could offer him an explanation. She’d had the courtesy to give Nick and Mac one. “My mother, whom you were fortunate enough never to meet,” she added bitterly, “was a spoiled Yankee debutante who got whatever she wanted. And she wanted my father. She never planned on marrying a penniless Scottish immigrant, but she panicked a few weeks later when the scandal reached the society pages, her more eligible suitors stopped calling, and she found out she was pregnant. “So my father,” Bailey continued, unable to keep the pain from her voice, “did the right thing, the proper thing, and offered for her hand. She consented to marry him, but rather than appreciate the sacrifice he was making — after all, he would have been better off taking a wife who could lamb, shear, and cook — my mother never failed to let him know just how beneath her station she considered him. And me. To be honest, Zack, she made my life a living hell. She never let me forget I was responsible for her fall from grace. But she taught me a powerful lesson. I would rip out my heart and feed it to the crows before I would ever, ever chain myself to a mate who didn’t love me.” His brow furrowed. “Bailey, no one in their right mind would blame you for your parents’ indiscretion or their unhappiness.” “You don’t think so?” She shrugged noncommittally. Zack couldn’t begin to know what it was like to be resented just for being born. But she’d always suspected her parents would have forgiven her if she’d had a pecker. As it was, she was convinced her daddy had loved her only because she’d become the son he’d so desperately wanted. “All I know is, I’m not going to make the same mistake they did.” 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.” 148

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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 firsttimers. 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 149

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stand before him, clutching her sheet to her breasts with whiteknuckled 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 150

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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” had. 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 151

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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 behind 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 his heart hurt like hell too. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. 152

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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. 153

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“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. 154

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He drew a bolstering breath. “Just a minute.” He pulled a work shirt over his head and tucked the tail into his jeans, then slammed the trunk’s lid to hide the disorderly pile of clothes and tossed the soiled towel under his bed. Combing his hair into place with his fingers, he finally opened the door. Smiling wryly, Fancy offered him a glass. “I would have brought lemonade, but you looked like you could use something sweeter.” He accepted the iced tea and returned her smile weakly. “Are you calling me a sourpuss?” “Well . . .” She arched a black eyebrows. “I’ve never known you to stomp or swear without reason.” He sighed, hanging his head for a moment. His seventeenth year had been one hell of an initiation into manhood. First Uncle Seth’s death, leaving him to shoulder the responsibility of the ranch while Cord was off chasing outlaws; then he and Aunt Lally had been kidnapped by one of Cord’s enemies. Despite the ill feelings Zack had had for Fancy at the time, she’d risked her life to rescue him and Aunt Lally, and he’d forged a deep, abiding friendship with her after that. Fancy was just about the smartest, most resourceful person he knew. And just then he wasn’t feeling very smart or resourceful. “Come in,” he said quietly, stepping aside. Out of respect for the conventions, he left the door wide open, although he knew Fancy was amused by such proprieties. Fortunately Cord trusted him with his wife, because Fancy didn’t hesitate to take the only seat in the room: the bed. “What’s wrong, Zack? Is it Bailey?” He winced. Was it that obvious? “Yeah,” he said, and gulped down some iced tea. Knowing Fancy wouldn’t judge him wouldn’t make his confession any easier. He’d rather walk naked through a hail of gunfire than discuss the mess he’d gotten himself into. “What did she do this time?” Fancy sounded amused. Despite their nearly twelve-year age difference, Bailey was one of the few females in Bandera County whom Fancy had taken an instant liking to. And Bailey, in her forthright manner, had accepted Fancy as an equal, acknowledging her for the person she’d become rather than holding Fancy’s outlaw’s past against her. 155

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“It’s not so much what Bailey did,” Zack answered, setting the empty glass in his shaving basin. “But, rather, what I did. To her,” he added bleakly. Fancy’s violet gaze remained steady, uncondemning, but he felt his face heat anyway. Gritting his teeth, he began to pace. “We started drinking moonshine. And then the rain came, so we ran outside. We were both pretty roostered by then. She started dancing and shouting, and when she fell into the spring, I had to carry her up to her bedroom so she could dry off. . . .” His steps faltered before his boots, and he stared miserably at his belt buckle, glinting in a shaft of morning light like a glaring reminder of the night’s misdeeds. “God, Fancy,” he groaned, “I don’t know what came over me.” “The moonshine, most likely.” He shook his head. The alcohol had been only partly to blame. As much as he would have liked to deny it, he’d been itching to get his hands and mouth on Bailey and ride her sleek little body for the better part of . . . what? A year? Maybe it wasn’t just a matter of misunderstanding her confession when she’d confided she’d always wanted him to be “the one.” Maybe deep down inside he hadn’t wanted to understand. When that revelation struck, he groaned, digging his fingers into his hair. “She was an innocent,” he blurted out, starting to pace again. “What?” Fancy’s eyes grew rounder than full moons. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” “Do you mean to tell me she let you bed her without one single protest about her reputation?” Fancy’s brow furrowed. “I’m no expert, but I wouldn’t say that sounds like virginal behavior.” “Well, maybe she didn’t know any better,” Zack said, then grimaced. He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend Bailey after she’d clawed off his shirt and jeans like a wildcat in heat. Of course she’d known better, dammit. Nick Rotterdam had already harmed her reputation, so she’d probably figured she had nothing to lose by throwing away her virginity. She’d gone after exactly what she’d wanted: sex, not him. For some reason, that was the hardest pill to swallow in the remedy she’d forced him to take. 156

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“So now what?” Fancy asked quietly. He shrugged in exasperation. “Who knows? I proposed, of course, but she turned me down flat. Absolutely refused to let me take her to a preacher.” Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep the hurt from his voice. “Why do you think she’d do that, Fancy? I mean, I offered to make her respectable. Isn’t that what women want?” Her gaze was sympathetic. “Most women,” she said. “But Bailey’s not like most women as far as I can tell.” “That’s for damned sure,” he muttered. “She told me in no uncertain terms: ‘If I’m pregnant, I’ll take care of it.’” Fancy caught her breath, and he spun to face her. “What?” he demanded, unsettled to see her face grow so pale. He hadn’t seen Fancy looking this anxious since last year, when she’d received Rorie’s letter announcing Wes was in dire danger and begging Cord to ride to Elodea to save Wes’s ornery hide. “What are you thinking?” She plucked nervously at her calico skirt. “What else did she say? Anything?” “Well . . .” He frowned, trying to remember more of the words that had fueled his rage and confusion. “She said she wouldn’t know if there was a child for at least three weeks. If there was one, she assured me I wouldn’t be troubled by it. Can you believe that? Can you believe she’s so stubborn, she would rather raise a baby on her own than hitch herself to me?” Fancy bit her lip. “There is one other possibility,” she ventured to add, her gaze avoiding his. “She, er, may not be planning on raising any baby by herself.” Zack’s jaw hardened. “You mean you think she’ll put the baby in an orphanage?” The very idea made his bile rise. “Or marry someone else, like McTavish?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Er . . . maybe.” Fancy cleared her throat. “Actually, I was thinking along the lines of a more permanent solution. Like . . . mistletoe tea. Or a drink made from the cotton plant.” A full second passed before the awful meaning of her words registered on Zack’s brain. He choked, his heart slamming so hard into his ribs that for a moment he felt winded. “No! She wouldn’t. I mean, she couldn’t! Not to our baby . . .” 157

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But he remembered the dread on Bailey’s face when Wes had offered to let her hold his child. He remembered how she’d backed away, as if the baby had cholera, and how she’d awkwardly blustered to divert Wes’s and Rorie’s surprise by claiming she knew nothing about bairns, just lambs and kids. Dear God, was it true? Did Bailey hate children that much? No wonder she wasn’t yet married . . . A floorboard creaked, and Zack whirled to find his two brothers climbing the final attic stair. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Cord said tersely, stepping through the doorway. “What’s this about a baby?” Six inches taller than the Rawlins patriarch, Wes halted behind Cord as if to bar Zack’s escape, his arms crossed and his features more somber than Zack could ever remember seeing them. “Cord,” Fancy interceded quickly, “were you looking for me?” “No, darlin’.” His pine-needle-green stare softened when it flickered to his wife. “Wes and I got to thinking something must be wrong, the way Zack blew in here like a black blizzard.” Zack stiffened, feeling as if the world were crashing down around him. He was having a hard enough time holding up his head under the onslaught, and the last thing he needed was a browbeating from his brothers. Fancy rose to stand beside him, her dark head not quite reaching his shoulder. “There’s no baby yet,” she firmly told her husband. “Zack’s worried because Bailey won’t marry him, and he’s leaping to the worst possible conclusion.” Cord swore softly. Wes frowned, his emerald gaze more sympathetic than Cord’s. “What the hell do you mean, she won’t marry you? I never figured that woman to be dimwitted.” Zack wished he could acknowledge his kid brother’s loyalty, but he felt too sick inside. “She said I don’t love her,” he answered thickly. “Is that true, son?” Cord’s tone was more gentle now that his worst fears had been alleviated, but Zack still couldn’t meet the eyes of the brother who had been like a father to him. Reflecting on Cord’s question, he fidgeted, remembering how he’d nearly broken his back to bury Boo because he 158

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thought it would save Bailey some suffering. He remembered how his world had gone cold and black when he thought she’d broken her neck in the stream. He remembered holding her, loving her, drowning in the indigo depths of her eyes. But he remembered, too, how she twisted everything he did and said; how they couldn’t seem to spend ten minutes together without fighting like cats and dogs. Worst of all, he remembered how she’d used him and sent him away, offering him breakfast like a whore’s payment. He swallowed hard. “It’s true,” he answered harshly. “I don’t love her.” Wes and Cord exchanged uneasy looks. “Well, maybe it’s for the best, then,” Wes said uncertainly. “Her not marrying you, I mean.” Cord nodded slowly, as if he weren’t quite sure of his own feelings on the subject. “You did the right thing by her. If she won’t marry you, there’s nothing you can do about it, son. I’d hate to see you get hitched to a woman you resented, since marriage is a lifelong deal. As for the baby, I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see, and pray for the best if there is one.” If there is one. Zack flinched. Losing his election suddenly didn’t seem important when compared with losing his flesh-and-blood child. Turning away from Fancy, he picked up his boots and hastened to finish dressing. “I reckon we’ll see you at lunch, eh, Zack?” Cord said, making a concerted effort to lighten his tone. He extended his arm to his wife. “I left the baby in Merrilee’s care, ’cause I figured Megan would try to dress her little sister up like a doll.” Fancy chuckled, joining her husband. “Well, I suppose that’s better than the boys trying to tie her up to play cowboys and Indians.” Wes stepped aside, letting the couple move past him and descend the stairs. “Zack?” “Yeah.” Zack was busy with his belt and his thoughts as Wes lingered on the doorstep. “I just want you to know, whatever you decide, I’ll stand behind you.” 159

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Zack glanced up sharply, meeting his kid brother’s worried gaze. Wes had always been partial to ladies and their defense. It was kind of nice, knowing Wes was on his side for a change. Zack smiled mirthlessly. “Thanks.” Wes nodded and left. Zack hardened his jaw. Throwing back the lid of his trunk, he dug out a tattered old Bible, the only memento he had left of his mama, who had been murdered, along with his pa, during a stagecoach robbery when Zack was four years old. He tucked the good book under his arm and strode purposely down the stairs. Come hell or high water, Bailey McShane was not going to harm his baby.

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Eleven Thank God a rancher always had a new set of problems to worry about. That’s what Bailey told herself early that afternoon, when the Coles’ cougar-hunting party discovered one of her line shacks had been torched and more of her fences had been vandalized sometime before or during the storm. Snorting, Sassy stomped beneath her, and Bailey winced, forcing a brittle smile as she remembered the wild ride she and Zack had had the night before. The palomino was impatient for a run, but Bailey kept a tight rein, her thighs too tender for a gallop. Of course, she would rather have cut out her tongue and fed it to One Toe himself than admit such a thing to the five sheepherders who had accompanied her to the site of the sabotage. Now the men were hotly debating whether to delay their hunt long enough to track down the cowpoking bastards who’d all but declared war. Personally, Bailey wanted to hunt cougar. Seething over Zack, infuriated by the trespassers, she would have much preferred to bag cowpokes, but she figured shooting cattlemen was a hanging offense, even if they did deserve to have their hides scraped and tanned. Besides, she’d just spent the better part of an hour pleading, ranting, and finally insulting Mac to keep him and his shotgun off the Rawlins property. She couldn’t very well seek vengeance when she had an example to set for her hired hands, now, could she? With only half an ear, she listened as Rob Cole convinced the others to spend a half hour mending the wire with the tools that he and every other sheepman had learned through years of harsh experience to pack in satchels or saddlebags. Campaigning must have come natu161

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rally to Rob, she mused. Even though his vice presidency in the Woolgrowers’ Association was assured for another year, he was stumping with zeal, insisting that sheepmen stick together, since no lawman in the county gave a damn about their troubles. Well, Bailey couldn’t argue that. The only problem was, she wasn’t particularly fond of a certain sheepman right now, and the last thing she wanted was his company. Dear old Mac. No doubt he’d intended to preach at her some more, because he’d brusquely declined the Coles’ invitation to track down One Toe after their hunting party had called at the house. She really hated it when he got on his high horse. Unfortunately, he’d weathered last night’s storm at the Vasquez cottage, which meant he’d returned to the big house in time to watch Zack gallop off in his black rage. Mac had rushed upstairs, seen her tear-streaked face, and exploded into an imitation of her father. She’d had to volunteer for the hunt, sore thighs and all, just to escape another hour or so of lecture. “There’s no excusing yer behavior this time,” he’d snapped in a rare fit of Scottish temper. “Throwing yerself at Nick was bad enough, but ye know I always blamed myself for that, since ye were so hurt when I turned ye from my bed. But lying with Rawlins? That was an act of sheer selfishness.” “Selfishness?” “That’s right. All ye care about is making some public spectacle to prove ye’re equal in every way to a man.” “Damned straight I’m equal! I have just as much right as you, Zack, or anyone else to mate as I please. If I were a man, you’d be congratulating me!” “If ye were a man, I’d knock ye on yer ass! Ye’re playing with hearts, and ye dinna give a damn whose bleeds. I’m ashamed to say I raised ye.” She’d stiffened, wounded to her core. She’d already told Mac that Zack had offered for her to keep Mac from gunning Zack down, and then she’d had to lie, saying she’d gotten Zack drunk because he wouldn’t have bedded her any other way, to explain why she’d refused a legitimate marriage offer. Mac was from the old country, and he’d tolerated her wish to marry for love only while she’d remained an innocent. Now that she was as wanton as her mother — he hadn’t 162

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said so, but she was sure he must have thought it — he was hell-bent on riding her to the altar. “Raised me? You’re not my kin, Iain McTavish!” “I’ve been both father and mother to ye, Bailey, but ye changed all that when ye wanted me for yer lover.” “Thank God! Because I’m sick and tired of reminding you who’s the boss, and who’s the foreman. Maybe now we can keep things straight around here!” He’d sucked in his breath so fast, one might have thought she’d plowed her fist into his gut. Reflecting back on their argument — and the Coles’ timely interruption — Bailey couldn’t say she was proud of herself. It had always been hard on Mac, practically being kinfolk and yet, in very subtle ways, not being a member of her family. He’d devoted his whole life to Patrick McShane and the McShane ranch. Other than the thousand dollars in gold Patrick had willed to his foreman upon his death, Mac had little to show for his years of loyal service. Bailey remembered how it had frightened her two years earlier to think of running the ranch by herself, if Mac had taken the pittance and moved on. But Mac had stayed. At the time, she’d been too relieved to question why. Now the idea that he could pull up stakes at any time was unnerving. Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown in his face that he was just her hired hand. . . . The warning barks of the Coles’ hunting dogs broke her reverie. In the distance, a long, lean roughrider was cantering from the east on his coal-colored horse. The pony’s gait slowed for a moment, and Bailey suspected the rider had spied the hunting party gathered near her fence. The horse’s direction abruptly changed, heading northwest to intercept them, and Bailey’s heart quickened to an almost painful pace. She’d recognize Zack and Boss anywhere. Damn the man. What did he want now? “He’s got one helluva nerve,” Jesse Cole said, jerking his head in Zack’s direction. The elder Cole frowned, taking a stance beside Bailey’s horse. With his folded arms and straddled legs, one might have thought he was guarding the ranch payroll. Bailey should have been amused at the thought, but Rob’s protective instincts reminded her too much of 163

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Mac’s. Why did every man in the county think her incapable of fighting her own battles? The pastores halted their wire mending and scrambled to their feet. Their expressions dark, almost forbidding, they watched the cowboy ride toward the scene of the crime. Whether the Rawlins brothers had anything to do with the vandalism didn’t matter to the sheepmen. Bailey could feel their hostility as keenly as she could feel the churning in her gut. A part of her worried that Zack, alone and outnumbered, would make some dangerous argument for the cattlemen’s rights to an open range. Another part of her was still too hurt by his behavior six short hours earlier to defend his innocence. Boss was only a quarter of a mile away now, his fluid strides rapidly closing the distance. Despite the dust he kicked up, and the heat waves radiating above the hardy gramma grasses, Bailey could gauge Zack’s mood by the tense lines of his body. He looked grim. Maybe even angry. She snorted. As if he had any right to be! His hat cast charcoal shadows across his sun-darkened face. When he finally reined in, his yoked shirt and red neckerchief fluttering in the dying breeze, his features were nearly indistinguishable beneath the brim. She could feel his gaze upon her though. It was hot enough to make the blistering sun feel lukewarm. “Come back to finish the job, did you, Rawlins?” The jibe was Jesse’s, young wiseacre that he was, and Zack’s burning gaze shifted, freeing her. She released a ragged breath. A full measure of heartbeats passed while he stared at the rubble that once had been her line shack. His jaw muscle twitched. Ignoring Jesse completely, he faced her once more. “Is that what you think?” She scowled back, wishing her silly pulse would stop fluttering like hummingbird wings. “I haven’t formed an opinion.” “Opinions are all we’ve got,” Rob said brusquely. “The storm wiped out the tracks. But then, your kind must’ve known that, eh, Rawlins?” Zack simply continued to lock eyes with her, and she had the unsettling feeling that he didn’t give a damn what the Coles thought, or even what they might say about him later, which was odd, considering his election hopes. Why didn’t he just defend himself with his true alibi: He’d been with her from late afternoon until dawn? 164

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Damn him and his precious nobility! He should have behaved as gallantly that morning, when he’d offered her her dream. “Why did you come here?” she demanded abruptly. Boss stomped in agitation beneath him. She knew the mount echoed its rider’s mood. “To join the cougar hunt.” The air left her lungs in a rush. Bailey, you idiot. She blinked back tears of mortification. You knew he wouldn’t come back for you — unless you were bearing his precious son. “Is this some kind of ploy to get us sheepherders disqualified from the contest?” she flung back weakly. “Or are you hankering after my five-hundred-dollar prize?” “I don’t give a damn about the contest or your money. I’m here because of Esteban Vasquez.” “None of us sheepmen has a vote in your election in October,” Jesse taunted. “Helping us is just a wasted gesture.” Zack’s gaze finally traveled to the young wool baron and branded the boy like an iron. “Last I heard, we were a community of neighbors, not two armies waging war.” “Burning buildings isn’t any way to strike a truce,” Rob growled. “I agree.” Zack was just as terse. “That’s why I’ve a mind to ride with you, hear you out. Form an opinion myself.” “Don’t tell me you might take the sheepherders’ side,” Bailey said, unable to resist the barb. “You want my help or don’t you?” She smiled bitterly. Actually, she wanted a good, solid reason to punch him in the gut. While she preferred to believe she wasn’t pregnant — in truth, she was doing her best to push the disturbing notion from her mind — she still couldn’t forgive him for acting as if his seed, his baby, mattered more to him than did she, the mere carrier of his child. Fortunately for him, she never let her personal feelings take precedence over her business concerns. “Sure, Mr. President,” she said. “I want your help. Haven’t I been asking for it for three damned years now?” Zack stiffened at her jibe. She was being unfair again, but then, he should have expected that. As he recalled, she’d come to the Cattlemen’s Association only twice in three years, and the first time Rotterdam was still president. The second time, Zack had followed 165

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appropriate procedure, placing her complaint on the agenda of the next board meeting scheduled for two months later. She’d flown into a fury, refusing to wait that long for her grievance to be heard, and had stormed off his property claiming he was uncooperative, unscrupulous, and a couple of other things he’d chosen to forget. Although he believed he’d been in the right during that argument, Zack reined in his outrage, realizing another mouth fight with Bailey wouldn’t solve anything. It never did. She only caterwauled louder when she was backed into a corner by the facts. Besides, they had private matters to discuss, and like it or not, he was going to have to bide his time until he could get her alone. In the meantime, he could at least keep an eye on her. He didn’t want her climbing live oak trees to harvest any damned mistletoe. “We’re burning daylight,” he told her briskly. “Let’s ride.” She didn’t pay much attention to him after that. In fact, as he spurred Boss alongside the sheepherders’ ponies, he suspected she was going out of her way to ignore him, taking special pains to canter Sassy between Rob’s and Jesse’s mounts. He didn’t care. At least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t helping to avenge Esteban’s death to make Bailey love him. Hell, he wasn’t interested in making any mutton puncher love him. So the fact that they all set their jaws, squared their shoulders, and refused to waste a breath of conversation on him didn’t bother him in the least. He was used to silence. In fact, he preferred it. Riding for hours, they circled through the foothills, looking for cougar tracks. Any hope of finding even a cold trail was slim after the previous night’s storm, and in the heat of late afternoon, Zack suspected it would take a miracle to stumble across any puma prints, much less the one-toed kind. Cougars were nocturnal creatures, and most of them were shyer than foals. It was a rare cat that approached a man, and a rarer one still that stalked one. The problem was, once cougars got a taste of human blood, they usually came back for more. A fourlegged man killer was even more fearless than the two-legged kind. About a half hour before twilight, they finally reined in and had a powwow. The closest they’d come to an cougar all day was a leafcovered deer carcass and couple of scratches in the dirt near some limestone cliffs. As for other hunters, they’d run across no one from either the cattlemen’s or sheepherders’ team. Apparently excitement 166

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over the storm and the resulting responsibilities at most ranches had temporarily diverted interest away from Bailey’s five-hundreddollar prize. “One Toe’s gotta be holed up here somewhere,” Jesse said irritably, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. “I know for a fact there’re caves in those cliffs.” “There’s water nearby too, on account of the rain,” Rob said, squinting up at the jagged limestone walls turning golden in the lengthening rays of the sun. “I can hear it.” They all grew quiet for a moment, listening for the telltale trickle of water on rock, and Zack took the opportunity to steal a glance at Bailey. She looked hot, tired, and frustrated. Her pale blue shirt was damp between her breasts, and he tried not to look there, but his gaze had a nasty habit of wandering back despite his best intentions. Fortunately, he couldn’t see anything more than the vague silhouette of a lacy chemise, but he swore he’d swing a fist at the first man he caught staring at the same place, hoping for a more pronounced view. When she straightened her knees, furtively adjusting her seat, he recalled that she’d been fidgeting more in the saddle than an accomplished horsewoman should. He suspected the reason and groaned inwardly, hating himself. God, what he wouldn’t give to turn the clock back twenty-four hours . . . “I reckon there’s not enough daylight left to keep riding,” Rob continued, glancing at Bailey. “Like as not, we’ll have to pitch camp. But I can escort you back to your — ” “Hell, Rob,” she interrupted, “I can sleep on rocks.” Zack frowned, knowing Rob was less concerned about what Bailey slept on than where she slept. The other men exchanged uneasy looks. Even Jesse seemed disturbed by the thought of sleeping in cougar country with a woman to distract his senses. “Er, maybe you haven’t thought this all the way through. Bailey,” Rob said. “Now, I’m not saying you aren’t a crack shot or anything — ” “Then what are you saying, Rob?” The sheepman’s neck grew crimson. “You and Bailey will be safer with us,” Zack interjected. “I recommend two men per watch. I’ll take the first round with Bailey. That is, if she’s game.” 167

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Her lips tightened into a grim line. “First watch suits me just fine.” Zack smiled to himself. He’d figured she’d snap up the bait. The one thing he’d learned about Bailey McShane over the years was that she wouldn’t back down from a challenge. In that respect, she always tried too hard to be a man. Dinner, or rather the cooking of it, brought another tense exchange between Bailey and the vaunted vice president of the Woolgrowers. Rob, apparently less versed in “Bailey etiquette” than Zack, made the mistake of asking her to “make herself useful” by skinning and cooking the two rabbits Jesse had shot for the group. Propped against a boulder in a patch of shade, Zack watched the blood rush up Bailey’s neck. He was sure a volcanic explosion would follow. “Me?” She took her usual battle stance against the backdrop of the campfire’s wind-furled smoke. “I can’t cook.” “We’re hungry, not particular, so there’s no need to be shy,” Rob said in his fatherly, salt-of-the-earth voice. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. All women can cook.” “The hell they can. Why do you think I hired Jerky?” Trying not to chuckle, Zack nearly choked on his sip of water. Bailey shot him a look which, he was sure, was meant to shrink him smaller than flea size. “What are you laughing at?” “Nothing.” “Now, see here, Bailey,” Rob said, trying to thrust the limp rabbits into her hand, “we’re all doing our share. Jesse shot the meal, Vasquez gathered the firewood. Woody is watering the horses, Carlos is feeding the dogs — ” “What’s he doing?” She jerked her head in Zack’s direction. Zack raised his canteen again. Hiding his amusement was getting harder as Rob grew increasingly irritated. “Rawlins is taking first watch.” “So am I!” Rob reddened at her reminder, then frowned, his silver eyebrows lowering like broom bristles over his deep-set eyes. “Enough now. Bailey. Someone has to cook, and you’re the most likely one.” “Why?” She hiked her chin at the rancher. “’Cause I’m the one most likely to wear a skirt?” 168

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Zack cleared his throat. “May I make a suggestion?” he drawled, screwing the lid back onto his canteen. Her head snapped around, and a narrowed pair of sapphire eyes stabbed through him. “That depends.” “Yeah,” Jesse chimed in from where he sat in the shade of a pecan tree, cleaning his gun. “This isn’t one of your damned cattlemen’s meetings. You don’t have a vote here, Rawlins.” Zack ignored the boy. Jesse was too eager to prove his manhood, and Zack figured being challenged to a brawl, or worse, a gunfight, wasn’t going to win him any friends in this camp. Besides, beating the tar out of a seventeen-year-old wouldn’t make Zack feel anything but disgusted, mostly with himself. “There’s a pile of kindling over there,” he said, gesturing to a rustcolored loblolly pine that had clearly known better summers. “Why don’t we all draw straws?” Bailey opened her mouth, as if she would have liked to protest her unequal treatment further, but even she must have seen the sense in settling this argument diplomatically. “All right,” she said in a disgruntled tone. “But I’m going to hold the straws.” Marching off stiff-backed and square-shouldered, she tugged one of the ailing tree limbs down to waist height and plucked off six browning needles. She glared a don’t-even-think-about-peeking look at the men before she turned, arranging her “straws” in her fist. “Who wants to go first?” she challenged, her free hand, as usual, spanning her hip. Vasquez was closest. Shrugging, he obliged his boss. “I’ll go next,” Jesse called, beckoning her closer. When it became clear his needle was the same length as Vasquez’s, he grinned smugly at the rest of them. “Just remember, men,” he taunted as Bailey turned to Rob, “the trick to making good coffee is it doesn’t take as much water as you think it does.” “You’d have us all drinking sludge,” grumbled Woody, the Coles’ foreman. His face showed relief a moment later when his needle proved as long as Rob’s. “Hell, you’d have us all drinking granny tea,” Jesse retorted, leaning forward and squinting across the clearing at Carlos’s needle. 169

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“Criminy. You’ve done it again, Carlos! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose a draw. Must be ’cause you always sign the cross first.” The pastore smiled shyly at his young boss. “Si, señor.” Now Bailey stood before Zack, her chin hiked, her fist tense. She looked something between desperate and defiant as she thrust the last two needles at him. He managed to swallow his smile. Personally, he didn’t understand why she found cooking so objectionable. He and Wes used to take turns rustling up grub all the time on the trail. Everyone had to pull his or her weight with the frying pan sometime. He kept his advice to himself, though. He could tell by the battle gleam in Bailey’s eyes that her fist was itching to give him more than a straw, and he wanted vittles in his stomach, not her knuckles. Dragging his gaze from the blue embers that smoldered in her eyes, he studied the needles. He figured he could save every man a heap of trouble if he could just figure out which was the shorter of the two. It was impossible to tell though, so he finally gave up and made his selection. He could tell instantly by her scowl that he’d made the wrong choice. “Happy now, cowpoke?” she growled, tossing aside the remaining needle. It was a full two inches shorter than his. Before he could answer, she spun on her heel, snatched the rabbits up by their ears, and stomped off to the stream with her hunting knife. Zack sighed, watching her flop down on the bank in the olive-gray shade of a juniper. Even when he tried to help, he couldn’t win. Why did his best intentions always go awry with Bailey McShane? Later that evening, all the sheepmen agreed to listen the next time a woman declared she couldn’t cook. Zack’s teeth actually ached after chewing so hard to force Bailey’s burnt rabbit down his gullet. And her jamoka . . . He grimaced just thinking about it. Licking the bottom of a well would have been more humane to his tongue. None of the men dared say a word to her face though, considering no tastier fare was in sight. Besides, she was wearing her hat at a fighting angle. When she finally stalked off with her Winchester to take the first watch, Vasquez, bless his woolly-loving heart, quietly spared her and the rest of them by volunteering to fix flapjacks for breakfast. 170

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Relieved to give up the pretense of drinking coffee now that Bailey’s back was receding into the night, Zack spilled the black goop she’d brewed into the rocks. He noticed every sheepman’s eyes were fixed speculatively upon him, and he didn’t doubt for a moment what their topic of conversation would be the minute he finished packing his mess kit and left their circle of firelight. Rob spoke in a gravelly voice. “If I wasn’t so sure Bailey could put a bullet through you faster than a whirlwind could snuff out a match, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you share her watch.” “Much obliged for the warning,” Zack said. He rose with his rifle. “You’d best remember, Rawlins,” Rob called as he turned to follow Bailey, “if anything happens to that girl, you’ll answer to more than lain McTavish.” Zack frowned as the shadows thickened around him. Hell, one might have thought he’d been spawned by a rattlesnake and raised by coyotes to hear Rob Cole talk. Zack wasn’t sure what fueled his ire more, being treated like the camp pariah or being reminded of McTavish. He’d wondered often during the day why the Scot hadn’t ridden at his customary place by Bailey’s side — not that Zack minded being spared the man’s scowls and growls. He just hoped McTavish’s absence was coincidental and had nothing to do with Bailey’s lost innocence. Zack had a healthy respect for the Scot’s shotgun. Climbing the winding ribbon of trail, he finally reached the cliff ledge, where Bailey had settled with her Winchester and canteen. In the full moon’s silvery radiance, the limestone around her fairly glowed, and her braid took on a frosty sheen. The breeze riffled some strands that had slipped from the weave, and they shimmered, sliding down her cheek to fall across her throat like a necklace of pearls. Zack held his breath, his irritation melting as he became mesmerized by the play of wind and hair. He wished she’d let the full wealth of her mane spill free. He wished, too, that he might catch a glimpse of ankle instead of the glint of spurs. But Bailey was never likely to wear petticoats and skirts; she’d said as much herself. She wanted the men in her world to forget she was female. It occurred to him suddenly that for all Cole’s blustering about her protection. Bailey was no more accepted by her fellow sheepherders than he was. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he sus171

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pected lain McTavish’s absence was partly to blame. Without the Scot’s presence to validate every convention Bailey had flouted throughout the day. Cole and his party had been hard-pressed to humor her. Sure, they had listened with thinly veiled condescension to her tracking suggestions, but only because she’d refused to leave them in peace and ride home. Even though her spread was easily as prosperous as Cole’s, it hadn’t earned her his men’s respect. Cole’s foreman had grumbled at one point that McTavish would have been the better candidate to represent her ranch. Then, as if to rub salt into her wounds. Cole had assigned her the most menial camp chore, cooking. No wonder she looked so forlorn and frustrated, sitting crosslegged on that rock with her chin in her hand. For the first time in his life, Zack got an inkling of how it must feel being female and therefore unequal in the eyes of men. Odd how he’d never before noticed how unfairly his kind treated women. His heart twisted at the thought. Putting aside for the moment his determination to make her listen to reason about bearing their baby, even if that meant he would have to raise a child without a wife, he searched for some lighthearted way to greet her. She hadn’t said more than ten words to him all day, and he doubted whether she’d be eager to break that trend now. “Good news,” he called, grabbing hold of a juniper bough and hauling himself up onto the ledge beside her. “Looks like you won’t be cooking tomorrow.” His appearance must have surprised her, because she scrambled to her feet, something like panic crossing her features before she snapped erect and turned to face him. “Is that some kind of wisecrack, Rawlins?” “Nope. Just a fact. Vasquez got breakfast duty.” She blew out her breath. “Serves y’all right if you do go to bed hungry. I told you I couldn’t cook.” “Not from lack of trying, that’s for sure.” Her glare was like a heat wave rolling over his chest. “Are you trying to be funny?” He shook his head. Lord, her temper was on a hair trigger all right. She straightened her hat and reached for her rifle. “This ledge isn’t big enough for the both of us.” 172

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“It’s plenty big. Bailey. Stay awhile. Please,” he added quietly. She hesitated just long enough to make him think she might actually have a reasonable bone in her body. Then she hardened her jaw, her features cast into a honeycomb of nickering shadows as the juniper swayed beside her in the breeze. “I don’t want you here,” she said flatly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” “Then why did you come?” A dozen answers sprang instantly to his brain: To talk out our differences. Stop the hurting. Protect our baby. But he figured any one of those responses would put the spurs to her temper. He shrugged. “Your company,” he said as casually as he was able. “Why?” “Because I enjoy it.” Bailey’s mouth went dry, and her knees turned as flimsy as a house of cards. She tore her gaze from his so he wouldn’t see just how much hope his answer gave her. After all, he’d made it painfully clear that morning, when his chivalric guard was down, that he considered her a liability. A diplomatic word here and there was meant only to mask, not change, that harsh fact. Leaning against the juniper for support, she kept her eyes carefully focused on the moon. “You’re a poor liar.” He chuckled, surprising her. “All right, at this exact moment I’m not enjoying your company. But I did last night at dinner, and during the storm.” “You were drunk.” “I don’t consider that any kind of excuse,” he said softly. She winced, fiddling with her rifle strap. He was straying into hurtful territory again, and she didn’t want to humiliate herself with a repeat of the morning’s tears. “What’s your point?” she asked briskly. “Well, we’ve both been cast to the wolves. Or maybe I should say ‘to the cougars.’ And since neither of us is fitting in too well with the others right now, I thought we might at least call a truce.” “I’m used to being an outsider.” “Yeah? Well, I’m not.” She ventured another glance at him, wondering if he truly missed companionship. Certainly he must get few opportunities to 173

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try loneliness on for size, what with all those cowhands, nieces, nephews, brothers, and in-laws running around his property. Growing up in a big family was one of the things she’d always missed as a child. That, and the love of a mother. “If you keep hunting with us sheep ranchers,” she said grudgingly, watching him sit, “you’ll get used to being an outsider double quick. Do you have any idea what riding with me and Cole will do to your election chances?” “Yeah, a fairly good one.” “Well, you’d best go swear Cole and his men to secrecy, then. ’Cause I’m not going to spill the beans.” “Much obliged,” he said, sounding pleased, “but some things are more important than elections.” “Hmm.” She tried to make out his expression now that the moon had slid behind a cloud bank, but his hat had cast his face into pewter shadows. “You mean Esteban?” “Him too.” She pressed her lips together. Could he have given her a vaguer answer? Damn, but he really was starting to talk like a politician. “Well, it’s your funeral. I sure would hate to see Rotterdam reelected though. Even in wet years, he was stirring up trouble between our two sides.” “We’re a community. Bailey, not ‘two sides.’” “Tell that to Rotterdam.” He was quiet for a while, as if digesting her answer. Finally, he tilted his head back to gaze at her. “Who do you think burned your line shack?” “Does it matter?” “To me it does.” She sighed. Only twenty-four hours had passed since he’d bedded her, and he was already getting territorial about her spread. She wished it didn’t hurt so much, knowing even her land was more valuable to him than she was. She wished she didn’t care that her precious childhood dream mate was like all her other suitors. “Contrary to what the Rotterdams claim, I don’t point my finger just to blow off steam. When I have proof, I’ll let you know.” “That’s mighty admirable.” 174

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The approval in his voice sent a traitorous rush of pleasure from her head to her toes. She had to remind herself sternly that he admired her enterprise, not her. “Maybe,” she answered. “I just figure it’s good business. You never want to slander a man who could help put money in your pockets. Besides, Daddy always told me a man’s name was hard to clear once it got tainted. I’ve spent my whole life under a tainted name — my mother’s. I know the hardships shame and scandal cause, and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.” Zack blinked, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was a disconcerting sensation to feel that molten gaze of his pouring into hers. She couldn’t tell if he was relieved, gratified, or simply confused. “Is that why you won’t marry me?” he asked, his tone somewhere between anxious and wistful. “I told you why I won’t marry you.” A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally his lips thinned into a line, and he bowed his head, knocking pebbles out from under his crossed legs with agitated hands. “What about McTavish? Why won’t you marry him?” She bristled. “My relationship with Mac is none of your — ” “He loves you.” She stiffened. The lump growing in her throat threatened to suffocate her. “I think,” she said hoarsely, “you’re mistaking fatherly affection for something more.” “Maybe. Or maybe you don’t want to see the something more.” She swallowed hard. “That’s why he didn’t ride with you today, isn’t it?” Zack asked harshly. “He found out about you and me.” “No! Mac doesn’t love me that way. He just wants to protect me. And keep me safe. And . . .” “And?” Her eyes blurred. And I don’t love him like I love you! But she couldn’t say the words. She felt guilty simply thinking the words. Mac was her self-appointed guardian, and he wanted to marry her because her safety meant more to him than his own happiness did. She felt lower than a snake’s belly for dreaming of something greater, a man who 175

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would love her more than life, a husband who would cherish her not because it was his duty, but because he simply could not help himself. Dashing away tears, she slung her rifle over her shoulder and vaulted across the boulder to the trail. “This is supposed to be a watch, dammit,” she growled. “How am I supposed to hear a cougar sneak up on me if I have to sit here listening to you jaw?”

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Twelve That night was perhaps the longest one of Zack’s life. He didn’t dare close his eyes, even after his and Bailey’s watch ended, despite his lack of sleep the night before. He sat grimly gulping a fresh batch of coffee, watching Bailey snooze beneath the diamond field of the Texas sky. Her ability to rest so peacefully while he was wound tighter than an eight-day clock only fueled his brain’s fever. He worried she was biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to sneak off and find herself some dastardly mistletoe or cotton plant. Hell, just about any green, leafy thing looked dangerous to him now. After all her talk about not wishing a tainted name on anyone, he was convinced she would do something rash. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow. But the day would come soon. She knew what it was like to suffer the sins of the parents, so it only made sense she would try to rid herself of his seed. Zack didn’t see things like she did though. He couldn’t pretend to understand the unkindnesses she’d suffered at her mother’s hands, but since he’d grown up missing the love of any parent. Bailey was going to have a heap of trouble convincing him that being born was worse than not being born at all. Cord, Aunt Lally, and Uncle Seth had done their best to raise him, and Zack liked to think he’d turned out pretty well. He knew firsthand that other kinds of love could make up for the lack of love from a mother or father. He wasn’t saying Cord’s love had made the hurt any easier, but a child could overcome the obstacle and turn out stronger for it. Besides, he wanted his child. He wanted to be a good father too. The very idea of Bailey rejecting his proposal while McTavish lurked on her property, wearing her down day after day with his 177

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own offers of marriage, made Zack crazier than a locoed calf. He actually considered the idea of stampeding Bailey into a shotgun wedding. He just wished he could remember a single instance when the groom had dragged the bride to the altar, not the other way around. The scrabbling of loosened pebbles stole his attention away from Bailey. Setting his cup down, he strained his eyes and ears to pierce the pervasive shadows of cliff and trees. Daybreak was no more than an indigo streak in the inky blackness of the east, and he had to rely on his instincts more than his senses to search for threats beyond the firelight. The breathless hush of predawn wrapped around him like a mantle. The silence rolled on, broken only by the splash of water over limestone. He wasn’t entirely at ease though, and he found himself rising with his rifle, if for no other reason than to walk off his agitation. After all, Rob and his hound were up on the cliff, keeping their eyes peeled for cougars, coyotes, and desperadoes. Zack might not be on the best of terms with the Woolgrowers’ vice president, but he trusted the man not to nod off during a vigil. A sheepherder with a spread as prosperous as Rob’s didn’t accumulate capital by snoozing while a predator attacked his flocks. Still, the woods were dark and sprawling, and Rob had only two eyes. . . . A quick glance at the bedrolls confirmed that the noises hadn’t come from there. The men were asleep, their hounds along with them. Bailey had spread her blankets apart from the others, and when she shifted position, muttering and thrashing in some dream, Zack tensed. He had a choice, then, and he reluctantly decided to leave her unwatched. With Rob perched overhead, surely she and the baby would be safe for the two or three minutes it would take him to check the horses. He walked silently downwind. Boss nickered, nuzzling his shoulder as he stooped to check the hobbles. Straightening, Zack gave the gelding an affectionate nose rub. The night was quieter than usual. Even the incessant chirp of the cicadas had grown intermittent, which disturbed him. Then again, he was pretty jittery after all the Java he’d been drinking. The animals’ senses were far keener than his, and if none of the dogs and horses were alarmed, he was probably overreacting. 178

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After stepping discreetly into the brush for a few minutes to relieve himself, Zack circled back through the trees, the dying fire acting as his homing beacon. He stepped into the circle of light and released his breath in relief. Then he glanced around. It took exactly two heartbeats to realize Bailey was gone. Dammit! His eyes narrowed, raking the shadows. He had the thoroughly irrational thought that she’d been playing possum all night long, that in fact she’d somehow made those scrabbling noises to lure him away so she could escape. He promptly told himself he was an idiot, that she’d probably had to visit the bushes herself, then his sense of anxiety returned even stronger. She hadn’t taken her rifle. Gripping his own Winchester in a nearly bloodless fist, he wound hurriedly through the trees, making as little sound as possible so he could listen as he headed east toward the trickling creek. Only about eight hours had passed since he’d washed off his trail dust there, yet already the babble of water sounded less enthusiastic, as if its source was drying up. A dull red glow was edging upward from the horizon, making his eyes more useful now, and he paused to catch his breath in a grouping of live oaks. He was just another long shadow in an army of tree-trunk silhouettes, and the creek, or, rather, the storm runoff, lay just ahead, a silvery thread that tumbled over luminescent clumps of limestone. Bailey knelt at the edge of the water. She was splashing her face, so she probably hadn’t heard his approach through the brush. He frowned despite his relief. Since he’d already seen her naked, sprawled out dead to the world on his chest with her ivory buttocks gleaming in the firelight, he wondered if the usual protocols were in order. Under normal circumstances, he would turn his back if he’d stumbled across a lady in the midst of her bath. But this was Bailey, they’d been lovers, and dammit, she’d taken off her six-shooter. For safety’s sake, part of him wished she would buckle her gun belt back on. The other part — the no-good, low-down part — wanted nothing more than to watch her peel off every other stitch of clothing and sit down in the water. The current probably wasn’t deep enough to cover her thighs. He imagined her sitting with her legs 179

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spread and glistening, splashing water against her breasts so that droplets dribbled from her puckered nipples. He was sure the heat of dawn had little to do with the sudden moisture on his brow. She looked furtively behind her, then began unbuttoning her shirt. His mouth went dry. He stood rooted to the spot, half dreading and half delighting in his fantasy coming to life. God, she was such a trial. He licked his lips and cast an uneasy glance around him. What if someone saw her? What if someone saw him? He was bulging hard enough to burst his jeans. He squeezed his eyes closed and drew a shaky breath. With his heart crashing against his ribs, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. He didn’t know what was worse, hearing her muffled splashes above the chaos of his pulse, or picturing what she was doing and what body part was exposed while she did it. He wished he didn’t know what she felt like, all hot and slick around him. He wished he’d never tasted the moonshine on her lips or inhaled the fresh scent of rain on her wind-tangled hair. He wanted to love her so much, he ached with a pain that transcended anything physical. But then, what good would loving her do? She’d made it offensively clear his only value to her was his stamina. He had never used a woman’s body like the women he’d cared about had used his, and the wounded, bleeding part of him didn’t know if it could ever forgive, much less forget. Especially Bailey. The splashing had ceased, and he dared to crack open an eye. Her shirt had slid down her arms, and he treated himself to a visual feast of her bared shoulder blades and the sheer muslin of her chemise, rippling with every movement of her slender back. She had tossed her mane over her head and was braiding the strands back together. She couldn’t possibly see him with that curtain of corn silk swaying before her face, and he longed to tiptoe over and touch his mouth to the fading love nip he’d left on the nape of her neck. He wondered if she even knew his lips had branded her as his own, because when she flopped her braid back into place, his mark was thoroughly concealed, much to his perverse irritation. She pulled her shirt back onto her shoulders and fastened the buttons. She was just beginning to rise, when something caught her eye. Squatting, she ran her fingertips over the earth near the 180

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creek. She gazed to her left — to the north — and then stood, shaking dirt clumps from her hand. Her profile looked eager against the eastern backdrop of ivory rock and orange sky. She strapped on her gun belt, and that did little to reassure him, because she began walking rapidly away from the camp, her gaze on the ground as she followed the runoff. He bit back an oath. Now what was she up to? He shadowed her through the trees for fifty yards before she squatted again, this time before a house-sized boulder with a feisty cedar clinging to its flat top. The rock was part of a landslide so ancient that wind, rain, and vegetation had begun to fuse it back to the cliff face. As she squinted eastward toward the limestone ledges above her, he figured this was a good time to make his presence known. He stepped forward, praying he’d loosened his chaps enough to disguise his bulge within their shadow. “Bailey.” She jumped up, spinning toward him almost guiltily. “Gawd a’mighty. Is that you, Rawlins? You scared the devil out of me. What are you doing, following me?” Halting five feet before her, he hoped the sky wasn’t yet bright enough to light his telltale blush. “You left without your rifle. I was worried.” She pressed her lips together. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve got my sixshooter.” “I can see that now.” “I’m not helpless, you know.” “I know, but — ” “You wouldn’t have shadowed Rob or Jesse that way.” He blew out his breath. The fact that she was right only added to his annoyance. He should have realized she wouldn’t care that he’d been worried. “Why are you doing this?” “Doing what?” “Starting another argument.” “I’m not the one starting anything! You’ve been staring and glaring at me ever since you set out on this hunt. When I came out here hoping for a little privacy, you followed me to stare some more. Hell, you’ve turned into a regular peeping Tom. Didn’t you see enough of me the other night?” 181

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He stiffened. The truth of her words stung almost beyond bearing. He’d be damned, though, before he’d confess to his crimes. Besides, they weren’t exactly crimes. He’d been looking out for his baby. “Not so loud: You want the whole camp to hear?” “Makes no difference to me.” Her chin jutted. “I’m not ashamed of what we did.” He clenched his jaw and refrained from telling her she should be. Obviously guilt was his problem, not hers. For what seemed like an eternity, they locked stares. He was dimly aware of the sounds of the rousing camp behind him. A frying pan clanked; a hound whined eagerly; a pastore grunted, calling out a morning greeting in Spanish. The smell of burning cedar was pungent in the air. It mingled with the aroma of coffee. He was aware, too, of her delicately curved frame, backlit against the dusky apricot of dawn and crowned by the brightest of the night stars still glimmering in the indigo above her. He felt the traitorous throbbing of his arousal, even though he was angry enough — and hurt enough — to resist it more staunchly than he would have resisted the sale of his soul. She had no right to stand there, oblivious of the torture she caused him. But, God, she was beautiful. And her babies would be beautiful too. . . . She was the first to break their stare. She turned abruptly, her cheeks tinged a pale pink, and hunched her shoulders almost protectively as she squatted, huddling over whatever had first brought her to this spot. “I found some tracks,” she muttered. “But I don’t think they’re One Toe’s.” He drew a ragged, sobering breath. Good. Cougars. He would have talked about anything just then to avoid a public discussion about making love to her. “Mating” she’d called it, as he remembered. Setting his jaw, he stalked closer and lowered himself to one knee. “Let’s see.” Bailey held her breath, doing her best not to cringe when Zack’s radiant heat gusted over her. He was too close to avoid, too distant to touch. She could have thrown herself into his arms, but that wouldn’t have brought him any nearer. He was like some ancient god who’d been forged in fire and hardened to bronze. Every muscle was taut 182

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and chiseled; every feature was harsh with judgment. She had to dig her fingers into her sleeves to keep from reaching for him. She’d nearly embarrassed herself the night before, when she’d awakened to find his lava-hot gaze spilling over her, setting her skin aflame. His effect on her was unlike anything she’d ever known, and she wanted to explore it further. She wanted to drag him into the bushes, tear the clothes from his body, rub him and kiss him until he begged to be inside her. She wanted him to want her as he had in all the feverish fantasies she’d dreamed the night before. His wanting wasn’t enough though. Not without his love. So why wouldn’t he just go away and leave her alone? She tried to concentrate on the tracks. It wasn’t easy with his thigh mere inches from hers. Her mind kept whirring back, thinking of how he’d touched her, thinking of things he’d said. All his talk of babies had ripped open a Pandora’s box inside her. Despite her every attempt to live in blissful denial, she was worried. No, scared. She didn’t want a baby yet, even if it was Zack’s. She didn’t want to raise a child with all the anger and resentment with which she’d been raised. God knew, she didn’t want to be anything like the mother she’d known. Something stole into her peripheral vision. She glanced up sharply, and her mouth went dry. On the edge of the boulder above them, a young lioness stood twitching the black tip of her tail. Bailey blinked, too stunned for a moment to think. Topaz eyes, narrow with warning, stared first at her, then at Zack. The cat’s ears folded back. A rustling came from the bushes behind her, and the cougar’s head jerked around. A short, guttural alarm rumbled in her throat. Zack looked up, cursing at the sound. He leveled his rifle, and Bailey caught a glimpse of three sets of inquisitive eyes peeking at them through the greenery. She caught her breath. “Zack, no!” She shoved the Winchester off its bead even as she drew her own .45, instinctively fearing the cougar’s retaliation. Zack’s cartridge went wide, and the lioness quailed at the report. She whirled and bounded past her den, and three spotted cubs fled their camouflage, tumbling all over themselves in their desperation to keep up with her. Bailey heard a kittenish mew, the scrabbling of dislodged 183

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pebbles beneath their paws, and the alarm cry of a wild turkey as it fled from their path. In the next heartbeat, the cougar family had disappeared, leaving only the smoky chalk of the tumbled limestone to mark their passing. Bailey rose, bolstering her revolver, only half conscious of the shaking hand she’d dropped to her womb. She didn’t dare look at Zack, who loomed over her, his Winchester gripped in white-knuckled fists. She thought she might be sick. Her ears were still ringing from the report, and her stomach was churning fast enough to make butter. She decided she’d inhaled too much gunsmoke. “Bailey!” It was Rob’s voice, frantic as he broke through the trees. The others were running fast on his heels with their dogs bounding eagerly beside them. “Mother of mercy, Rawlins, what’s going on?” The hounds swarmed around her legs, their tails wagging in excitement, their snouts snuffling the earth. Bailey knew what they’d smell: coyote, raccoon, deer, skunk. The tracks were clearly marked. The wildlife in these hills had become so desperate for water, they were willing to brave the company of predators — even man — to drink. “Everything’s fine, Rob,” she said, her voice raspy. “We’re all right.” Jesse’s dog barked, and the boy squatted, his face growing animated. “Cougar!” His gaze tracked the lioness up the cliff. “Hot damn, we’ve found one!” “Leave her alone!” Bailey lunged for the boy’s hound, grabbing its collar before it could vault over the rocks and lead the others up the hill. “What do you mean?” “Exactly what I said,” she fired back. “That cougar’s got cubs.” “So?” “So?” Bailey shot him a look that even Mac had learned not to question. “She’s not One Toe.” Zack remained silent, much to Bailey’s irritation. She could feel his eyes, like coals, smoldering into her spine. She had the fleeting thought that he could at least defend the lioness, even if he didn’t defend her. “Did you fire?” Rob asked, casting a glance at Zack’s granite-hard face. 184

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“Missed” was all he said. Jesse snorted. “Hell, Rawlins, it’s a good thing you’ve got us sheepmen to teach you how.” The boy rose, and Bailey grabbed his sleeve. “Set your sights on some other cat, Jesse.” The warning was unmistakable in her voice, and he frowned. “Why? You got dibs on that one or something?” “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got dibs.” She dropped her hand, and his brow puckered. He pushed his hat back with his thumb. “Shoot, Bailey, if you want to bag the cat, that’s fine by me, but you’ll need dogs, and — ” “You’re not forgetting Esteban, are you?” she interjected tensely. “One Toe’s the cat I want now. That other one can wait.” “She’s right, Jess,” Rob said, his gaze full of speculation as it traveled between Zack’s set jaw and her own. “You sure you’re okay. Bailey? ’Cause if you’re not — ” “I said I was, didn’t I?” He reddened, clearing his throat. “Reckon you did.” Shouldering his rifle, he jerked his head in the direction of the campsite. “C’mon on, men. Let’s see if we can’t salvage those pancakes. Otherwise it’ll be canned peaches and jerky for breakfast.” They ambled off, and Bailey loosed a ragged breath, watching their disappointed hounds trot after them. Everyone seemed to have saved face, no thanks to Zack, the surly, black-tempered cuss. If the sheepherders snubbed him again while they were hunting today, he had no one but himself to blame. She turned to follow the Coles. “Bailey.” His voice sounded strained when he caught her arm. She might have wrenched herself free and told him what a rear end he was being if she hadn’t ventured a glance at his face. He looked pale beneath his tan. Stranger still, his hand quaked on her sleeve. “Why did you stop me?” he whispered hoarsely. Something in his eyes took the edge off her defenses. Eager, almost pleading, they searched hers for an answer. She didn’t know what he was looking for. “What . . . do you mean?” she asked. 185

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“The cougar. I would have shot it to keep you safe.” She swallowed. To keep her safe? Truly? “You really want to know?” His gaze was too probing, too intense. She felt hot and naked beneath it. “Yes,” he answered. She tore her eyes from his. She wished she hadn’t pressed him. Now she’d be cowardly not to confess. He would jeer at her reason though. Any man would. She was a rancher, after all, not a prissy society miss. Her livestock was her livelihood, and predators were her enemy. One dead cougar — hell, four dead cougars — would have been a blessing to the entire county. It didn’t matter that the cubs were barely five months old, or that the lioness had been trying to protect them. She hung her head. “Because she was a mother.” She heard his breath loosen in a rush. Blushing, she hastened to defend herself. “Those cubs wouldn’t have survived the week. It would have been kinder if you’d shot them too, Zack, but I couldn’t stand by and let you do that. And I couldn’t pull the trigger either. I mean, they were just — just babies.” He made a strangled sound and pulled her into his arms. Startled, she fell against him, imprisoned in a hard, fierce hug. A tremor moved through him, and his heart beat with a chaotic frenzy just below her ear. “Z-Zack?” He buried his face in her hair. She waited an endless moment, half afraid to move, half averse to trying. To be held by him, even when his strength felt crushing, was too wonderful. “I’m so sorry. Bailey,” he whispered thickly. He sounded close to tears. Stunned, she tilted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “Wh-what for?” “For thinking the worst of you.” She caught her breath. Releasing it in a slow, measured stream, she tried to make sense of his words. “You mean about the cougar?” 186

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“No, sweetheart. About our baby. I thought . . .” He groaned, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “God, I’m so ashamed. I thought . . . you would try to get rid of it,” he finished in an agonized rush. She stiffened. Get rid of it? “Zack — ” She kept her voice as quiet and reasonable as her shock would allow. “Why on earth would you think that?” He finally gave her room to breathe, gripping her shoulders and gazing into her eyes. “Because you said you’d ‘take care of it.’” “I meant I’d raise it on my own.” He nodded, but he didn’t look relieved. If anything, his expression grew more haunted. His upset moved her more than she cared to admit. It made her realize how much she’d missed as a child. The old pain lodged as a lump in her throat. Why couldn’t her mother have worried about her half as much as Zack worried about his seed, a seed that might not even bear fruit? “Look,” she said. “My mother had a wagonload of faults. But she did do one thing worth admiring, and that was letting me come into the world.” “That sounds like something we both should admire.” “Yeah, well . . .” She turned her face away, mortified to think he might have glimpsed her tears. “It taught me a lot of hard lessons, that’s for sure.” “Bailey.” He caught her chin and guided her gaze slowly, compellingly, up to his. “Your mother needed a lot of courage to bear that kind of scandal.” “I don’t want to talk about her.” She cringed at her sharpness, but he didn’t seem to take offense. “All right.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek and released her, his smile consoling despite its weariness. For the first time, she noticed the saucer-sized shadows under his eyes. She firmly stuffed all memories of Lucinda Bailey into a cobwebbed corner of her heart. “Zack,” she asked, hiding her concern beneath a businesslike facade, “did you get any sleep last night?” Sighing, he ran his palm over the chestnut stubble on his cheeks. “Not much.” “And the night before?” His dimples peeked sheepishly. 187

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“And you want to hunt One Toe?” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t last two hours in the saddle.” “Think so, eh?” “That was not a challenge.” She gave him her best glare. “You need some shut-eye, and I’m going to see you get it.” “Oh, yeah? And how do you figure that?” “I’m going to ride shotgun on you till I get you to the nearest bed.” Surprise nickered across his features, then amusement. Both were followed by the slow dawning of a smoky amber light in his gaze. “And where might that be?” The huskiness of his voice made her pulse trip. Her skin felt scorched by the heat rising between them. She had no intention of letting her Good-Samaritan intentions turn into a tumble in the hay though. Her daddy used to tell her to pick herself up and get back in the saddle, but her heart was still too bruised and broken to let Zack get anywhere near the pieces. “I reckon my ranch is closest,” she said briskly. “It’ll be quiet there, without all your kinfolk to pester you.” “What about McTavish?” She winced inwardly. Mac should be riding the range today, inspecting her fences for further damage. With any luck, he wouldn’t be back until dinner, and Zack should be long gone by then. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he keeps quiet so you won’t be disturbed.” “That’s not what I meant. Bailey.” She arched a brow. Of course that wasn’t what he meant, but she didn’t want to confide her troubles with Mac any more than she wanted to talk about her unhappy childhood. “If you’re scared he’ll come gunning for you, I can guard your door.” Zack’s lopsided grin surprised her. “You really like trying to get my goat, don’t you?” Her face heated. Actually, she hadn’t set out to start an argument, but with Zack, her mouth always seemed to spill out war words no matter how amicable her intent. She wondered why that was. “Not half as much as you like getting mine,” she rallied, doing her best to return his grin. “Think we can ride all the way to the ranch without giving each other a shiner?” 188

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“Well . . . maybe.” He sobered again. The man’s moods changed faster than quicksilver. “What about Esteban?” he asked. She couldn’t help but be touched by Zack’s concern for a penniless Mexican sheepherder and his grieving kin. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said gently, “but in your state of exhaustion, you’re more of a handicap than a help. You’ve shown your good faith to Rob’s men, and you’ve put up with enough of Jesse’s sass to be canonized. There’s no shame in getting the rest you need. There’ll be other hunts.” Zack fidgeted, tempted more than he cared to admit by the bed, and not just because her offer was ripe with possibilities. He didn’t like making excuses for himself. Bone weary or not, it seemed to him he had a responsibility to see this hunt through, even if that meant grinding his teeth down to nubs to keep from punching out Jesse. “I hate the idea of backing out. Bailey. It’s not just Esteban. It’s the whole damned sheepherder-cattleman feud.” “I know,” she said. “But as you said last night, they don’t want you along. Tempers are going to get shorter the longer they ride, and Jesse’s itching for a fight. You don’t need that kind of trouble, Zack. If you get arrested for brawling, or, worse, gunplay, your chances of reelection will be nil. And that’ll be a bigger disaster for us sheepherders than One Toe ever was. We need you as the Cattlemen’s president.” He frowned. Considering the antiwoolly platform Hank Rotterdam was running on, Zack knew she had a point. But he still didn’t like it. “Tell you what.” Her smile was a cajoling flash of white teeth and dimples. “The minute you wake up, you can get to work solving my vandal problem. That’ll endear you to just about every sheepherder in the county, Rob Cole included.” I don’t give a damn about Rob Cole, Zack thought. The only sheepherder that matters is you. But he would rather have been tarred and feathered than admit again he was worried about her. Bailey McShane had scorned him enough over the past two days to last a lifetime. 189

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Of course, she could scorn him all she wanted. The fact remained, she had unfinished business with him. He veiled his gaze with his lashes to examine her belly. It was flat now, and there was no way of telling what the future might hold. He’d been quick to notice how her hand had dropped though, protecting her womb when the cougar cubs were threatened. She wasn’t as indifferent to having his baby as she tried to pretend. Whether he liked it or not, his responsibilities were changing. And that meant his priorities would have to change too. “All right, Bailey,” he said, telling himself he yielded for her sake, not his. “I’ll ride home with you.” Home. As she turned and he followed her, he shook his head, bemused by his slip. Now, when had he started thinking of the McShane ranch as home?

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Thirteen As hard as she tried to concentrate on her chores, blocking all thoughts of Zack from her mind, Bailey couldn’t stop herself from stealing peeks at her guest’s second-floor window. The bedroom had belonged to her as a child. She knew every knothole on the walls, every crack in the floor, every lump in the old feather mattress. It wasn’t hard to imagine Zack’s shirt and jeans tossed over the rocker or his discarded boots, one standing at attention, the other toppled beneath the bed. She could picture his gun belt and holster hanging from the left poster on the headboard, and his hat, dusty from their morning ride, suspended just above the .45. Her imagination also conjured visions of the hot, breeze-stirred dimness, the gentle flapping of the curtains, and his lean, corded length, naked except for the faintest sheen of perspiration as he sprawled diagonally across the top of the sheets to keep his feet from dangling over the edge. A dozen times or more, she was tempted to tiptoe up the stairs and peek inside the bedroom, to listen to his breathing and admire his thick chestnut lashes fanning across the chiseled bronze of his cheeks while he dreamed. She’d been denied that pleasure the night of the storm because the moonshine had taken its toll, rendering her unconscious. Fortunately — or, rather, unfortunately, she mused in dry afterthought — today she had two canine shadows. If Pris could talk, Bailey was sure she would have minced no words decrying her cruel and unusual punishment. The collie was clearly miffed that she’d been left behind for twenty-four hours with nothing but sheep, goats, and a pesky puppy for companionship. Still grieving the loss of Boo, Pris was smart enough to remember the hound hadn’t 191

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come back the last time Bailey had mounted up with her hunting rifle to follow the Coles. Pris had whined anxiously the previous afternoon when Bailey ordered her to “go home.” Now Pris wouldn’t let her mistress out of her sight. To make matters worse. Pokey, happy-go-lucky commoner that he was, had adopted the blue-blooded collie as his mama, much to her disgust, and now trotted adoringly after her wherever she roamed. Between Pokey’s mischievous barking and Pris’s disgruntled growls, Bailey figured her chances of sneaking quietly upstairs to Zack’s bedside were slim to none. “Be nice, Pris,” she called to the collie, who lay in the shade of the wagon, baring her teeth in a highly indignant fashion because Pokey had tried to clamber onto her back and chew on her ear. Pokey whined, sinking back on his haunches in the most pitifully contrite pose Bailey had ever seen, except, of course, for his perpetually inside-out ear. “He’s only a baby, you know,” she added, grimacing at the reminder of her own predicament. Pris snorted, as if to say Pokey wasn’t her baby, and she washed her paws of anything having to do with the impertinent mongrel. Shaking her head. Bailey splashed a bucket of water into Grumbles’s trough. The younger rams ran forward, only to turn tail and flee when her top stud belligerently lowered his horns. Glaring a beady-eyed warning at his competitors, all of whom had scampered to the far side of the pen bleating like cowards. Grumbles finally sauntered over to the trough and drank his fill. Even when her own life turned upside down. Bailey mused, some things never changed. Like Grumbles and the drought. Friday’s storm hadn’t brought much respite, and she was starting to grow alarmed at the dwindling supply of her wells. With the charred grasses too unsavory even for goats, she’d had to haul buckets of water and bags of outrageously priced grain to all four pens in her sixty-acre canyon. The rams’ paddock, being the closest to the barn, was the last stop on her rounds. Sighing, she wiped her brow with her bandanna, then tossed her empty buckets into the wagon. Pris leapt effortlessly over the wheels into the bed. Pokey tried to follow and somersaulted instead, his legs splaying like a pinwheel. When he landed on his head with a muffled 192

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thunk and a howl, Bailey’s laughter instantly dissolved. She scooped him into her arms. “Silly cowpoke’s dog,” she told him sternly, her heart twisting to see those big brown eyes so full of remorse. She climbed into the driver’s seat and set him on the bench beside her, which turned out to be precisely what the little rascal had wanted. Not in the least bit damaged, he hurled canine insults at her mule’s rear end. Obviously, her new hound was in dire need of discipline, thanks to all those Rawlins children. Since it was only an hour past midday, Bailey drove to the barn, unhitched the mule, and delighted Pris and Pokey with the one word announcement, “lunch.” She wasn’t sure whose tail wagged faster when she reached the back porch and threw open the door to the kitchen. The aroma of mesquite-smoked pork wafted out on a gust of hot air. The dogs charged in ahead of her, sniffing and panting, but the food and its cook were nowhere to be seen. Undaunted, Pokey galloped into the dining room to chase the elusive ham-and-egg smells. Pris followed at a more dignified trot. Bailey started to bring up the rear, but a warm rumble of laughter stole her breath away. The sound was rich with masculine amusement, and her pulse skittered, tripping in time to the delicious shivers racing down her spine. Zack was awake. She peeked around the corner. With a burnished lock of hair falling across his high brow and the strain of the last forty-eight hours gone from his features, Zack looked far more at ease than he had on the night of the storm. He would have to be, since he’d taken the seat at the head of her table. At the moment, he was leaning over his chair, an indulgent smile curving his lips as Pokey cavorted at his boots, begging for the bacon strip in his hand. A smile curved Bailey’s own lips. So much for her theory that the Rawlins children were to blame for Pokey’s winsome lack of discipline. Pris, far more refined, took a seat out of Zack’s reach and watched the puppy’s antics with a ladylike disdain that still didn’t conceal the longing in her eyes. When Zack offered a second strip of bacon to coax her closer, she glanced warily over her shoulder as if to say, “I don’t 193

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know. The mistress is around here somewhere, and I don’t want to get caught eating out of some cowpoke’s hand.” Bailey stifled a chuckle when Pris, thumping her tail once in regret, dutifully lay down. Dogs on the McShane ranch worked for their meals. Pokey had a lot to learn about earning his keep on a sheepherder’s spread. She stepped out of the shadows and passed through the slash of sunlight that fell across Zack’s platter, with its biscuit crumbs and smears of egg yolk. “’Afternoon,” she greeted him. He straightened, and his eyes seemed to glow when he saw her. “’Afternoon.” A disconcerting glitter of sensation coiled in her insides to see his gaze so welcoming. It made her stride falter, so she bent over as if she’d meant to stop and scratch Pris’s ears. “I see you charmed Jerky out of a meal,” she said lightly. “’Fraid not. I had to rustle up this bacon myself. Hope you don’t mind.” “Er . . . no. Of course not.” Actually, she wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t mind. The thought of him sleeping in her bed and puttering around her kitchen brought her a cozy feeling, one she could too easily learn to like. “You’re my guest. I apologize that no one was around when you woke to make you feel at home.” “No bother.” He smiled and jerked his head in the direction of his coffee cup. For the first time, she noticed the brown-papered bundle sitting beside it. “That’s for you.” “For me?” She eyed the short, thick square curiously and ventured a step closer. “Yeah. I brought it with me from the ranch. It didn’t seem right for you to open it in front of all those sheepherders, so I waited a spell till we could be alone.” His thoughtfulness was touching, but it made her nervous as well. As she recalled, he’d been in one of his black moods when he’d ridden across their boundary line the day before to find her. “What is it?” she asked, gingerly fingering the string on the package. “Open it and see.” 194

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She hesitated a moment longer, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. Curiosity got the better of her though, and she swung a chair around to sit. Pokey bounded forward to investigate the rustling paper sounds, and she had to prop the package on the seat back to keep his snout out of the way. Finally, the wrapping parted beneath her hands to reveal the treasure, an ornately embossed gold and ivory Bible. She caught her breath. It was beautiful despite its brittle yellow pages, and judging by the care with which it had been wrapped, it was well loved. She glanced questioningly at Zack. His eyes were hooded as he sipped his coffee, but she could feel their heat as he watched her. “It was my ma’s,” he said. “And my grandma’s before that. Fact is, it’s the only thing I have left of them both.” “Zack, I couldn’t possibly — ” “I want you to have it. You and the baby.” He took another sip, and she swallowed. She knew his mother had been murdered. His father too. “Zack, it’s beautiful. And precious. Much too precious for a woman who breeds sheep and raises Cain like me. It should stay in your family. I mean. Cord and Wes both have sweet, deserving little girls and — ” “And I might have one too.” Her cheeks warmed. Carefully, she folded the paper and balled up the string, more to hide the tremor in her hands than to keep the wrapping out of Pokey’s clutches. “It wouldn’t upset you if you had a girl?” “Fact is, I want a girl. Sons are great and all, but daughters . . .” His dimples flashed. “Well, they’re just more fun with their little petticoats, their satin ribbons, and their shiny buckled shoes. Megan’s always begging me to play the harmonica so she can dance and sing. Her brother Seth thinks harmonicas are little swords to play pirates with. And Merrilee likes to crawl up into the saddle with me to draw pictures of the steers. Topher would rather catch flies for his bullfrog.” Bailey’s throat ached. She couldn’t remember the last time her daddy had encouraged her to wear ribbons, much less to dance and sing. 195

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“I reckon some girls can be fun,” she said slowly. “Caitlin liked to do those things. She liked to sew and cook too, but Daddy always wanted a boy. He said girls like Caitlin were too much trouble, ’cause a father always had to worry about beaux sniffing around, trying to sow their seeds.” Zack snorted softly. “Sounds like your pa turned a blind eye to the good things about girl raising.” “Maybe.” Wistfully, she ran a forefinger along the spine of the Bible until she noticed her cracked nail and the sliver of dirt packed beneath it. Hastily, she withdrew her hands to her lap. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore, since Caitlin’s safe and married. And I learned how to fire a gun, so I wouldn’t need Daddy’s protection. Caitlin and I turned out all right, so I reckon he did the right thing by both of us.” “I reckon,” Zack agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced. She made a concerted effort to square her shoulders and brighten her tone. “All this talk of babies is just speculation anyway, so I’ll keep the Bible, seeing as how it means so much to you. And then when I prove you wrong and I’m not pregnant, just like I said I wouldn’t be, I’ll make sure your mama’s book gets back to you at your ranch all safe and sound. Okay?” He lowered his cup with a decisive clunk to the table. Pokey’s ears pricked. Pris raised her head from her paws. “I’m glad you brought the ranch up, Bailey, ’cause I didn’t know how to bring it up myself.” “Oh?” “Yeah. I did a lot of thinking while I was upstairs.” Her pulse quickened beneath his unflinching stare. “You were supposed to be sleeping,” she retorted in a weak attempt at humor. “I did a little of that too.” His smile didn’t soften the gleam in his eye. “I’ve decided to put down stakes here for a while.” She gaped, momentarily too stunned to protest. “What do you mean, put down stakes?” she finally asked when she got her voice back. “Just that. ’Course, I’ll sleep in the barn. You shouldn’t have to be alone, shouldering your worries about having a baby and trying to run this ranch by yourself too. I don’t want you working like a hired 196

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hand, heaving grain, toting water, and hauling wood if my baby’s in your belly. And if you are pregnant — and let’s face it, Bailey, you could be — then we’ll find that preacher I was talking about and make a proper home for our baby.” She bit back an explosive retort. Earlier that morning, she’d taken to heart what he’d said about her starting arguments with him all the time, so she was doing her best not to take the offensive, or, in this case, the defensive. She counted to five. She couldn’t quite push herself to six before she blurted out, “Zack, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He raised both eyebrows. “I can appreciate your concern. McTavish will probably go on the warpath. He’s an old, er, friend of yours, and he deserves an explanation. I’ll talk to him next.” “Mac is my foreman,” she corrected him crisply. “The best in the county. And baby or no baby, I won’t let you come in here and ride roughshod over him.” “You misunderstand me. I don’t mean to replace McTavish. I mean to work with him. Seems like he could use a hand around here.” She clenched her teeth to keep from telling him, and none too kindly too, that Mac’s was the only “hand” she needed. “What about your own ranch?” she demanded as reasonably as she was able. “You have responsibilities there.” “I’ve got two brothers and ten ranch hands. I think they can manage without me.” “You don’t know anything about goats and sheep, Zack.” “I mean to learn.” She pressed her lips together, feeling trapped by her silent vow to make peace with the man who might prove to be her baby’s father. She was determined no child of hers would grow up in the domestic war zone in which she’d been reared. But when Zack used that imperious I’m-the-boss tone, or hiked those arrogant eyebrows of his, damn, he sure made being nice hard. “So what you’re telling me,” she said, “is you’ve made up your mind, and I have no say in the matter.” “Of course you have a say. I’m just hoping you’ll see to reason.” “And do things your way.” He had the decency to look abashed. 197

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“As I said before, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to these things. And while I’m not going to lie and tell you I love you, Bailey, I can honestly say I’m not in love with anyone else. I know that sounds callous, and I don’t mean it to. I’m just trying to find a way through this whole mess that we’ve made. I figure if we call a truce and spend some time together, trying to learn more about each other, then maybe things can evolve . . . you know, your way.” She struggled to look serene under the wave of emotion that crashed over her. It broke so hard across the pieces of her heart, she couldn’t sort out all her feelings. Should she be insulted, hopeful, or just plain sad that the man of her dreams would propose this highly logical business plan for falling in love with her? “Zack,” she said in a small voice, “you don’t even like me. How could you possibly think you might come to love me?” “That’s not true.” He reached between her lap and the chair, dragging her resisting hand onto the table and holding it in a firm, warm grip. “Sweetheart, that’s just not true,” he repeated more gently. “Just because we argue all the time doesn’t mean there aren’t things about you I admire. I do like you — your courage, your perseverance, your business sense. You’re like a bulldog when you go after the truth, and I don’t know of a single person, man or woman, who’s more honest about how they feel. I just wish you would weigh the effect of those feelings on other people before you speak your mind. That’s all.” She ventured a glance at him. He looked sincere. He didn’t love her, but he was willing to try, just like Papa had been willing to try with her mother. She cringed at the thought and at the cyclone of painful memories that whipped through her as a result. “I don’t know, Zack. Some things just can’t be . . . forced.” “Then meet me halfway. Bailey. That’s all I ask.” Meet him halfway? She was already head over heels in love with him. She wanted to cry. She had never cried in front of a man though, not even Mac, and she wasn’t about to start now. “All right.” She put on a brave face, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her chin. “If you’re willing to try, I am too. For the sake of the baby,” she added hurriedly. “And if there isn’t a baby — ” “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 198

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She held her breath. What did he mean by that? Could he possibly be thinking he might fall in love with her even if she wasn’t carrying his baby? “Where’s McTavish?” She bit her lip. She decided she didn’t want to know the answer to her question. If he said no, it would kill her. If he said yes, she would always wonder if her land had been the deciding factor. “Mac’s out repairing the fences,” she answered as nonchalantly as her constricted throat would allow. “I don’t expect him back until sundown.” “All right.” He gave her hand one last squeeze and rose, reaching for the hat he’d set on the chair to his left. “I’ll ride out and find him.” “Zack, wait!” “You’ve stalled our confrontation long enough, Bailey,” he said with a maddening calm. “The man deserves to know about us. Now.” She climbed uneasily to her feet. “Mac already knows.” He paused, his hat halfway to his head. “How’s that?” “He . . . saw you ride out of here yesterday morning.” Zack’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “So you see,” she added hastily, “there’s no need for you to tell him anything — ” “There’s more need than ever, Bailey. And if your father raised you the way I think he did, you know the need well.” He spoke in clipped but civil tones, and she hung her head. He was right, of course. Daddy would have been appalled to know she’d been keeping Zack from doing what was right and honorable. Her only excuse was she loved him and Mac so much, she couldn’t bear the thought of them fighting over her, whether they used words, fists, or guns. “Zack, please.” She wrung her hands, her vision blurring as she tried to focus through her tears. “Don’t hurt him. I . . . already did enough of that.” He nodded. When he turned to go, his expression was grimmer than she’d ever seen it. “I reckon we both have.” Tracking Iain McTavish up the canyon wall to the line shack, and then following his wagon over the cracked, dusty earth, wasn’t diffi199

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cult for Zack. It did prove time-consuming though, since he had to trail the Scot to every one of his eight stops before he finally found McTavish and a pastore two hours later, restringing wire along the northeastern corner of Bailey’s fencing. The fencing closest to the Rotterdam spread, Zack noted darkly. Although the cut wire wasn’t proof positive Hank had been involved, it sure didn’t help to clear the Rotterdam name. It didn’t support Bailey’s claims she could fight her own battles either. Zack knew better than to tell Bailey he had one other reason for camping on her spread: her protection. Sheepherders had every right to be outraged by the vandalism to their property and the attacks on their flocks, but if tempers flared any hotter before the next rain, Bandera County might erupt into the kind of range wars being waged up north in Tom Green County. Zack wasn’t fool enough to think he could stop a war, but he did hope he could mediate a truce. Learning the ins and outs of sheep ranching seemed like the quickest way for him to come up with a solution and a cease-fire. He just hoped Iain McTavish would see the merit of his plan. He suspected the Scot would consider him more of a threat than would all the rest of the Woolgrowers combined. Slowing Boss to a walk, Zack approached the fence menders. “Howdy,” he called, tipping his hat. “Need a neighborly hand?” The pastore looked nervous enough to be scared when his gaze darted from Zack’s rifle to his six-shooter. McTavish, infinitely calmer, straightened to give Zack a measuring stare. A minute dragged by as Zack watched McTavish’s gloved fingers flex and unflex, as if he were working the stiffness out — or longing for a Peacemaker. “It takes only two to string a fence,” McTavish finally answered. “I don’t need ye to take my place, but Ramirez here could use a siesta.” Zack winced, suspecting a double entendre in the Scot’s words. Still, no matter how hurt and angry he must be, McTavish was taking care not to air Bailey’s dirty laundry in front of her men. That said a lot for her foreman. Ramirez glanced uncertainly at McTavish, but when his boss nodded, the Mexican whistled to his dog and headed for a patch of shade beneath a pecan tree about a hundred yards away. Zack dismounted, tethering Boss to the nearest fence pole. 200

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“I just came from the big house,” he said, pulling a heavy pair of riding gauntlets from his saddlebags. “I had another talk with Bailey, and I want you to know my intentions.” “Bailey McShane answers to no one, least of all to me. The sooner ye get that through yer skull, the happier ye’ll be.” McTavish went back to rolling out wire. Zack watched the Scot’s wooden profile and jerky movements for a moment before he pulled on his gloves. “Still, you’re like kinfolk to her,” he said carefully. “Maybe the only kin who cares what becomes of her.” “Ye’re forgetting Caitlin.” This last comment held a note of irony, and Zack, caught off guard, cursed the heat that crept up his neck. “Caitlin’s in Kansas City now. She might as well be on the moon if Bailey needs help in a hurry. With all the vandalism you’ve been seeing on this ranch, I figure help is exactly what you need. I told her I want to put down stakes here. I told her I want to learn the business, and I want to learn it from you.” McTavish glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched. “Ye told her I’m the one ye want to learn from? I’m surprised she dinna bust yer chops.” He cracked the faintest of smiles. “Or did she?” Zack felt a thread of tension loosen through his shoulders. “Er . . . no. Not this time. I think she saw the sense in my idea.” “Hmm.” McTavish clipped the wire, and Zack squatted beside him, stretching the length around the pole until the Scot had a free hand to tack it in place. “I asked her to marry me, you know,” Zack said quietly. “She said as much.” “Did she tell you why she turned me down?” McTavish nodded, and Zack felt a little less like a cur dog. Odd that the Scot hadn’t come after him with his shotgun though. “I’m worried about her, McTavish,” he said earnestly. “We took equal part in the decision to, er, buck the conventions, and I don’t want her facing the scandal alone. I don’t want her raising any baby alone either. But she’s so damned stubborn, I can’t get her to listen to reason.” To his surprise, McTavish chuckled, the sound strangely hollow. 201

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“Bailey would battle the fires of hell with a single bucket of water if she had to. I dinna think she’s too worried about what the town biddies might say.” “Yes, but . . .” Zack frowned, torn between wanting McTavish to see his point and trying to be considerate of the man’s feelings. “If there is a baby, she has to think how her decision would affect the child. It isn’t easy growing up without a father. I know.” “Aye.” McTavish’s chill thawed a bit. “But Bailey grew up worse off than ye did, even though she had two parents. Pat and Lucy were too busy fighting each other to give Bailey any attention. They lived a regular three-ring circus, loving each other in the morning, hating each other by noon. There were times the screams, threats, and crockery throwing got so bad, I had to run inside and drag Pat out, ’cause I thought one of them might get killed. “Poor Bailey saw it all,” he continued grimly. “They used her like a weapon, they did. And that’s why I canna argue when she says she’ll marry for love and nothing less. Ye’ve got yer work cut out for ye, lad, if ye want to convince that girl to be yer bride.” Truer words were never spoken, Zack mused sadly, unrolling the bale to stretch out a second length of wire. He’d heard an occasional horror story about Patrick McShane’s marriage, but he’d always figured the gossips had embellished the details to snipe at his Yankee wife. Besides, Lucinda had left her husband and daughter at least three years before the Rawlins family settled in this county. Never much interested in gossip, Zack was even less interested in gossip about people he hadn’t met. “I’m glad you were there to comfort Bailey all those years,” he said. “You mean the world to her.” “Aye, well . . .” McTavish cleared his throat. The back of his neck turned redder than his hair. “There are those who mean more to her.” He tossed Zack a fleeting look. “Raise that wire higher, would ye?” As McTavish’s hammer tapped the staples in place, Zack had a moment to wonder whom the Scot meant. Nick Rotterdam seemed the most obvious answer, and Zack scowled. Why else would Bailey go to such lengths to defend the bastard who’d bragged one night at the Bullwhip Saloon that she was going to become his wife because she “had” to? 202

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If Zack ever got his hands on Nick, he swore he’d beat him senseless. In fact, he wished Nick had left his other gauntlet near the scene of this crime, so there’d be an immediate excuse to ride to the neighboring spread and start swinging his fists. “I can promise you one thing, McTavish,” he said, “I’m not giving up on marriage like Bailey’s parents did. The future doesn’t have to repeat the past, and I’m damned sure I don’t want to spend my life fighting with the mother of my child. After all, arguments just don’t flare up by themselves; someone has to choose to strike the tinder. Bailey and I can learn to walk the middle ground.” “There’s a narrow path on that middle ground, which makes it tough to tread,” McTavish said dryly. “Bailey is never likely to become the obedient, soft-spoken bride. Always in the thick of the fray, that’s our Bailey, speaking her mind and thumbing her nose at whatever the old hens might think. She’s a woman who can make her own way without anyone’s help. “But she’s not a loner in her bones, lad,” he added almost wistfully, “and there’s a place by her side for a man with a strong heart and a gentle hand.” McTavish’s smile was laced with melancholy. “Like as not, ye’ll fit.” Zack fidgeted, unsure what bothered him more, the flicker of raw hurt across McTavish’s features or the idea of taking a disobedient bride. He wasn’t in the habit of shouting orders at women; he respected them too much for that. But he did have certain expectations of how married life should be. The husband was the leader, the protector, the provider; the wife was the nurturer, the healer, the child rearer. As strong-willed as Fancy and Rorie both were, they seemed to understand — and enjoy — their wifely roles. Surely Bailey could also come to accept her place as a Rawlins wife. McTavish rose, mopping his brow with a bandanna. “Looks like we’re finished here, lad,” he said, stuffing the bandanna back inside his rear pocket. “That bale needs to be hoisted back onto the wagon.” Zack helped the other man maneuver the prickly wire. “Any ideas who caused the damage here?” “Aye, a few.” 203

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Nodding a curt thank-you for the assistance, McTavish crossed to the front of the wagon and climbed onto the driver’s seat. “I’ll drive by the tree for Ramirez. If ye’ve a mind to learn more about fence stringing today, mount up.” Zack frowned. Clearly, the sheepman wasn’t ready to trust him, despite his grudging acceptance of a cowboy apprentice. “Who do you think burned the line shack?” Zack asked bluntly. McTavish busied himself with the reins, his eyes lowered and his expression wry. “Ye’re a smart businessman. There’re a lot of smart businessmen in this county. Problem is, Bailey willna marry for profit. So who do ye think stands to gain the most if her cut fences, a few burned buildings, and her frightened pastores convince her a woman can’t run a ranch and she decides to put her prime pasturage up for sale?” McTavish slapped the reins across his horse’s neck. “Giddyap.” Zack’s jaw twitched as the wagon rolled away from him, kicking up a cloud of dust. Only one name came to mind. Hank Rotterdam.

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Fourteen For the first five days of Zack’s stay, Bailey felt as if she were walking a tightrope. She’d asked Mac what had passed between him and the cattle rancher, but in his usual way, he’d said little, except to assure her he would abide by her wishes. Figuring Zack’s lips might be easier to pry open, she’d cornered him by the pump he’d been repairing and demanded to know what the two men had talked about. He’d answered with the oh-so comforting, “You, mostly.” She’d nearly pitched a fit right then and there when he’d refused to elaborate. No amount of begging or bribery could move him to confess either. Hell, ten yoke of oxen probably couldn’t have done that. The man was more like Mac than either one of them realized, and they were both driving her crazy. She didn’t know which was worse, feeling the tension sizzle between the two men or worrying that they’d resolve it and gang up on her. She groaned silently. The last thing she needed was two bullheaded men telling her what they thought was what. She tried to go about her daily chores as if nothing had changed, but Zack made it awfully hard. Every time she walked to the barn, or visited the well, or gazed out on a pasture, she caught glimpses of his roughrider’s frame as he worked beside Mac. With each passing sunset, and without her knowing how, his presence pervaded more of her home, from the stall in the barn, where he neatly rolled his blankets; to the kitchen washtub, where he stacked his well-scraped dishes; to the dust on the back porch, where he left boot prints much larger than Mac’s. She couldn’t feed the dogs after the evening meal without spying the spurs he’d courteously hung on 205

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the peg outside the door. And each night, when she retreated gratefully to the shower bath to wash off the day’s dust, his earthy sandalwood essence hung in the air, a tantalizing testimonial to the naked flesh he’d sponged before her arrival. Seeing so much — or, rather, so little — of Zack had her as horny as Buttercup must have been the night she’d escaped. If it weren’t for Mac, she would have marched down to the barn and demanded Zack put an end to their ridiculous sexual standoff right there in the straw. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. 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?” 206

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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, resonating 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 207

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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 Abilene 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? ” 208

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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 long 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, Titus. Hush, Thane.” 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. She’d named the bigger dog Titus because it was Greek for “of the giants.” And Thane had been Mac’s idea, since it was Old English for “attendant warrior.” 209

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“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.” 210

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“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, eh? “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. 211

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“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. Pris trotted between them. Plopping her haunches down on her mistress’s boots, she raised a paw to Bailey’s thigh as if to say, Why aren’t we leaving yet? Bailey sighed. Pris could be so impatient when she ran out of sheep to bully. “We have to carry water to the pens next. And then feed Titus and Thane.” Zack did a poor job of hiding his grimace at the dogs’ names, and she tossed him a withering look. He chuckled, turning toward the wagon. “Wes used to tell me I was never going to find a sweetheart unless I stopped treating work like a religion,” he said over his shoulder. “I reckon he never counted on me finding a sweetheart whose work ethic puts mine to shame. What do you like to do when your chores are through?” From his tone, she couldn’t tell if she was in for a browbeating or praise. “Why?” she asked warily, falling into step beside him. “Well, remember last Sunday when we agreed to spend time together? It seems to me I’ve spent more hours alone with McTavish than with you. I kind of think he prefers it that way. Maybe you do too, since you jump about ten feet in the air whenever I walk into a room.” She blushed furiously to realize he’d noticed. “It’s Mac, not you, who has me jumping,” she retorted lamely. “I feel bad whenever he comes around the corner and has to find us together.” “It’s high time he gets used to it, Bailey, although I have to admit,” he added, glancing pointedly at her from under lowering brows, “his bird-dogging us hasn’t been comfortable for me either. That’s why I’ve been waiting all week for him to leave us alone long enough so we could get to know each other like we planned. You know, while we’re doing something else besides watering sheep.” “Something else?” Crossing to the other side of the wagon, she fought down a frisson of panic. Without work to distract her thoughts and hands, she wasn’t sure she could spend time with Zack. Not 212

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without feeling awkward and inadequate, and as randy as her Angora stud. “What . . . did you have in mind?” He sidestepped a whining, peevish Pokey and lifted two sloshing buckets from the wagon bed. “Well, there’s that traveling theater troop that’s set up a tent near the fairgrounds. Rorie told me they’re enacting Shenandoah on the weeknights, and The Taming of the Shrew on the weekends. I thought the Shakespearean one might be especially good for us to see,” he added, darting a furtive glance her way. Bailey fidgeted. She never had liked sitting still for more than twenty minutes, especially in a theater, since stage dramas reminded her too much of all the melodramatic fits her mother used to throw. Besides, Shakespearean language was nothing less than a mystery to her. Wasn’t a shrew like a mole? And who in their right mind would want to tame a mole, much less watch a play about one? “I thought you wanted to do something before Mac got home,” she reminded him with statesmanlike diplomacy. “Hmm.” He frowned at her as she grabbed for the half-filled bucket of dogs’ food. She’d deliberately waited until his hands were full so he couldn’t snatch her prize away. Still, she thought it prudent to keep the wagon bed between them as she hurried along its length to the pens. “We could go berrying,” he called. “Berrying?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “If I’m going to go to the time and trouble of tramping through the underbrush in this consarned heat, I’m going to hunt me a decent meal.” He did a poor job of hiding his smile as he splashed water over the ewes’ heads into the trough. “Somehow, I didn’t figure you for the berry-picking type. All right. Let’s hear your ideas.” She sniffed. She didn’t know where Zack got his sense of fun, but frankly, she could come up with a whole slew of ideas better than berries and shrews! She raised the lid of the self-feeding bin Mac had constructed for the dogs and dumped the contents of her bucket inside. “How about fishing?” she said. “Fishing? You mean you and me? Together?” “What’s wrong with that?” He looked stunned. Shaking his head, he reached for the second bucket and began to pour. “Nothing, except . . .” 213

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She planted a hand on her hip. “Except what?” He cleared his throat. “Now, Bailey, don’t get your britches in a knot.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Look.” His expression turned sheepish. “Fishing’s just something I’m used to doing with Wes and Cord, okay?” “So you’ll get used to doing it with me.” He ducked his head, but not before she saw his grimace. “Wouldn’t you rather do something wom — er, I mean, something courting couples like to do?” he amended hastily. “Like what, smacking lips the way you and Caitlin used to do under the crab apple tree?” He looked properly chagrined — for a whole heartbeat. Then his low, rich rumble of mirth caught her completely off guard. She fumed, not sure which bothered her more, her discomfiture or his dimples’ alarming ability to soothe her indignation. “I’ll have you know, Zachariah Rawlins, I’m good at it.” “Good at what, kissing?” “No. fishing!” “Oh.” His eyes danced, and he looked like he might laugh at her again. “Being a gentleman, I reckon it’s my duty to let the lady have her choice, then.” She glared back, but it was useless. She suspected she’d lost her battle. Pris, seeing they were ready to leave, bounded up from the shade of the wagon and leapt into the bed. Zack gathered his buckets and untethered Pokey while Bailey secured both gates. When she crossed to the passenger’s side of the wagon, he was waiting there to hand her up to her seat. It was a courtesy she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to. She’d quickly learned not to refuse it though, so she wouldn’t have to waste half the afternoon arguing with him that she was more than capable of climbing into a buckboard without assistance. Besides, the clasp of his warm, work-roughened fingers felt good against her skin. She wished he’d touch her in other places too. She wished he’d taste her mouth with his tongue, drag her hips hard against his, slide his palms between her jeans and the naked, gooseprickling flesh of her buttocks. . . . 214

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Unlike her, she noticed with a blistering sense of disappointment, that he didn’t seem in the least bit moved by the touch of their hands. In fact, while she sat there, reliving forbidden memories of their volcanic combustion on the night of the storm, he was shading his eyes and gazing in bemusement toward the next paddock. At first, she thought he was staring at the baby goat in the tree. Hurt and disgruntled, she nevertheless admitted to herself that she’d been bemused, too, the first time she saw a kid climb the flat, horizontal limb of a live oak to nibble its leaves. Adult goats were nimble, but apparently their hooves couldn’t cleave to tree trunks the way kids’ could. Then Zack pointed to the enclosure beyond the goats’ paddock, where the spring lambs were munching grasses beside their ewes. “Isn’t that Buttercup?” he asked in an incredulous voice. Bailey’s spirits deflated another notch to realize he was admiring her stupid cow. Why she’d ever hoped he might someday look at her with such enthusiasm was beyond her comprehension. After all, he hadn’t made one ungentlemanly move to kiss, much less seduce her, since he’d spread his bedroll in her barn. “Yeah.” She tried not to sound childish. “So?” “She’s grazing with all those sheep!” Bailey sighed. Watching Buttercup eat shoulder to shoulder with a flock of ewes was hardly her idea of entertainment. She was beginning to worry she and Zack had absolutely nothing in common, except, of course, the fear that she was pregnant. “Since we don’t have any other cows,” she explained with painstaking patience, “Mac likes to put Buttercup out to pasture with the ewes. He thinks it keeps her from getting lonely, not to mention ornery. Both breeds are herding creatures, after all.” Zack started. Then he grew strangely still. A slow, speculative smile creased his face. “They are both herding breeds, aren’t they?” he murmured. “Damn. Why didn’t I think of that?”

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Fifteen Zack’s mind whirred. He was so busy thinking about cows and ewes, and the possibility of grazing them on the same range, he hardly said two words to Bailey as he drove her to the fishing hole. He was so preoccupied with his ideas and plans, particularly to solve the cattleman-sheep rancher feud, he didn’t think to protest when she stomped off with her tackle box and bait, leaving Pokey and the mule to keep him company. By the time he realized her smoldering hour of silence had more to do with anger than the time-honored agreement among anglers not to scare off fish, he felt guilty. He hadn’t paid much attention to her since their arrival, but judging by the sizzle in the air after each scowl she tossed him, she’d been focusing plenty on him. He sighed, reeling in his line. For the first time in two months, thoughts of Bailey McShane hadn’t been burning up his brain, and a part of him wanted to rail at the unfairness of her ire. He’d practically had to twist her arm to join him in some kind of courting activity, and when she’d grudgingly agreed, she’d chosen fishing of all things, not because she wanted to spend time with him, but because she was “good at it.” Hell, couldn’t they enjoy each other’s company just once without competing? Gathering his equipment, he steeled himself against a display of irritation and strolled to her shady patch of grass. Pokey trotted at his heels. “Any luck?” he asked. “Nope.” “I reckon they’re not biting today.” “Does this mean you’re giving up?” 216

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He bit back his retort, reminding himself he was there to make peace. “Nope,” he finally said. He took the liberty of stretching out beside her, but Pokey wriggled between them, flouncing belly-down on the grass with a sigh. Bailey looked at the puppy wedged so contentedly between their hips, and the sulky cast to her features softened. For a moment, as her gaze rose to his, he glimpsed the warmth he’d been longing to see. A vision flashed before his eyes, one of a sleepy toddler with golden ringlets, her little head resting on Bailey’s knee, her tiny hand clutching his thumb. His throat tightened. What if there really was no baby? What if Bailey wasn’t pregnant? She blushed and glanced away. Disconcerted by his train of thoughts, thoughts he preferred not to entertain, he tried to make up for the awkward lapse of silence. “I think Pokey’s growing fond of you.” “That’s hard to believe, since he spends all his time with you.” He pressed his lips together. So much for nostalgia and small talk. “All right, Bailey. You’re stoked up hotter than the coals in a depot stove, and I want to know why.” Her shoulders tensed, and her bottom lip jutted. “’Cause you dragged me all the way out here to sit and wait for some stupid catfish to bite, when I could be hunting One Toe or doing a million other things back at the ranch.” “Fishing was your idea, as I recall.” “Yeah, well . . .” She blew out her breath. “I thought you liked to fish.” He arched a brow at her. She’d suggested fishing to please him? Even though the fate of her five hundred dollars still hung in the balance? A guilty pleasure stole through him to know she had put time with him ahead of her ranching concerns. But then, she hadn’t always been all business. He remembered a half dozen times during summers past when a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old Bailey had appeared out of nowhere, whooping and hollering, and charged her pony into the water. She’d scared off the fish and doused him with spray, just to see him throw down his pole in disgust and threaten to drag her and her pony both over his knee. Wes used to think she was a hoot. 217

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Come to think of it, Wes had been right. “I do like to fish,” Zack said. “I thought you did too.” “Only when they’re biting,” she admitted sullenly. He thought better of letting her see him smile. Apparently Bailey had less patience than his ten-year-old nephew, Topher. “Do you want to leave, then?” She fidgeted, glancing furtively his way. “Do you?” The tug on his lips was more insistent this time, and he couldn’t quite hide his smile. She really was trying to be considerate, bless her tomboy’s soul. He tried another tactic. “What if I told you I don’t care about fishing as long as I get to hold your hand?” This time, her head shot full around, and she narrowed her eyes. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because we’re courting now.” His words seemed to catch her off guard, although for the life of him, he didn’t know why. Hadn’t he made his intentions plain? “I don’t know,” she said warily. “What comes after hand-holding?” “Talking, I reckon.” “And then what?” “I don’t know. What would you like to happen?” She bit her lip and looked away. “I’m not good at flirting, so stop it.” He wanted to chuckle, but didn’t dare. “Bailey, this is hardly flirting.” She peeked over her shoulder at him. “It’s not?” “No, it’s not.” The girl was lucky Wes had never let loose on her, he thought. “I’m just trying to get a straight answer from you about what you like to do for fun.” “Oh.” She looked a good deal less panicked. “Same as you, I reckon. Hunting, fishing, riding, shooting . . .” “Shooting?” She nodded. “Target practice.” “Oh.” Considering her temper, he wasn’t sure he would ever suggest shooting as an outing. “You never answered my other question,” he reminded her after a minute of silence passed. “Are you going to let me hold your hand?” 218

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She chewed on her bottom lip again before she slowly, even reluctantly, surrendered her fingers. “I’ve never really been courted by a serious beau,” she said. “Most all of them come snooping around ’cause they want my land. Nick included.” Her confession surprised him. She’d never considered McTavish a serious beau? Veiling his curiosity beneath half-lowered eyelids, Zack tried to put her at ease. “I haven’t courted all that many women, so I reckon that makes us even.” “Honest?” “Honest.” She gave him a shy, grateful smile, and his heart skipped a beat. He was glad he hadn’t put her back on the defensive. Maybe, for now, he should just be happy she’d placed him in the category of serious beau. As the silence stretched comfortably between them, he found he liked holding her hand on his knee while Pokey snoozed under the shade of their arms. He liked the idea that she could sit quietly by his side without worrying about the breeze mussing her hair, or the sun freckling her complexion, or the mud staining her boots beyond recognition. It was kind of nice doing something out of the ordinary with a woman, something that he liked to do too. God knew, he could survive till the end of his days without picking another blasted berry or watching another second-rate performance of Shakespeare. He did have to admit, though, he was a little disappointed that Bailey hadn’t included dancing on her list of favorite pastimes. Since he was bound and determined to prove he still had a gentlemanly bone in his body, despite the way he’d stolen her innocence on the night of the storm, dancing was his only socially acceptable option for getting close to her again. And heaven help him, he wanted to get close to her. A whole lot closer than they were now. Earlier, when she’d thrown kissing at him like a gauntlet, he’d been sorely tempted to take up the challenge. He’d known better than to trust himself to stop at one little peck though. Before he’d met Bailey McShane, he’d never needed female companionship more than once a 219

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month, mainly because he’d learned to harness his pecker as a matter of mind over body. During the past week, however, he’d been mortified by what he secretly feared had developed into a chronic case of lust. “Why even now the temptation of her leg stretched so close to his was wreaking havoc on his self-restraint. Each time the breeze wafted her lemony-orange soap scent his way, or the sun glanced off the spun-gold hair that fell across the sweet swell of her breast, his loins ached for him to draw her nearer. Pokey wasn’t much of a deterrent either. Forget the crab apple tree she’d suggested earlier. He wanted to push her down onto the grassy bank and make wild, wanton love to her until the sheep came home. He shook his head in a mixture of amusement and discomfort as his thoughts, once again, stampeded south. “I was wondering” — he glanced at her profile with its lightly freckled, kissable nose — “if you’d like to go to the Harvest Hoedown with me at the end of the month?” Bailey, who’d been sitting peacefully, reveling in one of their rare stretches of accord, tensed like a bowstring. “Hoedown?” she repeated weakly. Her heart gave a mighty wump against her ribs. “Sure. Drought or no drought, I figure we’ll have lots to celebrate.” A lump rose to her throat as she tried to fathom his reasoning. Did he mean the baby? She imagined how she would feel standing before him, telling him about a child that was becoming more and more real to her each day. Sometimes she would lie awake at night, wondering what to call it if it proved to be the girl he’d said he wanted; and if it was a boy, how she could convince Zack to let her name it after her father. Then there were nights when she would light a candle and stand naked in its fuzzy pool of light, eagerly searching her reflection in her full-length mirror for the telltale bulge inside her belly. On other nights, the enormity of her life change crashed down around her, and she sobbed into her pillow, thinking that God might take away her baby, and then, by all rights, Zack. She had only two weeks left, and that wasn’t much time to make a man fall in love with her. Especially a man who had everything to lose by making her his wife. 220

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“What with the election falling so close to the dance,” she said, “I’m not sure it’d be very good for your image for us to go together.” “Shoot, Bailey, sheepherders and cattlemen have to make peace in this county. We’ll just have to bite the bullet and be the first ones who get along.” He winked at her. “Besides, I have an idea, and I couldn’t make it work without you, so stop worrying. You’re actually going to help me win that election.” She was? A tiny knot of dread curled inside her stomach. Please, oh, please, God, don’t tell me he’s actually planning to use me as a campaign device. She drew a long, shaky breath. “So this dance is important to you, eh?” “Yep.” He cast her a sideways glance. “Real important.” She groaned silently. Dances meant dresses. Not to mention looking like an idiot when she tripped over her own feet on the sawdust. But maybe this once — just this once — she could bear up under the humiliation if Zack would fall in love with her. Forcing a bright smile, she tried to imagine how a ladylike creature like Amaryllis might answer. “I’d, uh, be right honored to have you escort me to a hoedown, Zack.” Bailey didn’t know what was worse, being fitted for her first dress in nearly fifteen years, waiting helplessly for some drought relief from the clouds, or watching the Rawlins brothers and their cattle overrun the north and south pastures on her eastern border. Since she couldn’t do a damned thing about her drying creekbeds or the dance she’d let herself get talked into, she focused her worries on the fifty head of steer Wes, Cord, and a handful of Rawlins cowpokes had driven onto her land. “It’s an experiment,” Zack had told her with unabashed enthusiasm. “I got the idea by watching Buttercup grazing with your ewes. All we have to do is figure out how to get sheep and cattle together on a larger scale. Like you said, they’re both herding animals, so there’s got to be a way to get them to share the same pasture and watering hole, despite the cattlemen’s prejudice against it. Once we have proof the herds can graze the same range, we can show the rest of the county how to mend their fences, so to speak.” 221

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Well, as the second week was drawing to a close, Bailey was pretty sure she didn’t like the idea. She wasn’t so much worried about her pasturage getting trampled or her remaining water getting used up. She wasn’t even really worried that her silly sheep would run amok, terrified by the big, mooing creatures that were milling among them. No, her main concern lay closer to home. Zack was taking over. His presence had infiltrated slowly: first the meal he’d cooked for himself, then the seat he’d started taking at the head of her table. Next came his insistence that he do her chores while she twiddled her thumbs — to keep the baby safe, he’d said. The most recent example of his insidious overthrow was his decision to drive his cattle onto her spread. Oh, he’d discussed the idea with her; he’d even asked for her opinion on the matter. Unfortunately, her various sides were at war and had been unable to mount a protest. The business owner had seen the moneymaking potential of his plan; the rancher had welcomed the possibility of a sheepherder-cattleman truce. But the woman deep inside her had been uneasy. What if Zack continued to change things, ousting her sheep, deploying more cattle, selling her goats, wooing her men? What if she became obsolete as decision-maker on her own spread, and he relegated her to the kitchen? She couldn’t let that happen, of course. She wasn’t sure how to stop him without launching one hell of an argument though, or, worse, destroying whatever chance she had of making him fall in love with her. So she forced her male side to mind its tongue and stuff its anger while her female side acted as if it enjoyed the way Zack “took care of her,” as he called it. Inside, her stomach was constantly churning. As for Zack, he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with the change in Bailey. He wondered if her preoccupation with her possible pregnancy had anything to do with the difference, since she seemed so moody and unhappy. Talk of babies and their future only seemed to make her miserable, and as much as he would have liked to explore his own confused feelings on the subject, he’d quickly learned to keep his hopes and worries bottled up. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was, so he steadfastly kept his 222

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concentration on the kinds of things he thought a father should do, like securing the McShane business assets, earning the respect of Bailey’s hired hands, and building friendlier relations with her neighbors. He just hoped that getting away from the ranch for a spell would improve Bailey’s and his relationship — for the sake of their child, at least. He was glad she’d agreed to go to the hoedown with him. He was even more glad she’d taken steps to hire a seamstress, although he sure as heck would never have suggested such a thing. When she’d said she hated dresses, he had respected her feelings. His own female relatives often wore jeans themselves. In fact. Aunt Lally had once confided she disliked petticoats because they were “no damned good for riding horses.” Since Bailey practically lived on Sassy, who was Zack to tell her what to wear? Still, with his second week at her ranch nearly over, he couldn’t say why the tension between them kept mounting, even though, for the most part, they’d stopped arguing. When he asked her what was wrong, she’d growl, “Nothing,” or snap that she was “dandy.” If he approached her with an idea to improve her ranching operations, she would smile through her teeth and tell him to do what he thought was best, even when he asked point-blank for her opinion. She hardly ever sassed him anymore, which made their conversations damned dull, and she’d stopped wearing her hair gathered loosely in a thong so he could watch it swish against her behind. Now she rolled up her hair in a proper knot at the nape of her neck. She was driving him crazy. Friday morning, before McTavish left for his weekly visit to the post office and general store, Zack cornered the Scot in the barn for advice. He figured Bailey wouldn’t overhear them because she’d stayed in the kitchen, God help them, to learn from Jerky how to cook range chili. Still, Zack felt more awkward than a schoolboy, seeking the counsel of a man who could just as easily have been Bailey’s lover if he hadn’t spent the last few years as her surrogate father. Zack cleared his throat to announce himself, and McTavish, who was standing at his worktable scribbling something on a piece of paper, jerked his head around. An expression akin to guilt 223

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flickered across his features, and he hastily set aside his pen and folded the page. “Aye, lad, what is it?” Zack doffed his hat, stepping hesitantly into the slice of morning light that fell from the open loft across a clutter of hammers, wire cutters, and screws. Even though he’d slept for two weeks in the stall adjacent to Mac’s work space, he suddenly felt intrusive. “You’re going into town today?” he began lamely. “Aye.” McTavish slipped his letter into an envelope, sealed the flap, and buttoned it inside the bib pocket of his overalls. A moment of silence lapsed between them. “Need a hand hitching the wagon?” McTavish cocked his head, squinting at him through the smoke of his ever-present pipe before he finally pulled the stem from his teeth and nodded. “That’d be right kind of ye, lad.” Zack released his breath. Work. He and McTavish had that in common. That, and Bailey. Clicking his tongue, Zack led the mule into the sunshine and backed it up against the wagon’s shafts, while McTavish readied the harness. The beast was remarkably cooperative for a change, so the two men stood side by side, buckling straps, adjusting reins. Zack cast McTavish a furtive look. “I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” The Scot met his gaze for a second, arching his brows in question. “Uh, it’s about Bailey.” McTavish’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Is it now?” Zack fidgeted, wondering how to continue now that he’d torn the lid off the powder keg. “Have you noticed anything . . . different about her?” “Like what?” “Well . . .” Zack hated dancing around an issue, even if it was explosive. “She’s been acting sullen and moody ever since I moved those cattle onto the spread.” “And ye think there’s a connection, do ye?” “She never said so in as many words. I know she’s got other things on her mind too, but when I ask her what’s bothering her, she won’t tell me. That in itself is queer. Usually she squalls like a shoat when something chaps her hide.” 224

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McTavish’s solemn nod was belied by the humor in his gaze. “Aye, she’s not much for mincing her words.” “Has she said anything to you?” “About the steers?” Zack nodded. “I canna say she has.” “What do you think?” McTavish shrugged. “It’s like I’ve been saying for years, lad. Sheep and cattle dinna know they’re supposed to be enemies. It’s the ranching folk who’ve confused the natural order of things.” “So you think my idea to rotate pastures will work?” Zack asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He could use a little enthusiasm for his plan, since Bailey wasn’t offering much moral support. “Letting the cattle graze their fill first,” Mac said evenly, “as finicky as they are, and moving the sheep in afterward, so they can munch the grass down to its roots if they’ve a mind, seems workable to me.” “Then you’ll stand up with me when I make my report to the Woolgrowers?” McTavish’s smile was fleeting as he shook his head. “No, lad. But ye shouldna take it personally. I dinna plan to stay on here as long as I have. Rob Cole will stand beside ye.” Zack’s gaze rose hastily to search the older man’s face. “Mac, if you’re thinking you have to move on because of me — ” “Ye’re not the reason, lad.” Zack caught his breath. He didn’t believe McTavish for a moment. Besides, Zack knew Bailey would blame him as surely as if he’d issued an order to send the Scot packing. “There’s no need to rush into anything, Mac.” “I appreciate the thought, lad, but the time has come. I’ll be telling her when the arrangements are made.” Zack shook his head. He couldn’t let it rest at that for Bailey’s sake — for his sake too, dammit. Iain McTavish was one hell of a foreman. Under different circumstances, they would have been friends. “What do you need to change your mind?” he asked briskly. “If it’s better wages, or a flock of your own — ” 225

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“None of those things,” McTavish said quietly. “I know her, ye see. The choice has been made. She won’t have me. But she won’t have ye either if I stay.” A lump lodged in Zack’s throat. For all the time he’d doubted McTavish’s honor, suspecting him of coveting Bailey’s land, he was truly sorry. “I didn’t want it to turn out this way,” he said uncomfortably. “I know.” The Scot gave him a wry smile. “Me either. But ye can be sure of one thing, lad.” He climbed up into the wagon. “What’s that?” “Ye’re the right man for her. She’s not used to being courted, that’s all. Give her some time to warm up to the idea. She’ll come around.” Zack nodded, at a loss to speak. He supposed he should be relieved McTavish considered him the better prospect for Bailey’s hand, but Zack refused to fool himself. McTavish and Bailey shared a close bond, one that might very well prove unique. Zack knew love was the underlying cause. McTavish wanted her to be happy. Zack wanted her to be happy too. Maybe loving her would come afterward. He stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Mac,” he said finally. “For everything.” The sheepherder’s keen gray eyes regarded him steadily for a moment. At last, he grasped Zack’s hand. “Be a friend to her, lad. Ye willna find a better one, man or woman, than our Bailey.” As the buckboard rattled over the bridge toward the winding farm road, Zack sighed. How could he be friends with a woman he knew even less than he had two weeks before? At least when they’d been arguing every hour on the hour, he’d known what to expect. Now he walked on eggshells, waiting for the lid to blow off her temper. Maybe that was exactly what they needed, he mused, one big explosion to clear the air. He gazed longingly toward the house. Or maybe what they really needed was to kiss the living daylights out of each other and romp like rabbits in the field. A vision of Bailey danced before his eyes, her hair spilling like sunwarmed honey across the puckered rosettes of her breasts in a pasture full of daisies. 226

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Yeah, he liked the romping idea a whole lot better. He found a scowling Bailey seated on a stool at the kitchen worktable. She was up to her elbows in chili peppers, pinto beans, cleavers, and knives. Pokey’s tail gave a hopeful thump when he walked into the room. Even Pris raised her head, looking vaguely relieved. Zack eyed Bailey’s weapons of destruction in secret amusement. He reckoned some chili peppers just didn’t want to die. “Looks like you could use a break.” “Damned right I could,” Jerky muttered. “She’s been mucking up the works in here all morning.” Bailey tossed her cook a withering glare. “I have to ride to the north pasture to check on the cattle,” Zack said casually. “How ’bout coming with me, Bailey? We could have a picnic.” She tried futilely to blow a strand of hair out of her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Zack, a picnic takes hours of preparation. You need to fry chicken, and bake pies, and fix lemonade, and . . .” Her voice faded as Jerky, stalking around the pantry, slammed a loaf of bread, a wedge of goat’s cheese, a handful of apples, and a jug of cider into a basket. Stuffing the lid down over two checkered napkins, he emerged to shove the basket into Zack’s hands. “Don’t bring her back till dinner,” he growled. Zack did a masterful job of keeping a straight face. “You game, Bailey?” That did it. Tossing the hair off her forehead, she gave him a defiant look. The girl just couldn’t help herself when it came to challenges. “Game for what?” “A race. You’ve got five minutes to saddle Sassy if you don’t want to be eating Boss’s dust.” Her face lit up like a child’s on Christmas Day. “Ha! Boss’s dust, my rear end!” She jumped off her stool. “C’mon, Pris! C’mon, Po — ” “You’d best leave the dogs here,” Zack cut in. “They won’t be able to keep up anyway.” “Oh.” Her enthusiasm deflated the tiniest bit. Then, tossing her head again, she shrugged. “You’re right, cowpoke. There isn’t a fourlegged creature alive who can keep up with my Sassy. Ha!” 227

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She shot him a cheeky grin before she dashed out the back door, letting it slam behind her and leaving two disgruntled canines to flop back on their bellies beside it. Jerky’s measuring gaze met Zack’s across the chaos of kettles, dried vegetables, and seasoning jars that Bailey had left in her wake. A twinkle grew in the old sheepherder’s eyes, and he flashed Zack a sparsely toothed grin. “Humph. I reckon there might be hope fer you yet, cowboy.”

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Sixteen Trouble started the minute the race was over. Zack had let Bailey outdistance him, enjoying her delight as she galloped through the daisy field rimming the northern wall of her canyon. Her face was bright with laughter and the elation of her win, until she turned in her saddle to taunt him. That was when they both spied the dust billowing over the knoll to the east. “What the devil is that?” Zack reined in, and a muscle twitched along his jaw. “Cattle.” Their gazes locked for a heartbeat before they spurred their mounts toward the rise. Shouts of “hi-yi!” floated up with the dust as he and Bailey galloped down the hill. Soon it became plain that a herd of about forty steers was being driven in a southwesterly direction across Bailey’s land. Zack muttered an oath. The Rotterdam brand was prominent on their hides. “Whoa!” Zack waved his hat first at the point riders, who proved to be the twins, then at the swing riders — or should he be calling them wire cutters now? — who rode alongside the herd. A total of five armed cowboys accompanied the steers on this water scrape. A heavyset outrider cantered to intercept them. “It’s Hank,” Bailey said tensely. Zack nodded, watching Nick spur his piebald pony after his pa’s. At the moment, there wasn’t a damned thing he or Bailey could do, short of getting themselves trampled, to stop Hank’s thirsty herd, and he knew it. “’Mornin’, folks,” Hank said when he reached them. He had the audacity to smile and tip his hat at Bailey. “Don’t you mind my boys, 229

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ma’am. We’re just rounding up a couple of renegades that strayed onto your land.” “Renegades, my ass, Rotterdam,” Zack growled. “If you don’t order your point riders to start bending those steers back the way they came, all hell is going to break loose!” Hank didn’t look in the least bit intimidated. As Nick reined in beside him, he arched a mocking eyebrow at his son. “Seems like we have a bit of a situation here. I think Zack’s threatening to shoot one of us.” Nick’s gaze darted from Bailey to the picnic basket strapped behind Zack’s saddle. He fidgeted, looking sheepish. “Leave it alone, Pa.” Hank’s mouth tightened, betraying his irritation with his son before he pasted on a jovial smile and directed his attention to Bailey. “Imagine our surprise, while we were hunting our renegades, to find a whole slew of Rawlins brands grazing in your northeast pasture. ’Course, it’s probably just coincidence how all those Rawlins steers are out there draining your wells dry while Zack here keeps you occupied with picnics and such.” Hank’s narrowed gaze slid to his political rival. “So why don’t you remind your other neighbor that the Rotterdams have as much right as the Rawlinses — maybe even more, considering your friendship with Nick — to be moving steers across your land?” A cold fury blew through Zack. Spurring Boss, he had every intention of busting Hank’s chops, but Bailey grabbed his reins. “Don’t.” His jaw hardened, but he relented before her warning glance. Besides, if he opened his mouth again, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from challenging Hank to a showdown. Nick too. The older Rotterdam smiled like a Cheshire cat, while his son remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped and quiet. “Much obliged, ma’am,” Hank said. “But then, your daddy didn’t raise any quarter-wit, did he?” He nudged Nick with his elbow. “Now’s your chance to ask her to that hoedown, boy.” The sudden flush of anger on Nick’s face would have cowed a charging bull. “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Pa?” he snapped, then yanked his horse’s head around and spurred it toward the herd. Zack wondered what the devil that was all about. His mind wasn’t put at ease when he saw Bailey and Hank blinking after Nick as if he’d just sprouted horns and feathers. 230

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A tense moment passed. When Bailey said nothing, Zack thought of telling Rotterdam just who she was accompanying to the hoedown. Before he could speak, though, she urged Sassy a few paces forward. “You’re right, Hank. I’m not a quarter-wit. Those are bulls and breeding cows, not renegades.” When Hank looked like he would spout another lie, she cut him off in that same quiet voice. “Has it gotten that bad for you, then?” The old rancher’s shoulders tensed. “Shoot, I don’t know what you’re talking a — ” “The drought. How many head have you lost?” Hank focused on his herd, but not before Zack glimpsed in his eyes the same kind of haunted desperation he’d seen in gallows-bound convicts. “Too many,” he finally admitted. “So you needed water. Instead of cutting my fences, why didn’t you just ask for it?” Belligerence warred with the guilt on Hank’s fleshy face. “Now, see here — ” “You’re my neighbor. Hank. Did you think I’d turn you away?” He squirmed beneath her gentle question. “Hell, Bailey, you’re a sheepherder. And a woman too.” “And you don’t like to be beholden to a woman, do you?” He muttered something that sounded like an agreement. “I can’t help what I am. Hank.” He blew out his breath. Zack counted his heartbeats. He marveled at the sincere concern in Bailey’s manner, considering what the Rotterdams had done to her property and her name. If he’d been in her shoes, he would have punched Hank Rotterdam’s lights out and dragged his cantankerous hide to the nearest jail. But Bailey’s approach seemed to be pacifying the old salty dog. Zack felt a surge of pride mixed with uneasiness as he watched her negotiate an explosive situation, maybe even avert a full-scale range war. He wanted to be the one to help her. He wanted to keep the dragons like Hank away from her door. “Do you think you can get past the fact that I’m a woman so we can settle our differences?” she asked Hank. 231

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Like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he ducked his head and grumbled a few words. They sounded affirmative. “How many head did you bring?” “Forty-five.” “By the looks of them, I’d say they were some of your best.” “I brought only the ones that were still worth a damn,” he said glumly. “The drought turned the rest to scalawags, and even the government won’t buy them.” Despite his outrage at Hank’s obvious intent to thieve, Zack felt a grudging sympathy for the man. If what Hank said was true, he’d have trouble fighting off the bank if it decided to foreclose. “Well, the way I see it,” Bailey said, “we’re all in this drought together. Take your breeders to the old Sherridan homestead, neighbor. There’s still plenty of water there.” Hank’s eyes misted over. Tearing up was so unlike the old man that Zack wanted to doubt what he’d seen, especially in the next instant, when Hank cleared his throat and adjusted his hat. “You’re a helluva neighbor, Bailey. And a mighty fine rancher too . . . ma’am,” he added with a gruff respect that Zack wasn’t sure he’d ever heard come out of the mouth of any Rotterdam when addressing a female. He had to admit, he was impressed by Bailey’s coup. But it also left him feeling ineffectual and unmanned somehow. He wasn’t at all sure he liked this turn of events. He wasn’t sure he liked not being needed. As Hank nodded his curt good-byes and cantered away, Zack frowned after his old rival. “You caught him dead to rights, you know,” he told Bailey, for some reason needing to point out the obvious. “You could see he loses a sight more than his pride if you care to press charges.” She shook her head, continuing to watch the heat-weakened cattle plod laboriously toward the spring they’d probably been dreaming of every dust-choked night. “I’m not out to destroy the man, Zack. I just want peace. Besides, Hank wasn’t always a bastard. I remember when his wife was alive. I used to live for the days when I could sneak off and visit the Rotterdam homestead, because Sally was always baking pies or cookies and making those old cedar walls quake with laughter. Nick and Nat adored her; Hank was crazy mad in love with her.” A wistful 232

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smile curved her lips. “I used to think that’s how families should be. Or, at least, that’s how mothers should be. “I remember railing one day at the unfairness of it all, how I should have had Sally Rotterdam as a mother, not Lucinda McShane. Mrs. Rotterdam wiped away my tears with her apron. She told me she’d always wanted a daughter, and she’d be right pleased if I’d let her think of me as one. She’d always hoped Nick and I would get hitched someday.” Every muscle in Zack’s body went rigid. “Anyhow,” Bailey continued hastily, as if realizing she’d just swallowed her foot, “Mrs. Rotterdam died about two months later of pneumonia. I was twelve, the twins were eleven, but I think I cried harder than either Nick or Nat did. Her death changed them all. Nat got kind of lost, begging for female attention of any kind, and Nick started getting into the sort of trouble that leads to reformatories. But Hank was the worst. Before Mrs. Rotterdam’s death, I used to remember him as a loud, flirtatious braggart, but never a bully. Suddenly he started picking fights — big, nasty ones about fences and water rights — with my daddy. He didn’t have any real reasons for riding us so hard. Mac said Hank was just hurting. “But his hurting led to a heap of bad feelings between our families,” she said sadly. “I reckon that was about the same time the cattle ranchers started getting anxious about the number of sheepherders who were moving in and fencing off the county. Hank turned his feud with Daddy into a cattleman-sheeprancher standoff.” Which he thought he could use to bend you to his will, Zack thought, his outrage growing. It was a damned good thing she had him to protect her, their baby, and their business interests from rounders like Hank Rotterdam. “Dammit, Bailey, I can’t stand by and let them get away with this the way you can,” he said. Bailey just blinked at him. She’d thought Zack of all people would understand the pain of losing a mother. To be honest, she was baffled by his barely repressed fury. Surely even he could see she’d finally earned an ounce of Hank’s respect. And if it had cost her a little bit of water, so what? Frankly, she was ready to celebrate. “Zack, I’m not letting them ‘get away’ with anything. Didn’t you hear? Hank and I struck a truce.” 233

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“And you actually believe he’ll keep his word this time? My God, Bailey, I thought you were smart.” She sucked in her breath. If he had slapped her face, the sting she felt couldn’t have been as great. “The Rotterdams aren’t all bad, Zack. These are unusually stressful times. Besides, you must have found something you could like in Hank, since you were his political protégé.” “I am no man’s lickfinger.” “I didn’t say you were.” Damn his thin skin anyway. She hadn’t meant to insult him. “Look, forget it. Let’s just have our picnic, okay?” “I have more than a passing interest in this spread, and I am not going to picnic while Hank Rotterdam coddles, coerces, or charms you out of nailing his hide to the nearest jailhouse wall!” “So what are you going to do, Zack? Cause more trouble? Spill Hank’s blood? Maim Nat and kill Nick?” A summer squall settled on his brow. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry so much about your precious Nick Rotterdam.” “Why the hell not? You’re just like him!” She wrenched Sassy’s head around and spurred the mare hard the way they had come. She didn’t want Zack to know how much he’d hurt her. She didn’t want him to see her tears. After two whole weeks, nothing had changed. His interest still lay in her land, and maybe her baby, but not in her. Never in her, damn him. She’d tried so hard to please him, to mind her tongue, to be the kind of female a man like Zack would want, even though her ever-present masculine side rebelled every minute. But she’d been fooling herself to think she could ever be woman enough for Zachariah Rawlins. “Bailey!” His angry call chased her through the shadow of a low-hanging cloud. She closed her ears and urged her mare faster over the parched grass valley and up the next hill. She told herself she hated Zack. She hated him for not being able to love her for what she was . . . or even for what she tried to be. “Dammit, Bailey, slow down! You’ll break your fool neck!” As if you care! she wanted to shout back as her hat was snatched off by the wind, but her throat ached too much. Through the blur of her tears, she could barely make out the shadow of Boss’s nose beneath 234

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Sassy’s belly as the gelding pounded closer, gaining inch by inch on the laboring mare. C’mon, Sassy, you have to win. You just have to. . . . Zack rode shoulder to shoulder with her now, every muscle taut with anger as he crouched, pumalike, over Boss’s neck. “Rein in!” “Go to hell!” She turn Sassy’s head away from his stretching hand. But Boss, canny cow pony that he was, swerved beneath Zack’s knees, cutting the distance between them in three strides. The gelding was a good two hands taller than the mare. Despite her name, Sassy was intimidated by the male’s looming shoulder. She began to balk at Bailey’s commands, and Zack, seeing his opportunity, seized her reins. “Son of a — ” Bailey bit off her oath and grabbed for her saddle horn. She wasn’t the bronc rider Zack was, and Sassy was trying to rear. To display such poor horsemanship galled her almost more than she could bear. But to let herself be chased down by some arrogant, bullheaded cowboy was even worse. Twisting in her saddle, she let her fist fly. Zack was ready for her. Catching her arm, he used her momentum to topple her sideways. He locked a steely arm around her waist and dragged her kicking and cursing onto his lap. For a heartbeat, she didn’t know which was more astonishing: his audacity or his strength. Then he reined in, clamping his mouth over hers, and she decided it was his audacity. “Let me go!” she gasped, struggling as much as she dared in a saddle that was definitely meant for one. Boss was too tall for her to risk a fall, and Zack, taking advantage of her frustration, dug his fingers into her hair and tumbled the thick knot free. Knocking off his own hat, he imprisoned her head for his kiss. Zack. A traitorous tear spilled past her lashes as his lips plundered hers, at first punishing, then dizzily gentle, growing in hunger, demanding her need. Soon she was fighting herself, not him, and the hatred she so desperately wanted to feel wouldn’t come to rescue her from her heartache. She pushed a shaking hand against his chest, but he just hugged her tighter, his loins heating as his thighs circled her hips. She stifled a groan, not wanting to betray the torment of her lovestarved senses, not willing for him to guess how many endless, aching nights she had yearned for his embrace. 235

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“Kiss me,” he growled, his breath hot and moist against her lips. “Kiss me the way you did the night of the storm.” She began to quake, and his hand pushed past her neckline, beneath the laces of her chemise. It closed, warm and roughly callused, over her tender nipple. A cry ripped from her throat. His petting was fueling her secret desires. It tempted the femininity she tried to disown, driving her beyond all caution, all reason, all pride. She arched, filling his palm. He rewarded her submission with languorous circular strokes, rubbing the nub to tingling arousal. When she whimpered against his lips, he reached for her belt buckle. “Zack, we can’t — ” He drew her tongue deep into his mouth, effectively silencing her protest while his deft fingers made quick work of her fly. She was vaguely aware that Boss was moving, walking steadily toward the line shack a half mile to the east. Then Zack’s work-weathered palm was rasping over the flesh of her belly and sliding beneath the waistband of her drawers. When his fingers curled through the damp nest between her legs, she squirmed in a mixture of wanton welcome and maidenly modesty. “Only a little farther,” he whispered huskily, his promise smoking down every nerve. “Hold on . . .” His finger plunged into her honeyed heat, and she moaned, her hips thrusting helplessly in return. Her fist gathered great folds of his shirt, and she turned her face into his shoulder, less mortified by the idea that some stray Rotterdam cowhand might see them than by the thought that she was so easy for him to seduce. “I want you to want me, darlin’,” he breathed against her ear. “I want you to need me the way I need you.” The musky sandalwood of his scent mingled with the smells of saddle leather, baked earth, and horse. Insidiously arousing, the aromas snaked inside her brain, robbing her of her last shreds of self-respect. He sucked on the sensitive hollow of her ear, and she nearly crawled out of her skin as sparks of sensation showered down her spine. Then he touched his thumb to her throbbing trigger, and she exploded. She threw her head back to cry out, but he caught the sound neatly with his mouth. The world was spinning with mystifying sparkles as he pulled her down from Boss and kicked open the door to the line shack. She bare236

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ly had time to adjust her eyes to the shack’s dimness, to blink at the dust motes dancing in the slice of sunlight that cut across the cot, before the door swung closed behind them again, and he laid her on the straw mattress. “Zack.” She tried to gulp down enough air to rouse her flagging wits. “What do you think you are, a prairie pirate? You can’t just drag me from my horse and ravish me.” “Pleasure you,” he corrected her, grabbing her leg. When she tried to yank free, her boot popped off. “You can’t do that either,” she retorted as he imprisoned her other leg between his knees. Her gaze was involuntarily drawn along the line of her thigh to the healthy bulge beneath his chaps. She licked her lips. She didn’t remember him looking so awesome in lightning and firelight. “I think I already proved I can, darlin’. But just in case you had a lapse in memory between the saddle and the door, I’d be happy to prove it again.” His silky threat accompanied the banging of her second boot onto the floor. She swallowed, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. The blaze of desire she saw there melted her limbs faster than a red-hot frying pan melted butter. “I’m serious,” she whispered, her uncertainty turning her protest into a husky lie. “Me too.” In one sweeping tug, he removed her jeans and drawers from her now-useless legs and sank on top of her, his hardness driving her into the lumpy mattress. Thanks to nothing more than the heat of his palm between her thighs, her reason was already winging south. When he cupped her sticky femaleness, she was nearly lost. “W-we haven’t finished talking about Rotterdam,” she argued weakly. His eyes slitted in a nerve-jangling way. “Darlin’, when I’m through with you today, you won’t give a hoot or a holler about any Rotterdam. That’s a promise.” His mouth silenced any further argument as his forefinger teased a fresh creamy welcome for his love play. Occasionally, just to drive her mad, he added his middle finger, thrusting hard and fast before withdrawing in a leisurely fashion. There was no 237

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rhyme or reason to his exquisite torture, and her senses flamed out of control. She couldn’t believe he was having his way with her in broad daylight, in a sweltering tin-roofed shack, without the luxury of a single damned sheet! Even more, she couldn’t believe she was letting him. Every time she grabbed for the shreds of her dignity, his masterful teasing blew them away like straws in the wind. He’d tugged open the buttons of her shirt with his teeth — to tantalize her, she was certain. A few controlled nibbles, and her nipples were all but bursting through the muslin of her chemise. But he didn’t stop there. With a feral yank of his teeth, he untied the laces of her undergarment, baring her fevered flesh to his licking, sucking, and nipping. His breaths chased goose bumps in a zigzagging pattern to her navel. When his tongue tickled her there, she laughed between pants, but as his mouth moved lower, she shivered, anticipating the goal of his hungry prowling. “Zack,” she croaked, suddenly made anxious by visions of his tongue and her most private places, “why don’t you let me return some of these favors?” “Can’t take that chance, sugar. Baby or no baby, I want to make a trip to the, er, general store first.” His voice was muffled as he sucked the bashful flesh between her hip and inner thigh. “But next time, I’ll be ready. I promise.” She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. An instant later, she didn’t care. He hiked her hips, and she gasped a garbled prayer as his steamy breaths heralded his first kiss. And what a kiss it was. It went on and on, sweet and savage, tender and untamed. It ripped tiny animal sounds from her throat and turned her thighs to spasming jelly. She dug her fingers into his hair, bucking helplessly, her pleas for him to mount her almost unintelligible between her moans and the sawing of her breath. He shook his head, mumbling something about seeds and spilling them, but she felt his triumphant smile when he added a finger to the wicked taunting of his mouth. She lost count of the number of times he ignited her. Match, firecracker, exploding star — she did justice to each one. Somewhere along the way, she lost all sanity, all inhibition, and started screaming his name. She felt his hands quake on her thighs; soon, there was only 238

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one hand and his mouth, which eventually tore itself free to make its own guttural sound of pleasure. She collapsed, her lungs heaving like a bellows, and he slumped across her, his unfastened buckle and the open buttons of his fly branding her stomach. She was too exhausted to protest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dropped his head close to her ear. “Bailey.” She could barely make out his words between his shuddering breaths. “No more . . . arguments. They hurt . . . too much. Promise.” She squeezed her eyes closed. Please, Zack, ask me anything but that. . . . “Promise,” he whispered again, rubbing his stubbled chin against her cheek. Nodding reluctantly, she turned her head to hide the tear on her cheek. He sighed. It was a gusty, contented sound, draining the last vestige of tension from his body. Rolling to his side, he cradled her against his chest and smoothed the tangles from her hair. “I won’t let the Rotterdams bully you anymore. I’ll find a way. I’ll keep you safe. Trust me.” Biting her tongue on her worry, she said nothing. She couldn’t. She’d promised.

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Seventeen Zack kept his promise too. Before nightfall, he announced his plan: He would try to interest Hank in the experiment he and Bailey were running in the northeast pasture. “We’ve got proof that sheep graze a whole lot less than cattle, and drink about one third of the water,” Zack explained, cinching Boss for a ride to the Sherridan homestead, where the Rotterdams had pitched their camp. “Hank was a businessman before he became an anti-woolly politician. I think he’ll be interested in our pasture rotations. If not, well . . .” He shrugged. “There’s always Judge Larabee’s court.” Bailey shifted from foot to foot, not at all sure she wanted Zack charging off to do battle for her when his feelings were still running so high. What if negotiations with the Rotterdams broke down and became threats? What if gunshots were exchanged? “Zack, I’m worried.” There, she thought. That wasn’t an argument. “Can’t this talk with Hank wait until tomorrow?” He grinned, flashing devilish dimples. “Naw. I’d rather have something to celebrate tonight.” Heat flooded her from head to toe. “Be serious.” “Always,” he said huskily, pulling her hard and fast against him. She couldn’t quell the tremor of excitement that raced to her knees. God help her, she liked when he grabbed her like that, grinding his hips against hers as if he couldn’t get close enough, kissing her as if he were starved for the taste of her mouth. “Besides,” he murmured, his voice throbbing through and around her, “I have an errand to run” — he interrupted himself, mating his tongue with hers — “before the general store closes.” 240

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He released her, and it was all she could do not to ooze into a puddle on the drive. His slitted eyes smoldered in that fiery, passionate way she’d come to associate with the leashed volcano within him. She licked her lips, wondering how she could ever have considered him shy. He swung into the saddle, all grace and gentility again when he tipped his hat. “Get some rest,” he drawled, spurring Boss toward the bridge. She drew a ragged breath, and her lips curved in a dreamy smile. It wasn’t until he was out of shouting distance that she cursed herself. Idiot. She’d meant to remind him that if Nick and Amaryllis were still a couple, the likelihood of Judge Larabee’s impartiality was slim. That evening, after reporting the day’s events to Mac, Bailey did a good deal of personal browbeating. Mac had asked her why she’d let Zack take control of business negotiations with Hank, and she’d blushed furiously, unable to tell him Zack’s kisses had turned her brain to mashed potatoes. She had also declined to admit that her femininity’s unabashed response to Zack’s masculinity was one of the most exhilarating experiences she’d ever known. She would rather have died before admitting such a thing to Zack either. Unfortunately, he would have had to be deaf, blind, and dumb not to realize the power he wielded over her. Her fully awakened womanhood was anything but subtle. She wished she was more experienced in sexual matters. She wished she understood how he manipulated her desire so easily, because there was another side of her, the outraged, thoroughly male side, that was disgusted by what it considered her newfound weakness. Mac would never have used her desire as unscrupulously as Zack had. She was quite certain that mating with Mac would have been a gentle, chivalrous affair, not a battle of wills. Her masculine side warned her silly, infatuated feminine side to take care, lest Zack dominate her with his love play. But oh, merciful heaven, the inequality was so divine. . . . Shortly after nightfall, Zack returned with an eager Hank to discuss the possibility of a sheep-goat-cattle partnership, which proved, in Hank’s mind, to be the elimination of all fences. Negotiations broke down somewhere around two o’clock in the morning, when Bailey 241

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refused to consider an arrangement in which her “partners” had license to drive their cattle all over her range at will. Disgruntled, Hank rode off, and a disappointed Zack retired to the barn. Bailey was hard-pressed to disguise her own disappointment. Apparently Zack had never had time to make his urgent purchase in town. “Are you sure you have to be gone a whole week, Zack?” Bailey asked uneasily, torn between wanting him by her side and wanting him farther away than Dallas. Her monthly cycle was due to start Friday, and Saturday, unfortunately, was the night of the Harvest Hoedown. Her damned body kept better time than a clock, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified that she’d have her answer inside a week. Zack nodded, his jaw set. He stood strapping his saddlebags onto Boss, who was impatiently stomping the dust off the barnyard. “After our meeting last night with Hank, I figure we’ll just be wasting our time trying to talk sense into him,” Zack said grimly. “I’m going to ride out to Red Calloway’s spread, and then visit a couple of the other cattlemen on the board. Maybe they’ll see to reason, and we can put the pressure on ol’ Hank.” “But what about the Woolgrowers meeting on Friday night?” she reminded him. By the time he rode around the county, drumming up support from the cattlemen and a few of the more influential sheep ranchers, Zack really would be gone all week. Still, if she could get him to come home on Friday, she hoped to announce the news of their baby as soon as she knew the verdict. “You’ll want Mac to stand by you when you talk to the board, I’m sure.” His gaze darted her way almost guiltily before he frowned, concentrating again on his buckles and straps. “I haven’t forgotten. Mac can meet me there if he’s of the same mind. In the meantime, Wes and Cord will be taking turns checking on the cattle. And on Hank. You’ll be safe here with Mac and my brothers. I don’t reckon Hank will be causing you trouble for a while anyway, not after he got the water he’s been after.” She sighed. She wasn’t worried about Hank, her safety, the drought, or the damned cattle. Was it too much to ask that Zack might be worried about the same thing she was? Her possible pregnancy? 242

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She couldn’t believe he had forgotten what this week meant to them both. Was he just assuming the worst until she told him differently? Or was he deliberately escaping the tedious wait, because he couldn’t bear to spend his last week of freedom holed up here with her? Damn him and everything else. Why did her first dress, her first dance, and her first pregnancy all have to wreak havoc on her at once? Or maybe she’d have to deal with only two supreme disasters by Saturday night. Her gut clenched at the thought. Having Zack’s baby . . . not having Zack’s baby. Either way, her world would be changed forever. She wasn’t sure she was prepared. She wasn’t sure she could go blithely about her everyday chores when her own personal Waterloo was looming on the horizon. “Isn’t there some way you could come home on Friday?” she asked plaintively, cringing at the sound. She hated her weakness, but she needed some kind of reassurance, some kind of sign from him that when her life crashed down around her, he would be nearby to help shoulder the weight. “We could have dinner, and then you and Mac could ride together to the meeting — ” “Let’s not argue about this, Bailey.” She winced at his crisp tone. No, of course not. She should have known better. It was Zack’s way or no way. Besides, this wasn’t really his home, was it? She swallowed hard. She wanted to tell him she’d miss him, that she couldn’t bear for him to ride out of her life for a week, much less for the rest of her days. She didn’t know how he’d come to mean so much to her in such a short time. With his strong will and his gentle hands, he’d carved a place for himself on her ranch and inside her heart. But maybe she’d always secretly loved him. Maybe the feelings had started on that Saturday night long ago, when he’d caught her swinging on the gate, waiting eagerly to pass judgment on Caitlin’s new beau. “Well, I reckon that’s it, then.” He turned to her, his packing finished, and tipped back his hat with his thumb. In the golden brilliance of the morning sun, he looked like he was made of bronze and copper, his cheeks sporting the tiniest hint of chestnut stubble to match the gleaming curl that spilled across his brow. He smiled at 243

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her, a flash of dazzling teeth and disarming dimples, and his eyes took on an earthy glow. She knew that look. She knew that smile. She gazed upon him as dispassionately as her twisting heart would let her. “I reckon this is good-bye,” he prompted when she made no move to obey his silent summons. He held out his arms. Her throat constricted. She imprinted his image on her memory for all the days to come: the white, breeze-riffled shirt; the fluttering red bandanna; the faded jeans and weathered chaps; the sun-darkened hands. They reached for her as if they actually cared about what they were leaving behind. She wondered if his heart did too. She drew a ragged breath. This might be the last time he’ll ever offer to hold you, her female side screamed. What are you waiting for? Run to him. Kiss him! Plant your memory on his lips and his brain. Make him want to come back, baby or no. She blinked against the sting of tears. She wanted him to come back, yes, but not because she gave him sexual favors. “Have a safe journey, Zack,” she said quietly, and turned to walk away. The cramping began late Thursday. At first, Bailey tried to ignore the telltale sign. She told herself she’d just strained a muscle reaching into the sheep-dipping vat to haul out Pokey, who, clumsy little mischief-maker that he was, had toppled into it. Then, when the pains returned after dinner, she desperately tried to convince herself she was suffering a stomachache from her own attempts to cook chili. After all, pinto beans were notoriously rough to digest. By dawn on Friday though, all the excuses, all the rationalizations, were futile wastes of energy. The proof could no longer be denied. Old faithful had come right on time. White-lipped and red-eyed, she stared at her naked reflection in her full-length mirror. The tears she had shed at the first sign of spotting had left her looking wan, ghostly pale. She barely recognized herself. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different. She wasn’t a mother. 244

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She’d lost Zack. How could her body do this to her? The one thing it was good for — the only thing — was making babies, and it had failed to hold Zack’s seed. She wanted to scream and rant. She wanted to throw things, shoot things, break the damned mirror — anything that would take away the agonizing knowledge that tomorrow, when he returned to take her dancing, she would have to set him free. He doesn’t have to know right away, a nasty little voice whispered inside her. If the dance goes especially well, maybe, just maybe, he’ll want to mate with you again. Then you’d have him for at least another month. . . . She shuddered. God forgive her. Even her mother hadn’t stooped that low. “It’s over,” she told her reflection, ignoring the fresh tears as they rolled down her face. “He’s no fool, and neither are you. You both deserve better.” You both deserve love. She turned away on shaking legs. A sob bubbled up in her throat, and even the hand she pressed to her mouth couldn’t stifle the sound. She heard a worried whine. “Pokey,” she whispered brokenly. The puppy’s ears pricked. He scrambled out of the lumpy depression that had engulfed him on Boo’s old, fur-sprinkled pillow, and hurried toward her, his tail wagging. She curled her toes against the floorboards when she saw his soulful gaze fixed so anxiously on her face. Without Zack to distract him these last five days, the puppy had finally started coming to her for love. Stooping, she pulled the baby into her arms and buried her face in his fur. “You’re all I have left of him now,” she whispered thickly. He whimpered and tried to lick her cheek. On tremulous legs, she began pacing, trying to form a coherent plan. Pokey’s furry warmth was a comfort against her breasts, but even he couldn’t take the aching loneliness away. Zack’s presence still haunted her room. She gazed glassily around her at the discoloration on the floorboards, where she had stood dripping beside him the night of the storm; at the blackened hearth, where the ashes still remained from the fire he’d lighted to warm her; at the rumpled linens of the bed, where he’d loved her so thoroughly that she’d thought heaven couldn’t compare to the sheer pleasure of his possession. 245

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And yet his possession had never taken hold. For the first time in her life, she asked God why she couldn’t have been more of a woman. He gave her no answer. Dashing away fresh tears, she halted before her rocker. Her porcelain doll was waiting there in its petticoats and lace, waiting patiently, as it had done these past fourteen years, for her to give it the attention her father used to deny her. She smiled mirthlessly, setting Pokey down to pick up the doll. Its china-blue eyes and blond ringlets could just as easily have been hers at an earlier age. Mac had gifted her with the doll on her eighth birthday, the same birthday on which her daddy had given her boy-sized chaps and spurs. Mac had never said so, but she knew he’d saved for months to buy her the peaches-and-cream porcelain creation that most eightyear-old girls would have killed for. Someday, he’d told her gravely, after she was finished being her daddy’s boy, he would like to see her wear a dress like her baby doll wore. She blinked tearfully over the doll’s head at the newly sewn columbine-blue dress hanging in her open armoire. It was the dancing gown she’d had fashioned to please Zack. Maybe she should have fashioned it to please Mac instead. Regrets and wishes, hopes and failures, a hundred jumbled memories of childhood tumbled through her mind. Throughout all the joys and sorrows, Mac had stood beside her. Maybe she should have listened to common sense, not her silly heart, and accepted his proposal. Mac was a good man. A kind man. When Zack left her, Mac would still be her rock, her adviser, her friend. A woman could do worse than share her bed with her best friend. A woman could do worse than marry Mac. The day inched by, hour after hour of unbearable heat and hellish loneliness. After a late lunch, she dragged herself outside to sit in the shade of the back porch, waiting for what seemed like forever for Mac to return from his weekly visit to the post office and general store. He was late. She was nervous. The combination was making her stomach roil. Again and again she went over the speech she’d prepared. She’d come to her senses. She’d been living a pipe dream. She wanted to accept his proposal, if he was still willing to have her as his wife. The reason to marry Zack no longer existed. 246

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She’d never proposed a business arrangement quite like this, but her friendship with Mac was a loving one, and she was sure he’d see the sense of her plan. He respected her. He valued her opinion. He treated her like an equal rather than a conquest. She felt certain she could get used to him as her partner in bed, just as she had learned to accept him in business. After all, she’d lived her entire twenty-two years with him. She knew what to expect. The sun limned the canyon, turning the walls a fiery orange-red, and Bailey spied the first puffs of dust that heralded a visitor. Soon her mule’s plodding silhouette could be detected along with the bump and sway of a buckboard. Mac was coming home. He was almost there. Restlessly, she wandered toward the barn, Pokey trotting in her wake. Their passage distracted Pris from her daily harassing of the geese, and she caught up with them at the bridge. Bailey tried to imagine the rest of her life: rocking on the back porch, waiting for Mac. She wondered if he’d ever chase her through the rain. She wondered if they’d have children. . . . “Whoa.” She waved as he reined in and waited for him to step to the ground. Dust covered every inch of his thickset frame. He slapped a layer or two off with his hat. “Is everything all right, lass?” he asked, alerted to her unease, no doubt, by the uncharacteristic wringing of her hands. She hastily stuck them inside her back pockets. “Yep.” She pasted on a smile. “Are you hungry?” “A wee bit.” When he circled around the mule and rested his hand on its sweaty neck, she tried for the time being not to think how little his pluglike fingers resembled Zack’s. “A letter was posted to ye.” “It was?” Momentarily distracted from her proposition and her nerves, she eagerly stepped forward. “Did it come from Kansas City?” “Actually . . .” He leaned over the driver’s seat to rummage in his carpetbag. When he straightened, he was holding an envelope. “It came from Boston.” Lucinda. Bailey stiffened. 247

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“You know better than to bring her trash back here,” she said through clenched teeth. “She’s written ye a dozen letters over as many months, lass. Ye really should think about opening one.” Bailey snorted. As if she cared what was happening in her mother’s life. Lucinda had a lot of nerve writing letters. “What if she’s sick? And trying to make peace?” Mac prompted, pushing the letter toward her again. “That’s what doctors and priests are for,” Bailey retorted. “Get rid of it.” Mac cocked his head, his gray eyes wise and discerning. “I’ll put it in the box with all the rest.” “Makes no difference to me.” He nodded, but a mirthless smile curved his lips as he unhitched the mule and led her inside the barn. Bailey fidgeted, her outrage ebbing as quickly as the tidal wave had struck. Marriage was just another business arrangement, she told herself staunchly, nothing more, nothing less. “Mac?” She followed him into the barn, wishing she weren’t so damned nervous. Better yet, she wished she had more time before the Woolgrowers meeting to sit with Mac and discreetly broach the subject. Just how did one propose to a man anyway? “Do . . . you have time for dinner before the meeting?” she asked, praying that Zack wouldn’t change his mind and return a day early to ride with Mac, before she could properly frame her marriage question. “I willna be going to the meeting, lass.” His gaze slid toward her before he hung the feed bag for the mule. “I have to be about my packing.” “Packing?” “Aye. I’ll be leaving in the morning.” Her brows knitted. He’d never said anything about leaving. “For where?” “Maggie’s ranch. It seems the Rio Grande hasn’t been quite as good to that Basque husband of hers as they were hoping. His consumption is getting worse.” Bailey sucked in her breath. “Oh, no, Mac. Why didn’t you tell me?”

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He shrugged, concentrating on the curry brush he was running over the mule’s charcoal hide. “Ye had other things on yer mind.” She felt her cheeks burn. God forgive her. Between the wire cutters, the rodeo, One Toe, and Zack, she hadn’t been paying much attention to Mac of late. Now she understood why he’d been so diligent about his trips to the post office. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I had no idea.” “Of course not, lass. I dinna tell ye.” “No, I mean . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you needed me.” His brush strokes faltered for the tiniest fraction of time. Then he donned his classic Rock-of-Gibraltar expression. “There’s nothing ye could have done,” he said gravely. “And I willna have ye talking on the guilt.” Dear Mac. So strong, so selfless, while she’d been a heel. “What can I do now?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Let me go.” The quiet request hit her like a sledgehammer. There was an underlying finality in those simple words, one she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge. “L-let you go? Well, of course. You have to go to them. How long do you think you’ll be gone?” “I willna be coming back, lass.” Her knees quaked, and she dug her fingers into the stall door beside her. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “Is he . . . that bad off?” Mac’s gaze held hers for a heartbeat, no more, before it nickered away. “Bad enough.” She swallowed. He’d confirmed her suspicions. He wasn’t leaving because of his brother-in-law. He was leaving because of Zack. “Mac, don’t do this — ” “It’s time to go, lass. I promised ye a year. It’s been two.” “But I need you!” “Maggie needs me, lass. You have Zack.” Her chin trembled. Ashamed, she hung her head. Mac doesn’t deserve to be torn, she told herself harshly. You’ve bungled everything, and now it’s time to grow up. Be a man. Face the consequences. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered. 249

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He crossed to her then, taking her in his burly arms and rocking her gently. His hands smoothed her back the way he used to when she was a child, crying over one of the wounds her mother’s tongue had inflicted. “I’ll miss ye too, lass,” he murmured, his stubbled chin resting on her hair. “But it’s for the best. Ye’ll see.” She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t tell him. “Of course,” she forced out bravely. “I’ll be back for the wedding though.” She could hear the effort he made to put some levity into his tone. “I reserve the right to give ye away.” Her throat ached too much to speak, so she nodded, turning her face into his shoulder. It was probably best that he didn’t know. There wasn’t much chance of her marrying anyone now. Or ever.

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Eighteen Zack couldn’t wait to tell Bailey the good news. His week of stumping had been so fruitful, he’d gotten ten of the most prosperous rancher’s names on a contract to experiment with shared-pasture rotation. Not everyone in the county had seen eye to eye with him, of course — most notably Hank and his pal, Red Calloway — but Zack thought ten signatures was a promising start. Desperate for a solution to their dwindling water and forage, the six cattlemen he’d recruited had been only too eager to consider an alternative to a business tradition that clearly wasn’t profitable any longer. The four sheep ranchers who’d volunteered had been as eager to ensure peace for their livestock and families. All that remained for Zack to do was pray like hell the rains would come so any vigilante-style enforcement of the treaty’s terms could be averted if, heaven forbid, some cattleman was too stubborn, too stupid, or just too ornery to abide by the cease-fire. It was midmorning on Saturday when Zack reached the McShane boundary line. Swinging by Bailey’s southeast pasture to acquaint his brothers with the outcome of his campaign, Zack intercepted Wes, who was riding home to rendezvous with his family. A former Texas Ranger, Wes listened with uncharacteristic gravity to Zack’s report and took note of the neighbors most likely to cause trouble if the drought continued through the fall. He promised to apprise Cord, the only man in the county who had served with the U.S. marshal’s office. The three of them, Wes said, should be able to put enough pressure on Rotterdam and Calloway to toe the line. Then he cleared his throat. 251

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“You heading home or back to Bailey’s?” Zack felt his neck warm. Actually, he thought of Bailey’s spread as home. “I’m going to Bailey’s. Why?” Wes fidgeted. “Well, I just thought you should know. McTavish pulled up stakes this morning,” Zack nodded, his heart giving a guilty thump. So Mac had finally told her good-bye. He just wished the Scot had waited long enough for him to return. He didn’t like the idea that Bailey had been left to grieve alone. Besides, Zack would have felt better if he could have said his farewells too. “How’s she taking it?” “Not good.” “Not good how?” Zack asked anxiously, thinking this was one hell of a time for his jaw-flapping brother to button his lips. Wes gazed uncomfortably over Zack’s shoulder in the direction of the canyon. “I reckon she cried a spell. She looked kind of pale and hollow-eyed last time I saw her.” “When was that?” “’Bout two hours ago.” Zack grimaced. He shared Wes’s discomfort when it came to women’s tears. All the Rawlins men did. If Fancy and Rorie had been the manipulative kind, they could have brought their husbands to their knees using waterworks as a weapon. Zack wondered how McTavish could possibly have withstood Bailey’s. Or maybe she hadn’t bawled in front of her hired hand. Maybe she’d saved her grief for the privacy of her bedroom. Zack ached to think he hadn’t been available to hold her. Knowing he’d been responsible for McTavish’s decision to ride on made his guilt even worse. “Do you reckon going to the hoedown will make her feel better?” Zack ventured to ask, trusting in his brother’s greater knowledge of women. “That all depends on whether she likes to dance.” Zack considered that. Bailey had never said she didn’t like to dance when he’d corralled her with his invitation. Shoot. Why shouldn’t she like it? As best as he could figure, dancing, like courting, had been invented by females. 252

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As for him, he’d learned to two-step only when he’d realized he could get physically close to a woman without risking a backside full of buckshot from her daddy’s scattergun. Nowadays he was an adequate hoofer, but he wasn’t half as good as Wes. “Rorie and Fancy like to dance,” he reminded his brother defensively. A dreamy expression crossed Wes’s face. It expanded slowly to a wicked grin. “My darlin’ loves to dance.” Zack suspected they’d somehow changed subjects. He tossed his brother a withering look. “Why don’t you and Cord swing by here on your way to the fairgrounds? We’ll ride together.” “For moral support, eh?” Wes winked, turning his pony’s head toward home. “Rorie will like that.” His chuckle floated back to Zack, and he added, “I suspect Cord will too.” By the time Zack reached the big house, Bailey had already cloistered herself away with dressing preparations. Either that, or she was avoiding him. He couldn’t decide which. When he tracked her to her bedroom, his knock was greeted by an irritable “What?” and when he announced himself, she cracked the door open only wide enough to fix one panicky blue eye on him. “Can’t come out. I’m, uh, busy.” Her evasive, almost flustered tone bred an unnamable worry in him, one that helped him forget his eagerness to tell her about the rancher treaty. Deciding his good news could wait, he tried to reach out to her through her obvious upset. “Bailey, I heard about Mac. Are you all right?” She nodded vigorously. “You sure?” “Yeah.” He frowned, trying to discern more of her face. She must have drawn the curtains, because it was uncommonly dim inside her room. “Why are you in the dark?” “I’m resting, all right?” He sighed. Obviously, she wanted no comfort from him. He didn’t know why her rejection should gall him, but it did. “All right. I’ll leave you alone. But we’ll be leaving for the fairgrounds in about four hours. Cord and Wes will be swinging by — ” 253

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“All of them? The children too?” He stiffened. He couldn’t help it. She sounded more vexed than surprised. It was too late now to change the plan, and he wasn’t going to apologize for trying to raise her spirits by including his family in their outing. “That’s right. We’ll be riding together.” She bit her lip. “Fine.” The door closed in his face. He blew out his breath. He certainly hoped her mood improved by evening. Sitting idle had never appealed to Zack. He spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the ranch, trying to find chores to keep his hands and mind busy. But Mac had always kept Bailey’s fences, gates, and hinges in top working condition, so unless Zack wanted to ride around the pens to test the guard dogs’ competency, which he didn’t, there was nothing left for him to do but sit on the back porch and whittle. Whittling left time for thinking though. Too much thinking. And some of his thoughts downright scared him. For instance, what would he do if Bailey weren’t carrying his child? It had been simpler to assume she was breeding, because his course of action would then be clear. He wouldn’t have to examine his feelings about her, or having a family, or changing the direction of his life. He would just bury himself in his responsibility, as he always had, because she would need him. It was a funny thing, needing to be needed. Since the age of seventeen, he’d borne the primary responsibility of running the Rawlins business, and his kinfolk had come to expect certain commitments of his time and energy. They relied on him, since he didn’t have a wife and children, to pick up the slack whenever his brothers were immersed in domestic affairs. Needing him, he supposed, was his kinfolk’s way of loving him. In some ways, his business had been his salvation. In many others, it had been a burden. More times than he could count, he’d thought of leaving his brothers behind, striking out on his own, finding a place where no one made demands on him anymore. And yet here he sat, wishing Bailey would make some request, any request, of him. 254

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Sighing, he thought about the old familiar loneliness he’d felt this past week, traveling as a single man in a community of families. Each time he’d dined with the sheep and cattle ranchers who supported his plan for peace, he’d ached to watch husbands and wives share affectionate looks, tender smiles, fleeting touches. For the first time, that ache was more than a nameless unhappiness. It came with a ray of hope: Bailey. He recalled the afternoons when they’d worked and laughed together, holding hands in the wagon, stealing longing glances, and yearning for a deeper, more satisfying closeness. Unfortunately, those afternoons weren’t quite as frequent as the ones in which they’d tried their damnedest to shout each other’s heads off. There was no denying Bailey sparked powerful feelings in him. But how could he determine beyond a shadow of a doubt that those impassioned feelings were love? Disgruntled by his lack of answers, he pocketed his knife, dusted off the wood shavings, and rose to fetch the bootblack from his saddlebags. Wes and Cord should be topping the rise in their wagons within the half hour. Even with a full-blown shower, shave, and hair slicking, he wouldn’t need half that time to don the new Sunday-goto-meeting clothes he’d bought for the hoedown. Still, he wanted tonight to be especially memorable for Bailey. He decided to shine his spurs and bolo too. Twenty minutes later, idle and restless now on the front porch, Zack thought he might actually send up a cheer when he saw wagons rolling down the canyon road. By the time Wes and Cord had reined in their respective horses, he was so relieved to see them that he would have kissed, hugged, and shaken the hand of every member of the group. But that would have taken some doing, considering his brothers’ boys had already jumped down, shrieking, to chase the befuddled geese beneath the bridge, and the girls, terminally obsessed with baby anythings, were hurrying to the nearest pen to coo over Buttercup’s calf. When Zack herded the grown-ups into the sitting room, Jerky appeared. Warm-hearted rascal that he was, he’d thought to provide a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. He banged them down on the table with his usual bark and bluster about cattlemen. Smiling to himself, Zack stepped aside to let the old sheepherder stump past him out the door. 255

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Just as he was turning his back again on the hallway, an urgent little “pssst” reached his ears. He glanced up over his shoulder and spied Bailey on the gallery-style landing of the stairs. She’d poked her head outside her bedroom door, her body shielded by the oakwood panel, and was gesturing frantically for him to join her. He didn’t know whether to be worried or amused. “Excuse me a minute, folks,” he said, nodding politely to his sistersin-law before he turned to climb the stairs. Bailey disappeared again inside her bedroom. “Bailey?” He steeled himself against an ungentlemanly chuckle to think his brave little wildcat had holed up in her den. “What’s the matter with — ” You. His voice and footsteps faltered when he strode across the threshold. “Bailey?” he whispered, awed by the delicate sylphlike beauty who hovered nervously before the mirror. For a moment, his disbelieving eyes told him this vision couldn’t be Bailey. A lustrous cascade of ringlets spilled down her back, their golden highlights captured in the sheen of the sapphire ribbon threading through them. Beyond her shoulder, as she faced the looking glass, he could see the reflection of a dainty bustline, pushed higher and firmer than he’d ever seen it in workshirts. It was sweetly encased in a bodice ruched between bands of blue ribbons and ivory lace, and adorned with pearls. The skirt that fell away from this pinafore effect was something he’d once heard Amaryllis call a princess style. On Bailey, it made her look more like a fairy princess, he decided, because its shimmering satin folds seemed to dance around her, magical rivulets of indigo and sapphire light. “Oh, honey,” he breathed, “you look so beautiful.” Their eyes met in the mirror. The contact was electric. A current of desire sparked in his loins, turning into a flame, heating every inch of his flesh from the inside. As he watched, a rosy hue crept up her cheeks, and he wished fervently he’d had the good sense not to include his brothers and their children on this outing. Suddenly he felt awkward. Not since the night of the storm had he been so unsure of himself with Bailey. His only consolation was that she, too, seemed uncharacteristically timid. She shifted back and forth on her white kid boots like a cornered filly eager to run. 256

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“I managed to suck my stomach in tight enough to lace my own corset,” she said petulantly. “I figured out how to roll the stockings on straight after the sixth or seventh time, and I finally got the hang of walking with the garters so they wouldn’t snap my behind — ” Zack gulped a breath. The pictures she was painting were bringing him dangerously close to a sweat. “Bailey,” he cut in hoarsely, “surely you didn’t call me up here to tell me all that.” She shook her head. Sweeping her curls from her back, she pulled them all in one riotous mass across her shoulder. “I did everything else,” she said, her bottom lip jutting. “But I can’t button my stupid dress by myself.” She eyed him hopefully in the mirror. “You mean you want me to do it?” He licked his dry lips as her ivory shoulder blades rippled beneath the gaping V of her gown. His palms grew moist. “For heaven’s sake, Bailey, why didn’t you call Fancy? Or Rorie?” “I couldn’t ask them. They’ve never seen me naked.” Oh, God. He hoped his pecker wasn’t bulging as much as his eyes. She’d picked a fine time to turn bashful. Blowing out his breath, he forced himself to take a step closer. And closer still. It occurred to him if he couldn’t touch the buttons at her back without acting like a stud pony on the prod, he wouldn’t be able to plant his hand on her waist for a harmless two-step. Her fresh, cool scent of lemon and rainwater wafted over him, making his previously dry mouth water. The temptation of all those curls, all those shimmers, was nearly too much to bear. He had satisfyingly wicked visions of grabbing her buttocks instead of the placards of her gown. How was he supposed to make his hands seal her creamy nakedness from his sight, when his fingers were itching to peel off every blessed flounce and froufrou? “Zack?” It was Cord, calling from the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything all right up there?” His heart jolted. “Uh, yeah. Just dandy,” he called back, mortified to hear how husky his voice had become. He needed to settle his pecker down fast if he didn’t want his brothers to torment him all 257

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night long. Wes and Cord might be gentlemanly enough to spare Bailey their wisecracks, but they wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rib him. He studied her intimidatingly dainty row of buttons with a doubtful eye. Come to think of it, Cord and Wes might never get their chance. He was likely to be up here fastening her dress all night long. When Zack’s fingers touched her flesh with a raspy gentleness, Bailey gulped a shallow breath. It was all the air her corset would let her take. Despite the delicious tingles his warmth gusted over her, she was dreadfully uncomfortable and more self-conscious than she’d ever believed she could be. She felt trussed up like a turkey with her whalebone and garters. Her petticoats were hot and heavy, and she worried she would humiliate herself by falling off the dainty little heels that didn’t look fit to hold a normal body’s weight. Then there’d been the nightmare of rouge. She’d looked like a Comanche on the warpath before she’d washed her face three or four times to get the waxy residue off. The powder had blotched, and the merchandiser’s claims that it would erase sun freckles had been a bunch of hooey. She’d grimly washed her face yet again, wondering how much her skin could stand before it peeled off. Now she understood why Caitlin had always been late to greet her callers, and why Amaryllis walked around with such mincing footsteps. How did women manage to live their entire lives in such discomfort? Or maybe the more important question was, why? She bit her lip, gazing furtively through her veil of bangs at Zack in the mirror. The look on his face when he’d walked through her door had triggered an exploding heat in her belly, one that had radiated along every nerve until her legs nearly melted. Maybe that was why women went to such pains to put on masks and teeter on stilts. She still thought it was a stupid reason to be miserable. Zack’s hands trembled, grazing her skin again. He was starting to frown, and she suspected the mutter he’d bit back wasn’t another compliment. “Did you have to get a dress with thirty buttons?” he grumbled. 258

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“Can I help it if that’s the fashion?” They glared at each other in the mirror. Then his gaze slipped away, down the column of her neck to her bodice, and past the waterfall of silk that spilled over her hips. His features softened, and a dimple creased in the corner of his mouth. “It was worth it” he murmured. She swallowed, staring at her boots. She supposed she should tell him about the baby now. Get it over with before it ate a hole in her insides. She’d never been one to keep a truth from herself, or from anyone else. But when his hands settled on her shoulders and he shifted, drawing carefully nearer, her nerve faltered. He was gazing at their reflections in a pleased kind of wonder, his unmistakable approval slowly giving way to pride. And then to something else. Something profound and heady. For the first time in her life, Bailey felt truly valued as a woman. The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning, leaving her dazed and a little breathless. She had always struggled to repress the female side of herself because she’d come to think of it as flawed and undesirable. But through Zack’s eyes, she could see the wonder of her own beauty. She could appreciate the sacredness of her femininity because in the glowing depths of his gaze, she’d seen something worthy of admiration. The intense intimacy of their bonding shook her. It was frightening to think how strongly her female side could rule her, wanting nothing more than to surrender right there, right then, to Zack’s masculinity. And yet, with no baby in her womb, wasn’t her inner yearning the only thing that could possibly hold him to her now? Confused, and more than a little discomfited by feelings so alien to her usual nature, she rallied the logic of her own masculinity and attributed Zack’s admiration to the dancing gown and all the other fofarraw she was wearing. “Uh, I’m ready now,” she told him. “Let’s go.” Her flight to the door was barred by an elbow encased in white linen. “Whoa, darlin’,” he drawled in a smoky suitor’s voice. “You don’t think I’m going to let you bolt out of here without a proper escort, do you? Ma’am?” 259

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She bit her lip. Zack never talked to her like that when she wasn’t wearing ten pounds of underwear. Surely that was proof positive of the Curse of the Dress. Then again, if dressing like a candy confection made Zack fall in love with her, maybe wearing a gown couldn’t be considered such a curse after all. She mustered her courage, trying to effuse some into her fingers. Cursed or not, if she didn’t win Zack’s heart by midnight, well . . . She’d just have to resign herself to the idea that this evening was the last she would ever spend alone with him. A few minutes later, Bailey realized she’d been rather naive to think she might actually spend this night alone with Zack. Children swarmed around them as they stepped off the bottom stair. Seth demanded to see the dogs his Uncle Wes had said looked like polar bears; Topher wanted to ride one. Billy, Cord’s five-year-old, screeched at Zack to referee his mortal combat with Megan, who was using her longer seven-year-old’s reach to grab for the last cookie. Nita, Wes’s oldest girl, was bawling because she’d tripped over her skirt and splashed lemonade on her bodice. Merrilee, the only quiet one, was busy wandering from lady to lady, pressing bouquets of goldenrod into their hands. While the adults rallied to discipline their children, Bailey wondered, between sneezes, if God might not have spared her a baby because she wasn’t ready for parenthood. Training Border collies and breaking colts didn’t look half as difficult as cowing a truculent Rawlins child. Wes winked at her as he tossed his bellowing five-year-old nephew over his shoulder and headed for the wagons. “Good thing we left the three little ones back at the ranch with Aunt Lally, eh?” Cord, silencing his oldest boy’s strident demands to see polar bears, ordered him outside with Megan in a voice that promised dire consequences for disobedient backsides. Merrilee hurried after her younger cousins like a worried mother hen. Rorie, pink with embarrassment, tried to distract her daughter and apologize to her hostess all at the same time. “You look lovely. Bailey. Don’t you think she looks lovely, Nita?” 260

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The fourteen-year-old sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Bailey refrained from pointing out that Zack was offering her his handkerchief. “I guess so,” the child answered sullenly. “Anyone would look lovely if they didn’t have lemonade spilled all over them.” “We’re not going home now, Nita, and that’s final,” her mother said crisply. As Rorie marched her daughter out the door, Topher shouldered around them to get a closer view of his hostess. Cranking his neck back, he planted his hands on his hips and looked up and down Bailey’s dancing dress. “Where’d you hide your six-shooter?” She blinked in bemusement at the ten-year-old. “I beg your pardon?” “Your gun,” he answered impatiently. “Did you hide it under your bloomers like Aunt Fancy does?” “Topher.” His face turning crimson, Zack grabbed his nephew’s arm and hustled him toward the door. “Gentlemen do not ask ladies questions like that.” “Shoot. I ain’t no gentleman. What’s got you so lathered?” Cord cleared his throat, looking only a shade less red than Zack, but Fancy laughed good-naturedly as she breezed after them. “Actually it was a derringer,” she whispered in Bailey’s ear. “Holding a .22 is the only thing garters are good for.” Bailey smiled a little, grateful to know she had at least one ally among the Rawlins women. Now she was alone with the family patriarch, Cord Rawlins. She met his appraising green eyes uncertainly. She’d never had much cause to socialize with Cord since he was so much older than she. When she was thirteen and had seen him ride into Bandera wearing his deputy U.S. marshal’s badge, she had thought him dangerous, dashing, and the most handsome man in the county. A week or so had passed before she first laid eyes on Zack, and her opinion had turned unquestionably in his favor. Now, at thirty-nine, Cord was still one of the most breathtaking specimens of manhood in the county. Seth looked just like his pa, she decided. Billy did too. They were a handsome breed, these Rawlins males, with their chiseled jaws and dimples. 261

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Bailey swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what her and Zack’s child might have looked like. “Did Zack have the good sense to tell you how pretty you look tonight?” he asked in a rumbly voice. She blushed and nodded, accepting his arm. “Good.” He cast her a sideways glance as they walked to the door. “He thinks the world of you, you know. He’s just not good with words.” She caught her breath. Cord smiled and patted her hand. “Don’t tell him I told you so. He’s so mule-headed, he’ll deny it.” She blinked. Was it true? Did Zack really think the world of her? Or was Cord confusing Zack’s dedication to the child they would never have as affection for her? As it turned out, Cord was the only adult male Topher and Billy weren’t mad at, so the boys voted, two to one, to ride in his wagon. Seth, still smarting from his father’s scolding, grudgingly climbed up to join them. That arrangement left all the girls to ride with Wes and Rorie. “There’s no sense in you hitching a third wagon,” Cord called to Zack. “Why don’t you and Bailey ride with one of us?” Bailey dubiously eyed the buckboards full of children. A lot of pushing and name-calling was going on in Cord’s. An occasional sniffle and lots of pouting came from Wes’s. She was just about to suggest to Zack he join her in the barn to saddle Sassy and Boss, when he reached for her hand. “Let’s ride with the girls,” he said with one of his breathtaking smiles. “That way, I can have you all to myself.” His reasoning, so desperately wanted by her silly heart, prodded her to agree. Big mistake. Bailey quickly learned why Zack liked little girls. They adored him. Megan practically pounced on his lap, and Merrilee snuggled under his left arm. Nita roused herself from her sulk long enough to rail about lemonade and how it bleached dresses, so Zack gallantly told her any man with half a brain would be too dazzled by her smile to notice. 262

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Even though he held Bailey’s hand, the children were getting the lion’s share of his attention. Bailey knew it was foolish, even meanspirited, to be jealous of three little girls. But after midnight, they’d each have all the Zack they wanted, while she’d have nothing but memories. The final straw came when Megan demanded that her uncle play his harmonica. Nita piped up eagerly, requesting the courting ballad, “Gypsy Davy,” and Zack relinquished Bailey’s hand to please his nieces. During the applause, Zack gazed toward her. His contented smile seemed to say, “Isn’t this fun?” Bailey gave up any hope of winning his undivided attention after that. She scooted to the other side of the wagon, where she could stretch her legs, and gazed resignedly toward the pitched straw battle raging in the other buckboard. Now, that looked like fun. The hoedown was in full progress by the time Wes and Cord parked their buckboards and strolled with their eager families across the fairgrounds. In the vast show arena most commonly used for rodeos, an enormous dance floor had been erected, leaving ample room for three hundred or more hoofers. Whoops and fiddle music mingled with the sounds of stomping feet and breathless laughter. Dusty children in their Sunday best stumbled out polkas to the two-stepping beat; young rowdies spun their girls like calico tops; old-timers and married couples danced cheek to cheek in the calmer corners. Occasionally parents dashed by, chasing sticky-fingered toddlers who’d snatched prizes from the candy-apple and caramel-corn booths. Mesquite smoke wafted up to the boundless stars from the barbecue pits, and a river of cider flowed from the barrels in the horsedrawn wagons near the entrance. Halting beside one of the few picnic tables that was still uncluttered by bonnets, Stetsons, or baskets of food, Bailey listened with half an ear to the chattering Rawlins children, all of whom seemed more interested in eating than dancing. For the most part, her attention was on the wild shadows whirling over the sawdusted dance floor, their gyrations given extra zeal by the bobbing strings of lanterns. The energy of the violins was exhilarating, and despite her 263

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complete inexperience, she found her toe tapping to the music. She wondered how hard it could be, after birthing lambs and shearing sheep, to step with a partner in time to a dance. She gazed hopefully at Zack. The answering glow in his eyes made her pulse trip. With a firm but patient apology to Megan about the candy-apple booth, he extricated his hand from the seven-yearold’s. Megan flounced over to her father in a huff, and Zack grinned at Bailey. “Would you like to dance?” She nodded, too breathless to speak when his hand settled on the small of her back, guiding her lightly toward the artful chaos of boots, skirts, and spurs. A kaleidoscope of color blazed around them as he turned her into his arms. She could feel the pounding of his pulse when his fingers wrapped around hers. As she gazed into his handsome face, aflicker with the ruddy lamplight above, she was able to fool herself into believing his smile was full of tenderness, that his heart raced with the excitement of her touch. She decided this wasn’t the best time to confess she was completely out of her element. He took his first step forward. She collided with his knees. Chuckling, he shook his head. “As much as it probably galls you, Bailey, the man is supposed to lead.” “Oh, yeah.” She tried to look like she knew what the devil he was talking about. Surely she could get the hang of this dancing stuff if she just bluffed her way through it. Every other woman in the room seemed to know how to hoof. She glanced furtively at the couple whizzing past them. The female, a pretty but notoriously slow-witted belle, was giggling, spinning, and moving backward. Her movements looked effortless. See, Bailey told herself, dancing is easy. Simpletons can do it. “Okay.” She smiled back at Zack. “I’m ready now.” He stepped forward, and she tripped over her feet. Next, she tramped on his, and he sucked in a breath. When she tried again, she managed two awkward steps before her thighs banged against Zack’s. His arm saved her from kissing the sawdust with her backside. The third attempt was even worse than the first, and she toppled against his chest. Biting her lip, she ventured a glance at him. He was frowning. 264

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“I, uh, think it’s these boots. I’m not used to them,” she apologized. He didn’t look fooled. “Bailey, can you dance?” She cringed at his accusatory tone. “I don’t know. I never tried it before.” His jaw dropped. Comical disbelief registered on his features. In the next instant, he burst into a hearty peal of laughter, its rumble a cozy vibration against her navel. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, her cheeks burning as people around them turned to stare. His eyes twinkled with his valiantly suppressed mirth. “You, thinking you could step out here without knowing how. I had to practice a whole year with Aunt Lally before I even thought of stepping onto real sawdust.” Her spirits deflated to think her first dance had ruined her last night with him. “A whole year?” she repeated, hard-pressed to swallow her disappointment. Damn. Maybe being female wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. His expression softened. “Aw, honey.” He pulled her against his chest in a sweet, comforting hug. “You’re a lot less gangly than I was,” he murmured, his breath gusting tingles from her ear to her toes. “And a whole lot more graceful too.” “I am?” she whispered hopefully, not caring that a dozen or so curious dancers were slowing their spins so they could watch. “Sure.” He started to straighten, his lips brushing her cheek. Then they hesitated. For one tantalizing moment, they lingered over the corner of her mouth, as if he were considering giving her the answer to all her prayers and dreams. He must have remembered their audience though, because his hands abruptly swept up to her shoulders, and he set her on the balls of her feet. “I bet it won’t take nearly as long for you to catch on,” he finished huskily. “After all, you’ve learned everything else I’ve taught you plenty quick.” Her insides smoked at his bawdy implication. He chuckled, breaking the spell. “Of course, you’re going to have to reconcile yourself to taking direction. Maybe that should be our first lesson on the floor, little wildcat.” She pressed her lips together. He was laughing at her again, the rotten cowpoke. 265

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“Quit gloating.” “Oh, all right. But you have to admit, I was the model of diplomacy when you tried to stake my foot to the floor with one of those heels. C’mon.” He caught her hand to lead her back to the table. “We’re just in the way here — ” “Rawlins! Hold on there, son.” Rob Cole hurried into the stream of dancers who were now tossing them dirty looks as they stood chatting on the dance floor. “I need to have a word with you about Hank Rotterdam.” Zack frowned. “Business can wait, Rob. I’m busy.” “Well, get unbusy. No offense, ma’am.” Rob bobbed his head distractedly in her direction. “Rotterdam’s out stumping, saying there’s no need to sign any treaty with sheepherders. He’s cooked up a scheme to make rain by firing cannons into the clouds. He says Preacher Underhill’s prayer vigils aren’t doing the job, and those Injun rain dancers the sodbusters hired are only kicking up more dust. “’Course, Hank’s idea is just as outlandish as last month’s rainmaking scam in Elodea,” Rob continued. “You know the one I mean. Folks out there almost tarred and feathered that so-called university professor after they’d been hoodwinked into buying dousing rods that couldn’t find a glass of water, much less an underground spring.” Rob’s brow furrowed in a troubled way. “The difference here, Zack, is that most of the cattlemen are so desperate, they’re actually willing to listen to Hank. Red Calloway’s already in Rotterdam’s camp. If the rest of your board goes the same way, I guarantee you, your contract won’t be worth the paper it was written on — ” “What contract?” Bailey interrupted. Rob glanced her way as if to give her a verbal pat on the head, when suddenly his eyes widened, and he seemed to see her for the first time. “Bailey? Well, I’ll be d — er, criminy! You sure do clean up nice, ma’am!” She sighed. The insidious Curse of the Dress was striking again. Ever since she was a blond, blue-eyed child, men treated her like a brainless nonentity if she wasn’t wearing britches. “Thank you,” she said crisply. “What contract?” 266

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“Shoot. Didn’t Zack tell you? He got just about everybody who’s somebody to sign an agreement to experiment with pasture rotation to conserve forage and water.” Bailey’s disbelieving gaze snapped to Zack. Rather than deny his crime though, he stood smiling at her, looking for all the world as if he thought he’d just accomplished the greatest coup in political history. And maybe he had. But that didn’t save him from being a thickheaded, insensitive, heart-stealing double-dealer! “Everybody who’s somebody, eh?” she said, her voice dripping with irony. “How curious. I’m assuming you mean sheepmen and cattlemen.” “Well, of course.” Rob scratched his head. “Wouldn’t be much sense in having just the one side of the feud sign a treaty.” She hiked her chin, making it rock hard to hide her hurt. “So where does that leave the McShane ranch? In some kind of limbo because its ‘somebody’ is a female? Or did you just leap to conclusions, Zack, assuming you now make all my decisions and speak for me as well?” Zack blinked, stunned by her reaction. He knew her well enough to realize she was dangerously close to exploding. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if he had deliberately cut her out of the agreement, for God’s sake. Although he’d always hoped one might be reached quickly, he’d feared the actual drafting of the papers would take months until Will Eldridge had called in his lawyer — his son — right there on the spot. Bailey’s signature was missing from the contract only because he’d figured he could get it when he returned to her ranch. “Bailey, be reasonable,” he said in a low voice. He was keenly aware, even if she wasn’t, that they were causing another public scene. “Reasonable? And by your definition, would that mean suffer in silence while you ride roughshod all over me?” “No one’s riding roughshod over anybody,” he bit out, catching her elbow and leading her off the dance floor. “I just haven’t had time to tell you — ” “And what would you call the ten minutes we spent in my bedroom?” she flung back, wrenching her arm free as they emerged from 267

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the crowd. “Or the hour you sat playing your harmonica in the wagon?” Zack’s neck heated. Okay, so he’d lost focus. In truth, he hadn’t been able to string two thoughts together since he’d laid eyes on her in that dress. Besides, he’d hardly felt it fair to dominate the conversation with business while Rorie and the children were in the wagon. He glanced apologetically at Rob, who was trailing in their wake. “We’ll discuss this later, Bailey.” “Discuss it with yourself, Zack,” she snapped. Turning on her heel, she stalked past the picnic tables and the Rawlins clan. The adults were staring curiously after her as she left Zack to choke on her dust. Muttering an oath, he started to follow. Rob caught his arm. “Let her go, son. She won’t listen to sense until she’s cooled off a spell. In the meantime, Calloway needs a talking-to.” Zack blew out his breath. Rob was probably right. Even so, he didn’t like the idea that Bailey was heading straight for a cider wagon and the Rotterdam twin who was lounging against it.

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Nineteen Bailey hardly noticed where her feet were leading her. She was too busy aching, too busy seething over Zack’s underhanded scheming. She’d let him sneak into her heart, trusted him with her feelings, and the minute she’d been vulnerable enough to be a real honest-togoodness woman with him, he’d tried to trample her under his boot heel! How dare he assert his male dominance, taking away her right to make decisions for her ranch? Worse yet, how dare he try to make her dependent on him and the political influence he wielded in their community? She was so wrapped up in her feelings of betrayal, she didn’t realize she was on a collision course with a Rotterdam until she nearly bowled him over. Strong, youthful hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, and she blinked apologetically into widened blue eyes. “Well, I’ll be dinged,” Nat said. “And here I’d thought about asking the pretty palomino filly in the blue dress to come out to the barbecue pits with me.” He grinned, looking boyish, smitten, and outrageously amused all at the same time. “Damn, Bailey, I should have known any sweet thing who danced as bad as you just did would have to be you.” She blew a curl out of her eyes. The Curse of the Dress had claimed another hapless victim. “You really know how to turn a lady’s head, Nat.” He chuckled, setting her free. “Nick taught me everything he knows.” She sighed. She couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or not. Nat wasn’t half as slow-witted as he pretended to be. In some ways, he was a whole lot smarter than Nick, especially when Nick was being his classically “icky” self. 269

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She stepped aside to let a couple step up to the cider line. Inadvertently, her gaze lighted on Zack. Although he stood across the arena in a relatively unpopulated section near the bronco chutes, she could feel his eyes on her like brands. He seemed to be listening with only half an ear as Red Calloway’s jaw flapped and his forefinger made menacing stabs in the air. Nat’s gaze followed hers. “Your sweetheart hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you arrived a half hour back. Shoot, if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you wander off too far in that dress either. Lots of wolves are prowling that dance floor.” She turned her shoulder on Zack. “Trust me, Nat. He’s not my sweetheart.” “He’s not, eh? Then how come you keep going around kissing him?” She started, then scowled. “Are you spying on me, Nathan Rotterdam?” “Heck, Bailey, there’s no need to spy when you’re out smacking lips in public.” “We fight in public too,” she said dourly. “Yep. Just like a regular married couple.” She winced. The last thing she wanted was a marriage like her parents’. “Where’s Nick?” she demanded, eager to change the subject. “Trying to bury the hatchet with Amaryllis, I reckon.” Nat absently rubbed his cheek. “Damn, that girl packs a wallop.” “And why would Amaryllis be walloping you?” Nat turned sheepish. “I reckon it’s not much of a secret by now. But if I tell you, you’re not going to take her side, are you?” “Probably not.” “Good.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “But if you’re feeling so inclined, just remember: It was Nick’s idea.” “What was Nick’s idea?” “Me pretending to be him.” Her eyes widened. “Now, Bailey, you promised not to take her side,” he reminded her in his signature whiny voice. “’Sides, I told him it was a stupid idea.” “You really expect me to believe that?” 270

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“But I did, Bailey, honest. I said, ‘Nick, let me play out your poker game. You go spark Amaryllis.’” Nat shoved his hands in his pockets as he recalled his crime. “Nick was supposed to have dinner with her and the judge, you see. But he was having a winning streak, and you know how ol’ Nick gets when the cards are in his favor. He told me to go eat Mrs. Larabee’s good vittles, and when he was through winning, he’d hide out in the back bushes till me and Amaryllis came out on the porch to swing. Then I was supposed to visit the privy so we could trade places.” Bailey shook her head in bemusement. She never dreamed she’d hear herself thinking this, but, poor Amaryllis. “So then what happened?” “Well . . .” Squirming a little, Nat cleared his throat. “Amaryllis caught on a bit quicker than either of us expected.” Bailey arched an eyebrow. Good for Amaryllis. The Rotterdam twins had pulled the wool over her own eyes a couple of times when she was younger, before Mrs. Rotterdam had confided how to tell the two rounders apart — Nick had a crooked little finger, which he’d broken when he was four — and Bailey could still remember the sting of the humiliation. Of course, she had never let one of the twins officially spark her. She figured the embarrassment for Amaryllis must have been a hundred times worse, trusting a sweetheart who’d hoodwinked her. For perhaps the first time in her life, Bailey sympathized with the girl. Before she could grill Nat further about the details of the crime, Nick himself, the prince of all scapegraces, emerged from the crowd. Rubbing a bright red splotch on his cheek, he hurried toward them until he recognized Bailey. His strides faltered a bit. “Tarnation.” Halting, he stared bug-eyed at her, only slightly less dazed by her froufrous than his brother. “Did Rawlins put that rigging on you?” She pursed her lips. “No, Ick, I put it on myself.” She’d effectively foiled his wisecrack. He made a face. “You know I hate it when you call me that.” “Serves you right. Serves you right that Amaryllis hit you too. ’Course, if it had been me, I would’ve done it a lot harder. And a lot lower.” 271

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Nick had the decency to redden, and he rounded on his brother. “You told her?” Nat shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Sure. Why not? And it does serve you right, since I was the one collecting wallops last night. I told you trading places was never going to work.” “Well, things were going along just fine until you tried to kiss her!” It was Bailey’s turn to stare bug-eyed. When she turned her gaze on Nat, he stuck his jaw out. “You told me to do what you would do, Nick.” “That’s ’cause I thought you had enough sense not to spark my sweetheart!” Bailey chuckled. She couldn’t help herself. For a delightful change of pace, the twins had both gotten their just deserts. “Boys, boys, boys,” she crooned. “When are you going to grow up?” Four blazing eyes glared back at her. “Gee, Bailey,” Nat grumbled, “it’s not like you’ve never run off half-cocked in your life.” “Yeah,” Nick chimed in. “You could be a little more understanding. This is serious! Ammie’s spitting smoke. She said she doesn’t ever want to see me again, and this time I think she meant it.” He looked so miserable, Bailey felt her humor ebb. “Aw, she couldn’t have meant it, Nick,” Nat said loyally, patting his brother’s shoulder. “She likes you too much.” “Not after last night.” Nick gazed woefully at his sibling. “I’m plumb jawed out, and she’s still not listening. Could you try talking some sense into her, Nat? Please?” Nat started, retrieving his hand as if it had been burned. “Hell no. My face is still numb from the last time.” He grimaced. “C’mon, Bailey. You want to go get some barbecue?” “Naw,” she said. “Nick here looks like he could use some company.” “You mean advice?” Nat snorted. “Good luck.” Clearly disappointed by her refusal to join him, he started to turn, then hesitated in mid-stride. “Oh, and, Nick?” “Yeah?” “Maybe it’s a good thing you are talking to Bailey. Pa’s been looking for you.” 272

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“Pa can go to hell.” “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Nat shrugged, nodding a grudging good-bye. As the younger twin ambled off, Bailey turned to Nick. “What was that all about?” Nick scowled. “Pa’s on the rampage again.” “Any particular reason?” “You, mostly. Say, you want to go outside?” Nick asked, artfully changing the subject. “It’s mighty hot in here.” Hmm. Wary of Nick’s penchant for mischief, Bailey nevertheless accepted his arm, her curiosity getting the better of her. It wasn’t every day she was the focus of a Rotterdam squabble. At least, she hoped that was the case. As she strolled beside Nick, Zack scowled at her across the arena, but she ignored him. Let him scowl all he wanted, she thought petulantly. She hoped he sprained a muscle frowning so hard. The August night was hot and dry, but Nick was right. The temperature outside the arena, without its horde of sweltering bodies, was far more comfortable. Quieter too. Bailey breathed deeply, smelling hay and spilled cider on the breeze that wafted past her on its way toward the smoking pits of brisket, roast pig, and corn. The candy-apple vendor caught her attention, hawking his wares to Cord, Fancy, and their eager children from a booth to her right. To her left was another cider wagon and its assemblage of thirsty dancers. The line there wasn’t quite as long as the one inside, and Bailey spied Rorie, Wes, and their children waiting for their turn at the tap. Nick guided her away from the food seekers. They walked idly toward a cluster of empty barrels that waited to be loaded onto the first available cider wagon. Bailey hopped up on one of these convenient seats. Nick propped himself on the barrel beside her. “So, you want to tell me why Hank’s upset?” she asked, loath to let him evade the topic any longer. He pressed his lips together. “Usual reason. Wants me to get married. Wants it to be you.” Bailey sighed. Oh, that. She should have known. Would Hank never give up? “So that’s why you told him to ask me to the hoedown, eh?” 273

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Nick’s grin was fleeting. “Sure. I figured if he wants your land so bad, he could just marry you himself.” “Thanks, Nick,” she said dryly. “Aw, c’mon. Bailey. Pa’s not so bad. Just old and ornery.” Now, there’s an irresistible combination. Her expression must have communicated her distaste, because Nick chuckled. “Don’t you worry, hon. I’d marry you to Nat before I’d let my pa get his hands on you.” A small consolation. They lapsed into a companionable silence. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to pass ten minutes in Nick’s company without wanting to punch his lights out. Despite his latest scam, maybe he was growing up after all. Or maybe she was just distracted. “Nick,” she ventured to say, “what do you know of this contract Zack drew up between the sheepherders and the cattlemen?” He started, as if roused from a deep well of thought. “You mean the cease-fire? Just about everybody signed it — except Pa, of course. Nat and me thought it was a good idea, so we went ahead and put our names to it Thursday night at the Bullwhip.” “You did?” Bailey couldn’t believe she was hearing him right. The twins never did anything without Hank’s approval. “Does Hank know?” “I reckon he does.” Nick’s jaw hardened. His understated reply said a whole lot more about Hank’s explosion and the resulting confrontation with his sons than Nick probably wanted her to know. “Why did you go against him?” she asked gently. “’Cause he’s being stubborn. Stupid too.” Guilt warred with the flush of anger on his face. “All he seems to care about these days is that damned election and getting more votes than Rawlins. I mean, really. Firing cannons to make rain?” He snorted in disgust. Bailey shrugged, but she had to admit, Hank’s rain-making idea did sound far-fetched — at first anyway. Then she remembered how he used to be an artilleryman during the War Between the States. Some of her earliest recollections of the Rotterdams’ kitchen included Hank’s boasts about his war exploits and his complaints about hauling Old Reb, his regiment’s cannon, through the rain and the mud after every battle. Maybe he’d found some legitimate correlation 274

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between the cannon blasts and the downpours. If he had, and if he persuaded his brother-in-law to ship him a cannon from Fort Mason, Hank just might become Texas’s newest hero. “Well,” she said, “I’m glad to see your father is trying to make water rather than, er” — she paused delicately — “borrow it. Red Calloway seems to think there’s some merit in Hank’s idea.” Nick rolled his eyes. “Red Calloway also tried to cut a toe off a cougar pelt to cheat you out of your five hundred dollars.” Bailey’s jaw dropped. “He did? But I never heard anything — ” “’Course not. Me and Nat overheard him plotting down at the Bullwhip, and we mopped the floor with him. I don’t know why he thought he could get away with a scam like that, when One Toe strikes a new homestead every other week. Hell, the bastard took down one of our own yearling bulls this morning.” Bailey winced at this news. The Rotterdams had lost so much stock already. “I’m sorry, Nick.” “Yeah, well, I wish Pa was. You know, if he’d only care half as much about business as he does about politics, our spread wouldn’t be going up in smoke. Literally.” He folded his arms in a mutinous pose. For a moment, she was looking back in time, gazing on the towheaded rascal she used to know, a little boy who’d idolized his father and whose big azure eyes had been blind to Hank’s every wrong. Nick had fought scores of brawls with his schoolmates whenever they so much as hinted his father was a poker cheat, a bully, or a crooked politician. Nat hadn’t been quite as deceived by his father’s real nature, but Nat had worshipped Nick. Whatever Nick did, Nat was sure to do too. “Do you think Hank will come around?” “Who knows?” Nick answered irritably. “But I’m tired of taking orders from him. He’s my pa, not my boss.” Despite this declaration of independence, Nick’s shoulders slumped. “’Sides,” he continued gloomily, “Judge Larabee thought the contract was a good idea. And I couldn’t go crossing him.” “Nick!” Bailey exclaimed. She was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing. “You sided with Zack and Larabee just to win over Amaryllis?” He sighed. “Reckon so.” 275

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Her amusement faded as her heart twisted. The old Nick would have launched into a blustery defense. The new Nick looked downright pitiful. “Do you love her?” “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t want to.” He made a face. “You know me, Bailey. I wasn’t ever planning on getting caught by some bell chaser. But Ammie got under my skin somehow. Makes me plumb loco half the time. When I’m with her, I don’t know whether to kiss her or spank her. When we’re apart, I feel like there’s a great big hole in my chest just aching to be filled.” He met her gaze, and the mist in his eyes moved her deeply. “Do you know what I mean?” he whispered. She nodded, a lump rising to her throat. Only too well, Nick. Only too well. She slipped her hand over his. “Well, we have to come up with a scheme, that’s all, to make Amaryllis see things your way.” “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve come up with too many schemes. I think she hates me.” “Oh, Nick.” The grief on his face was more than she could bear. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. “There’s a way. There’s got to be,” she murmured near his ear. “Hell, if I have to, I’ll go and talk to her myself.” “You will?” he asked hopefully, the words muffled against her shoulder. “’Course. And I’ll have a talk with Nat too. He needs to stop going around kissing your sweethearts.” Nick nodded and sniffed. “That’s right sporting of you, Bailey. Especially after all the trouble I caused.” He drew back several inches to look her in the eye. “It was me and Pa, you know, who cut your fences and, er, burned that empty old line shack.” “I know,” she said softly. “It’s not gonna happen anymore though.” She forgave him, communicating her understanding with a smile. “I know that too.” Relief flooded his features. Catching her off guard, he pulled her again into a great bear hug. “I’m gonna make it up to you somehow, Bailey. You’re the best friend I ever had. Except maybe for Nat.” She chuckled, blinking back tears. “Yeah? Well, just don’t tell anyone. I’ve got enough trouble with my reputation.” 276

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He drew back, grinning. He seemed to be on the verge of an oldNick retort, when suddenly he frowned, glancing down at his chest. “Oh, damn. We’re stuck.” She felt the tugging on her bodice as the lace on her gown threatened to tear. One of his shirt buttons had somehow tangled in the fragile fabric — and between her breasts, of all places. Heating firecracker hot, she met his gaze. He’d blushed crimson. “Uh,” he stammered, “let me . . .” He tried to put more distance between them, and she gasped, clutching his shirtfront. “For heaven’s sake, Nick, don’t rip it. I have to go inside and face all the Rawlinses!” They both stared at the errant button a moment longer before Nick started to smirk, his humor restored. “Here.” He reached between them. “It’s not as if we haven’t done this before, right, hon?” “Stop it!” She glared into his laughing eyes and caught his hand, thinking she just might punch his lights out after all. “I’m warning you, Nick — ” She never got to finish her threat. A cry like an enraged puma’s sliced through her words. From out of nowhere, thick, bronzed fingers dug like claws into Nick’s shoulders. They wrenched Nick around, rending her gown hopelessly beyond repair. Nick stumbled, as surprised as she was to see Zack above them, his lips drawn back in a snarl. A fist flew, Nick’s head jerked, and his body crashed into the cider barrels, scattering them like ninepins. “Zack!” Bailey shouted, clutching awkwardly at her tattered bodice. Horrified by his intent, she tried to grab his arm. “Zack, stop! Nick didn’t do anything. It’s not what you think!” He shook her off though. He was hell-bent on tearing his younger rival limb from limb, like any male wildcat would have done to defend its territory. She looked around frantically, scanning the faces that were turning toward the commotion. “Help! Someone stop them, please!” An oomph and another crash came from behind her; she heard Nick’s oath and the scuffling of boots. When she dared to glance over her shoulder, Zack was hauling Nick up by the collar and preparing to let another fist fly. 277

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“Rawlins!” It was Nat’s voice, and she spied him out of the corner of her eye, running to his brother’s rescue from the barbecue pits. Dropping his cup of cider, Wes chased after Nat, shouting Cord’s name as he ran. Soon there was a crowd of spectators gathered around her. Rorie, hurrying after her husband, wrapped her shawl around Bailey’s shoulders. Cord, sprinting from the candy-apple booth, intercepted Nat before he could leap into the fray. Wes swerved and made a beeline for Zack. “Zack! Stop it! That’s enough now, you hear?” But Zack didn’t hear his kid brother. Either that, or he didn’t care. His fists were flying like windmills, and Nick was getting in alarmingly few swings in return. When he stumbled again, this time flailing backward over the barrel that had rolled into his knees, it took all of Wes’s strength to hold Zack from behind and keep him from going for the kill. “Zack! Enough, dammit. He’s down.” Bailey shivered, iced to the bone despite the comforting warmth of Rorie’s hands on her shoulders. As she watched Zack struggle a moment longer against his taller brother’s weight and strength, she thought she might be physically ill. Nick’s panting ripped from the chaos of smashed barrels, the sound harsh, shallow, and pained. “All right, Wes. All right!” Zack growled back, at last lucid enough to stop fighting. He wrenched himself free. Breathing hard, every muscle taut and quivering, he loomed over Nick while the younger man struggled to an elbow. “So help me God, Rotterdam, if you lay a hand on my woman again, I’ll kill you.” The spectators hushed. The deadly sincerity in Zack’s voice had been unmistakable. Bailey’s knees went weak. Still, Nick glared his defiance through his unswollen eye. He licked his bloody lip, as if preparing to hurl back some inflammatory retort. Before he could speak, another commotion sounded at the fringe of the crowd. With an unladylike squeal and a shove, Amaryllis broke into the arena, her eyes wide with fright, her face whiter than the moon. “Nick!” She ran to his side. Heedless of the wood fragments, the dust, and the blood, she dropped to her knees. “Oh, Nick, you’re 278

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hurt!” Her gaze was brighter and sharper than a stiletto when she glared through her tears at Zack. “What are you? A — a mad dog? Look what you’ve done! “Nicky? Honey?” Her voice softened in anguish as she dabbed at his battered face with her handkerchief. “Speak to me.” Skullduggery, apparently, died hard in the Rotterdam family. Nick glanced once at Bailey, once at Zack, then fell back into his sweetheart’s arms with a melodramatic groan. Nat shook off Cord’s hands. The two men glared at each other for a moment before Nat apparently thought better of striking the former deputy U.S. marshal. “Don’t worry, Amaryllis, he’s just got a nosebleed,” Nat said, squatting to offer her his larger, more absorbent bandanna. Cord turned to the crowd. Even without a badge, he commanded their attention. “All right, folks, the show’s over. There’s nothing left to gawk at. Move along.” Wes, towering over just about every man there, lent his silent support. His intimidating stare helped disperse the last of the stragglers while Nat and Amaryllis lifted Nick to his feet. He leaned heavily on his sweetheart’s shoulder. As Nick limped past Bailey, the scapegrace tossed her a wink. Nick must have decided all of Amaryllis’s cooing and fluttering was worth getting the tar beat out of him. Bailey just hoped he was right. Rorie delicately cleared her throat as Topher and Seth broke from the line of children Fancy was valiantly trying to hold at bay. “Hoo-boy, Uncle Zack, I’ve never seen anybody fight that good, not even Pa!” Topher crowed, halting to beam up at his glowering uncle. “Me too!” Seth chimed in, crouching in the barrel debris. “Lookee here, Toph, blood!” “Seth, Topher, that will be quite enough,” Rorie said sternly. “Go back and tell the others Zack wasn’t hurt.” “Aw.” “You heard your aunt,” Cord said in a voice that would brook no disobedience. He caught hold of his son’s collar and snared his nephew’s arm. “Let’s go get those candy apples.” Left with only Wes to defend her, Bailey felt her stomach do a queasy flip. With shaking hands, she clutched the shawl tighter over her shredded bodice as Zack’s smoldering gaze raked over her. 279

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“Did he hurt you?” he ground out. “N-no,” she stammered, grateful when Rorie’s arms wrapped protectively around her from behind. In that instant, Bailey knew she had another ally. “It was my fault. Really.” “Wes,” Rorie began with her usual, seamless diplomacy, “perhaps you and Zack should go down to the river and check on the horses — ” “No.” Bailey licked her dry lips, mortified to hear herself croak. “I’ll go with Zack. I want to go home anyway.” She met his gaze uncertainly. “Will you take me? Please?” She was scared to death he’d say yes. She was even more afraid he’d say no. Marshaling her courage, she unhappily reminded herself she had a job to do. The nightmare of the evening had only begun. She felt honor bound to explain how Nick’s button had gotten stuck between her breasts. Then she had to set Zack free. As much as it ripped at her heart, she had to tell him he’d had no reason to thrash Nick. He’d been mistaken to believe she was his woman. “Take our wagon,” Wes said quietly. “We’ll ride back with Cord and Fancy.” Zack nodded curtly. His jawline was twitching when he dropped his hand to the small of her back. She flinched. She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to run somewhere to cry, but her legs trembled like leaves in the wind, and her stomach was turning like a twister. She prayed to God she’d get through the ordeal ahead without bursting into tears. Zack didn’t look terribly inclined to be patient. She walked in a daze beside him, conscious only of the restrained power in his hand, quaking ever so slightly against her spine. She attributed that to a dangerously strained self-control. She’d always known a temper seethed beneath Zack’s scowls and glares, but never had she dreamed it could erupt so forcefully. Now she carried the guilt that the fistfight with Nick could have been averted if she hadn’t been so selfish, so yellow, and had told Zack immediately, as he’d deserved, that he was no longer bound to her. The impact of her omission hit her square in the gut. Bile rose hard and fast to her throat. Staggering, she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Bailey?” He halted as she weaved a few steps away. “Are you all right?” 280

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She shook her head feebly, gesturing for him to stay where he was as she picked up her pace, heading for the nearest bush. The treeline closed around her. In her hurry, she lost Rorie’s shawl and tore her skirts on the shrubs that grabbed and scratched her. Dimly she heard his muffled oath, the crackling of twigs as he trailed her to the river’s edge. Then she sank to her knees and heaved. Nothing came out. Weakly, she reached to cup water in her hand. He was quicker, squatting and offering her a dripping handkerchief. She took it tremulously, unable to meet his gaze as she pressed the cloth to her burning face. “Honey,” he murmured, and touched her hair. “I’m sorry. Did the fight upset you that much?” The dreaded tears sprang to her eyes. She fought them, keeping the cloth strategically pressed to her burning forehead. He edged nearer, his hand sliding to her shoulder. “Take deep breaths,” he said. “That’s it. Good.” He fumbled at her back for a moment, and her gown loosened. “Is that better?” She nodded, sinking to her buttocks, and he draped the shawl around her again. Vaguely she was aware of the unfamiliar padding of her undergarments. She imagined her torso must look like it was sticking out of a sapphire-colored pincushion. “Here. Stretch your legs.” He knelt at her ankles, lifting her foot onto his thigh much as he had on the night of the storm. When he unlaced her boots, she started to protest, but she thought better of it. She’d wanted to take the damned things off all evening. “Zack?” she whispered. He glanced up, her second stockinged foot in the palm of his hand. He gently began to massage it. “I know what you’re going to say,” he murmured. “You do?” “Uh-huh. But Nick deserved worse than a beating, Bailey. When I followed you outside and saw what he was doing, and when I heard you tell the bastard to stop . . .” His voice trailed off as she repeatedly shook her head. “What, then?” She sighed, averting her gaze. Moonlight turned the breeze-blown grasses around her to rippling pewter, and the river beyond looked 281

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silvery black, like a string of jet pearls winding around the column of sycamore trees. She tried to look at him again, but found herself glancing quickly away. Her courage wasn’t fully mustered yet. “I . . . can’t let you blame Nick,” she answered lamely. “He had a fight with Amaryllis, and he was asking for my help, and I gave him a hug to make him feel better, and . . . somehow, we got stuck, his shirt button in the lace of my dress. It was completely innocent,” she added, feeling his thigh stiffen beneath her heel. She made a face. Now who was she defending? she wondered. Herself or Nick? “Anyway,” she continued drearily, “it’s in the past now.” Like everything we ever shared. He didn’t look mollified. “Nick Rotterdam is a bastard, and whatever passed between you and him tonight I leave entirely at his door — along with all the other humbugs he’s ever pulled. I’m sorry. Bailey, but I just can’t be as forgiving as you.” “That’s your prerogative, of course.” I guess you won’t be very forgiving of me, then, either. Tugging her foot from his hands, she tucked both legs beneath her skirts. She kept her eyes carefully trained on her fingers, which she’d knotted in her lap. She couldn’t bear to see the relief on his face when she told him his personal hell was over, that he was rid of her at last. “There’s something else you should know,” she said. She struggled for an impersonal tone, a businesslike tone, to hide her misery as her childhood dream came to an end. “You were away when it happened, so I didn’t have the chance to tell you until tonight. But you’ll be pleased to know that my, er, moontime has started. You aren’t a father.” Zack sucked in his breath. “I realize this is the end of our arrangement,” she continued briskly. “Of course, I will return your mother’s Bible. And I’d appreciate it if you would drive me home tonight, as you agreed. After that you’re free to go, to get on with your life.” “No!” She winced, biting her lip. “You mean . . . you won’t drive me home?” Zack stared at her, aghast. How could she be so calm, so collected, when she was dooming him to a life without her? 282

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A blistering cyclone swept through him, a storm of emotions so violent, so turbulent, he began to shake. He couldn’t exactly decipher them all, but he did recognize the ache in his chest: Desolation. Never in his life had he killed a man. But he would have done so that night, without the slightest regret, when he’d thought Rotterdam was forcing his attentions on Bailey. Now she was telling him there was nothing between them, nothing worth holding on to, because his seed hadn’t blossomed? Did he mean so little to her, then? Did she have no affection for him at all? “Bailey,” he whispered hoarsely, rocking forward to touch her knee. “Don’t do this. Nothing has changed. I — I still want you to be my wife.” She flinched, dashing the back of her hand across her eyes. She refused to look at him. “I told you how it was, Zack. I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me.” A knife twisted in his heart. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then, as the sun’s rays cleaved the darkness of a storm, he felt beams of radiance flood his chest. The sensation was so dizzying, so dazzling, he felt as if he were floating in light. “But I do love you, Bailey,” he said in growing wonder. He gave a breathless laugh to feel his soul smiling in agreement. My God, it’s true. “I . . . never realized it before. Isn’t that strange? I’m not even sure when it happened, or how. Maybe at the rodeo . . . No.” He grinned as the memories flashed through his mind. “It was before that, I think. The night you stormed into the Bullwhip with your daddy’s scattergun and that old hound. I didn’t think I was going to get you out of that saloon alive.” His elation ebbed at the thought, and he gazed earnestly into her eyes. “I want to take care of you, Bailey. I want to be the one you turn to when you need help. Or comfort. It nearly killed me this afternoon when I knocked on your door and you wouldn’t let me inside. I knew something was wrong, but I thought you were crying over Mac. Not the baby,” he added softly. His heart wrenched to think she’d been weeping in the dark all alone over a child they’d never made. “We can make another baby,” he said impulsively. “Once we’re married, we can make as many babies as you want.” 283

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“Isn’t that just a tad convenient?” she said in such a low, choked voice, he had to strain to hear. “Deciding you’re in love with me so I’ll marry you and have your babies?” “No, sweetheart. I know it must seem that way, but I’ve never been in love before. I didn’t know how strong my feelings were until I saw Rotterdam’s hands on you. That had to be the worst moment of my life.” Straddling her knees with his arms, he leaned forward, willing her to understand, willing her to forgive and relent. “I went crazy, thinking you’d been hurt.” She jerked her head away from his kiss. Her chest heaved, and her cheeks glistened silver with tears. “I don’t believe you,” she said brokenly. “I don’t think you even care about me.” “Bailey.” Dismayed, he tried to cup her chin, but she wedged her shoulder against his chest and sought to push him away. “It’s true!” she cried. “Admit it! The only thing you ever cared about in the beginning was the baby.” He felt the stab of that blade again, only this time it cut deeper. “Bailey, I swear, that’s not — ” “Then you got accustomed to the idea of ranching my land,” she accused him, and a sob hiccuped free. “You don’t want to marry me, y-you want to marry my homestead. You’re j-just like all the rest of my suitors. And it’s not fair, Zack. It’s n-not fair, when I love you so much. . . .” The sobs overwhelmed her, and she buried her face in her hands, curling into a tight little ball. The sounds that ripped from her throat were excruciating to hear, like the cries of a wounded animal. He felt the sting of his own tears. “Bailey, honey, don’t cry.” Pulling her into his arms, he rocked her, stroking her back, kissing her hair. The sounds she made only grew more anguished, so he stilled, resting his chin on her head. He struggled to swallow the lump that was nearly choking him. “Bailey, please,” he murmured, “don’t cry. We don’t have to end this way. We can try again. I want to try again. Don’t you? Bailey?” He threaded his fingers through her curls, lifting the heavy mass from her bowed neck. He blew a current of air across her damp skin before he massaged her knotted muscles. She whimpered. “I love you, Bailey.” He touched his lips to her cheek, tasting a tantalizing trace of salt, feeling the pulse that skittered beneath his 284

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thumb. “I was so lonely without you this past week. I need you, honey. Don’t turn me away.” She shifted uncertainly, as if torn between resistance and surrender, when his kneading fingers moved down her back. “Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?” She sniffled, finally withdrawing a hand to peek up at him through spiky lashes. “It’d never work,” she said in a childish voice. “Why not?” “’Cause we fight all the time, and we have nothing in common.” He brushed her tears away. “We love each other. That’s something.” Her bottom lip jutted, and he rubbed his moistened forefinger against it. “You don’t believe me?” She shook her head, the tip of her tongue darting out to taste the tear he’d left behind. “How can I prove it to you?” Her mouth trembled open, as if she would answer, and he cupped the back of her head, tilting it for his kiss. He felt the tremor move through her when his lips grazed hers; he felt her hesitation as his mouth gentled, coaxed, pleaded. His heart hammered so hard, he thought she must surely hear it above the rushing of the water and the singing of the crickets. Yet he willed himself to patience, fighting back the panic that threatened to steal his better sense away. He couldn’t lose her, not now. Not after he’d finally found her. She sighed his name, half in plea, half in protest. Then her hands crept up over his shoulders, and her fingers weaved through his hair. He groaned, deepening their kiss, plundering the velvety sweetness he’d been yearning to taste all night. He pushed her down into the grass, fanning her hair out around her. She tasted of tears and peppermint; she smelled like citrusy sunshine. His hands shook as he touched her ravaged bodice, and he buried his mouth there, aching to repair the damage he’d been too slow to prevent. Groaning her name, he tugged on the laces of her corset, and she squirmed when he drew her nipple into his mouth. “Z-Zack, please. We can’t d-do this,” she panted. “We’ll just be in the same mess we were in before.” He growled his disappointment, licking her taut nub. She shivered beneath him in a way that made his loins throb with primal pleasure. 285

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“Bailey.” He slowed his ragged breaths long enough to nibble her ear. “I promise, we won’t. I’ve been to town, and I’ve purchased a, er, preventative I can use.” He smoothed his hand along her hip and down her thigh, reveling in the whispery softness of the satin beneath his palm. She tensed, her fingers tightening in warning over his shoulders. “But I have . . . er, I mean, I’m — ” “Indisposed?” he finished for her. She nodded miserably. “And that bothers you?” She nodded again. He smiled wistfully. He’d never been that finicky about lovemaking, especially if he had a sheath to wear. He reminded himself harshly, however, that since he’d been such a clodhopper the first time, he wanted the second time to be especially tender and romantic. “I understand. Will you let me hold you through the night, then?” She swallowed. “Y-you mean here?” “Actually . . .” He nuzzled the corner of her mouth. “I was thinking about taking the wagon to a hilltop I know, where we can watch the constellations spin across the sky.” Bailey’s skin flushed fever hot at the very suggestion. Her body and heart were at war with her head, because there was nothing in this world — in this universe, truthfully — that she wanted more than to watch the sun rise in Zack’s arms. But wasn’t there an inherent danger in that kind of surrender? If she yielded to her longing to be loved, to be touched, wouldn’t she lose her personal freedom? Her independence? She struggled to sort her raging cyclone of feelings. What was the matter with her? Zack had said he loved her. Hadn’t she been living for this moment? She should be blissfully happy that the man of her dreams needed and wanted her, that he’d pledged to repair their relationship and was willing to start anew. Instead, she was . . . afraid. The realization staggered her, rocking her whole world. Having Zack, having his love, simply weren’t enough. She needed to know she could control her own destiny — as her father had. As Zack did. She wanted to be loved as a partner, not as a possession. 286

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“All right, Zack,” she conceded, her heart bullying her into compliance. “I’ll go stargazing with you.” He looked so radiantly happy, she had to bite her lip to keep from promising him the moon too. She busied herself with her boots and shawl. Avoiding his eyes, she then rose. Her hardheaded side had decided, at least for then, to hold out against his marriage proposal. Things were moving too quickly for her peace of mind. She wasn’t yet convinced of anything he’d told her. For all she knew, he’d confused love with passion. In her experience, passion meant arguing, sex, and more arguing. It was a battle of wills, a struggle for control, kind of like the one she and Zack had waged only half an hour earlier over his cattleman-sheep rancher treaty. Her parents had lived in constant conflict, and she’d grown up with too many scars to want to repeat their mistakes. If Zachariah Rawlins truly loved her, if he wanted to be her man, then he would have to learn to treat her as an equal, not as a candy confection. He would have to accept that she wasn’t helpless, value her opinions and her looks, and respect her right to run her own business. He would have to let her be the woman she wanted to be, boots, spurs, and all. She drew a ragged breath. She wasn’t demanding too much from him, was she? After all, she was only asking to be treated the way he’d always wanted her to treat him. As they walked arm in arm toward the wagons, she glanced hopefully at the handsome man who was smiling down at her. Dear God, I want this second chance so much. Please help us find a way to make it work. I’ll do my part if he does his. Amen.

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Twenty The rest of that evening. Bailey’s prayers seemed to be answered. Zack did his best to be a tender companion and thoughtful partner. While they cuddled under the stars, she got up her nerve to ask again about the cattleman-sheep rancher treaty and confessed how deeply her exclusion had hurt her. When she finally gave him the chance to defend himself, his patient explanation made her feel like a first-class heel, and she apologized profusely for doubting his intentions. The peace between them was so profound, she was able to doze the rest of that night in his arms. With the amber flare of dawn behind them, Zack drove the wagon back to her spread. He helped her down to her front yard, and an awkward moment of silence passed between them. He avoided her eyes with a trace of his old shyness, dragging the reins through his fingers again and again. “I’ll have to return Wes’s wagon, of course, but . . . I was wondering if you wanted me to come back here this afternoon. I could, uh, help you find a new foreman.” She winced. She’d been so consumed with grief over Mac and the baby, and her fears about sacrificing her independence to marry Zack that — ironically — she hadn’t given much thought to her business and all the troubles she would have it if didn’t rain, and soon. In fact, she was beginning to regret she’d ever staked that prize for One Toe’s hide. Five hundred dollars would have gone a long way toward drilling a few more wells before autumn brought relief from the heat and, hopefully, the rain. 288

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“I know this is childish and terribly shortsighted,” she admitted after a moment, “but I’m having a hard time accepting the idea that I have to replace Mac.” “It’s not childish, Bailey. He lived here all your life. I understand.” “You do?” He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “It’s too soon to think about replacements, that’s all.” She sighed, staring forlornly at her bare toes. Mac had been gone for only two days, but already it felt like forever. The Rio Grande was a good week of hard riding away. He might as well have moved back to Scotland, because to take a full two weeks away from her responsibilities to ride south and back again, and a minimum of another week just to spend time visiting with him, would be an impossibility for at least six months. Maybe longer. Assuming the drought didn’t force her to sell half her livestock before September, the goats’ fall shearing loomed on the horizon. Also ahead lay the spring lambing and kidding and another shearing in the spring for both the goats and the sheep, not to mention the search for a new foreman and the work of breaking him in. And, of course, she couldn’t forget her vow to bag One Toe, since he was still lurking out there somewhere, only a boundary line away. Her shoulders slumped. “Would you like me to stay and help with the ranch until you’ve made up your mind about a foreman . . . and us?” She tensed, Zack’s reference to marriage catching her off guard. He hadn’t mentioned it again after their initial blow-up. Now she realized a cowardly part of her had hoped to avoid the subject indefinitely. Her chest ached as she thought of herself alone day after day, with only Jerky and the dogs for company, while she waited for Zack to pay his next weekend call as her suitor. Wouldn’t they be more likely to work out their troubles together than apart? Thinking they might very well be laying the foundation for their future, she gathered her courage and opted for a trial by fire. “Yes. Please stay.” The joy in his smile made her giddy heart trip. “But what about your fall roundup?” she added hastily, worried that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be strong enough to stick to her guns if he continued distracting her with his heart-melting smiles. 289

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“I have two brothers who can oversee my ranch hands while they mark, brand, and alter my calves,” he said. “Cord and Wes owe me a vacation after the hundred or more times I’ve toed the line during their domestic, er, diversions. Besides,” he continued, his husky timbre sprinkling shivers down her spine, “those migrant Mexican shearers are due through here in the next two weeks, aren’t they? I want to learn how to clip mohair — er, if you think that’s a good idea,” he tacked on, as if to convey he knew he might have just swallowed his foot. She clasped her hands and curled her toes, so pleased by his concession she wanted to burst. However, she still had reservations about his new, agreeable behavior, and she didn’t want him to know how easily it could wrap her around his finger. “If you’re certain your own spread can do without you,” she said in her gruffest business tone, “I sure wouldn’t mind the help.” His dimples flashed as he smiled. “Fair enough. I’ll, uh, just put my bedroll back in the barn, then.” His hopeful gaze touched hers, and she felt her neck heat. “Uh, there’s no sense in your sleeping on the ground when there’s a perfectly good cot in Mac’s shack.” His breath released in a slow whisper of disappointment. He pasted another smile on his face. “Thanks.” Despite every scolding she gave herself to the contrary, she felt like a fool for the rest of the day. Having Zack as her daily work companion while she tried to decide whether she wanted to surrender again as his lover created a delicious dilemma in Bailey’s life. She learned he liked to laugh a whole lot more than she’d ever imagined, and that he had a playful, creative side beneath his crusty exterior. She’d always been one to put business before pleasure, and yet without a chaperone, it became increasingly difficult to resist temptation. She had a hard time keeping her mind on her chores whenever he bent at the waist, presenting her a pulse-stirring view of his backside, or squatted, offering an equally tantalizing view of spreading thighs and the treasure between them. While she stubbornly tried sleeping alone each night in the yawning emptiness of her bed, she often heard Zack’s harmonica playing a soft lullaby beneath her open window. Sometimes, Pokey would 290

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scratch and whine at her door with a gift attached in carrier-pigeon fashion to his collar. Once, it was an intricately carved figurine of Boo that looked so lifelike, she cried. Another night, Zack’s gift was a small jar of honey, with a piece of the comb still dripping inside it. The accompanying message read “Sweet dreams.” By the end of that first week. Bailey was yielding to Zack’s deliciously persuasive seductions. Not only was he sharing her bed at night, he was enticing her into a new, midday tradition. In honor of her pastores, he solemnly dubbed it their siesta. She tried not to think what Mac or her daddy would have said if they’d seen her afternoon chores go unfinished while she let Zack chase her, laughing and screaming, around the barnyard. On the rare occasions when she wouldn’t let him catch her, he’d retaliate by disappearing, refusing to answer any of her calls. She’d spend an exhilarating hour or so, her heart speeding in anticipation to realize that her mate was lying somewhere in wait for her, biding his time until she wandered unwittingly into his love trap. Looking back on those sizzling summer romps, she couldn’t remember a happier time in her life, even during a wet season. She started relenting little things, like Zack’s suggestion that Pris and Pokey sleep in the hall when they made love, and his request that she wear her hair loosely tied, not in a knot. She thought to please him was the least she could do, since he tried so hard not to be overbearing when it came to running her ranch. Nevertheless, some dim, nameless fear stalked her through her dreams. She kept seeing herself in a struggle, trying to reach her heart’s desire — a handsome, dark-eyed man with endearing dimples — and yet she always seemed to be bound to a bedpost by some invisible rope or shackle. She didn’t know what the vision meant, but it disturbed her enough to lose sleep. The countywide thirst for water was reaching alarming proportions. Ranchers and farmers were willing to do just about anything for water. To Zack’s irritation, their attention turned to Hank Rotterdam’s desperate, last-minute bid to win votes before the October first board election. Not only were most of the cattlemen listening to his cannon idea, the sheepherders and sodbusters were too. 291

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A few more levelheaded souls, like Rob Cole, Judge Larabee, and Zack’s brothers, publicly argued against a full-scale revolt from Zack’s treaty. They pointed out that even if Rotterdam’s artillery bombardments did produce better results than the prayer vigils and rain dances, neighborly cooperation among sheepherders and cattlemen was vital to ensure a lasting peace throughout Bandera County. They were talking pretty much to themselves though. Doing his level best to push his campaign concerns from his mind, Zack reminded himself he had bigger problems closer to home. The drought was putting Bailey on edge, and she worried incessantly about her ability to water her livestock. The relentless business pressures were putting a tremendous strain on her patience, which made peaceful living a challenge, to say the least. To watch her agonize over concerns that most women never contemplated made him feel helpless, even useless. He wanted so badly to make things right for her, and he couldn’t. The best he could do was try to shield her from some of the frustration and the pain. That’s why he decided not to tell her about One Toe’s raid. Squatting beside the migrant Mexican shearer who had discovered the cat’s half-eaten cabrito feast, Zack gazed narrowly at the telltale paw prints and the four butchered doe goats the cougar had slaughtered for spite. One Toe had been clever enough to raid a pen too far from the house to risk gunfire, yet close enough to the yearling ewes’ pen to give their guard dogs conniption fits. Now Zack understood why his dreams had been haunted by howling hounds. He muttered an oath, half in anger, half in guilt. Bailey, being the wildcat that she was, had worn him out the night before in the best way a man could possibly get tired, and he’d slept like a log, oblivious of the cougar attack. Then again, who would have thought One Toe would dare to come down into the canyon, where Bailey kept her breeders, her kids, and her lambs? The cat had whole pastures worth of adult livestock up in the mesquite and the shin oak to stalk. Zack felt like a complete failure. He was supposed to be protecting Bailey and her livestock, for God’s sake, not relying on the canyon walls to do it. “Not a word of this to the señorita, Pancho,” he told the head shearer, who had accompanied him to the pens to view stock. 292

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“Sí, señor.” The Mexican’s eyes were disapproving above his drooping mustachio. “But she will miss these four, no?” Zack ground his teeth. He hoped not. He rarely realized when a couple of cows were missing from a roundup until the final count was in. Bailey’s final doe count wouldn’t occur until the following evening. By that time, he hoped to have the carnage removed. Then when he told her the bad news, she wouldn’t run out and aggravate herself by looking at it. He blew out his breath. He just hoped those does weren’t some of the ones Bailey had named like pets. “The señorita has too much on her mind right now, Pancho, to frighten her with worries of cougars. Do you understand?” The man shrugged, raising his sombrero to adjust the bandanna he wore over his head. Zack suspected Pancho thought he was a cabritohating gringo, and Pancho’s loyalty was to Bailey. As his own should be, Zack reminded himself. Still, it was hard to get used to the idea that he was less than a ranch boss and more than a foreman. Just what the hell was his role on this spread? Bailey hadn’t said she would marry him, and he’d asked for her answer three weeks ago. Maybe it was time to discuss matrimony again. That night, while the shearers furtively removed the goat carcasses, Zack sat over a half-eaten plate of cabrito and fidgeted while Bailey heaped praises on him. “You sure showed that old billy goat who was boss,” she crowed, her eyes shining with a glow that transcended the light cast by the dining room’s oil lamps. “Poor Wildhorn never knew what hit him. Mac’s the only man who could ever get a rope around that devil. The shearers refused to try after the first couple of seasons, ’cause Wildhorn flat out gored two of them. In rather delicate places too.” She shuddered. Then she smirked. “I think Pancho looks at you as a kind of hero now. Not a bad day’s work, compadre, considering how much Pancho dislikes gringo cowboys.” Avoiding her gaze, Zack pushed his plate away. “I did only what comes natural.” “You’re too modest by far.” She chuckled, a rare and sweet sound these days. “I’ve never seen a greenhorn catch on to clipping quite as fast as you did. Shoot, by week’s end, you’ll be bagging almost as 293

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much mohair as I do. And you know I can’t let that happen. Reckon I’ll just have to stay on my toes.” He couldn’t help but smile at her teasing. “Reckon you will,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. She grinned, curling her fingers through his and cupping her chin in her palm. “Did you see poor Pancho when Hank’s cannon went off this afternoon? He jumped so hard, he nearly put his shoulders through the top of his sombrero. That must’ve been one helluva way to wake up from a siesta.” Zack nodded distractedly. He was thinking the artillery blasts were worse than thunder. Wes and Cord, Rob Cole, and a couple of farmers to the east of Rotterdam’s spread were petitioning Judge Larabee to make Hank move Old Reb to an unpopulated part of the county. The noise was stampeding their livestock. After ten days of earthquaking blasts, not a single raindrop had fallen, and the novelty was wearing thin. “Speaking of siestas,” Bailey purred, rising and trying to tug him to his feet, “I think we’re due for one.” He gazed into her sun-bronzed face, with its tawny eyebrows and catlike smile, and her feral beauty called to him in a deeply primitive way. He felt the answer surge through him, a current of hunger that coiled in his belly and radiated heat to his loins. He liked when she was the aggressor. He liked it a lot. All shearing successes aside though, he wasn’t feeling particularly good about himself and his failure to protect her. “Bailey, sweetheart, we need to talk.” She flashed him a positively wicked grin and caught his other hand. “It can wait,” she drawled, succeeding in pulling him from his chair. “It’s time I showed you just how proud I am of you.” “Uh, that’s probably not a good idea, what with the shearers outside and — ” “Forget them.” She rubbed herself against his hips and weaved a hand through his hair. Tugging his head down for her kiss, she whispered, “I want you.” Her husky words shivered through him. His feelings of failure began to subside when he touched her lips with his own and tasted her eager response. It was easy to get lost in her desire, in the need it fanned in him. It was easy to forget the inappropriateness of reaching 294

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down to grasp her buttocks, lifting her hips higher while Jerky fed the dogs in the kitchen. Zack felt the rush of her pulse, the thunder of his own. Confidence surged through him when she plunged her tongue into his mouth. Pushing her shoulders into the wall, he relished the way she squirmed to get closer. He’d never needed to teach Bailey much; she’d always surrendered to her instincts. And what her instincts led her to do invariably drove him wild. She hiked herself up, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he groaned when she pulled him between her thighs, moving with an urgency that made him curse the restraint of clothes. He kneaded her buttocks in time to her rhythm, and her breathing grew more shallow. “Take me here,” she whispered, “on the table.” His eyes slitted, and his brain spun with the temptation. “Can’t do that.” He heaved himself away from the wall, carrying her with him to the stairs, and her laughter was a throaty rumble in his ear. “You know you’d like it.” “There are five migrant Mexicans camping outside who could peek in the window and carry tales.” “Not to mention what Jerky would say.” Her teeth fastened on his ear. “Aw, you didn’t get shy on me again, did you, honey?” She was goading him, the little hellcat. He chuckled, tingling to the roots of his hair as her hot breath blew inside his ear. “One of these days I just might take you up on that table thing.” “Promises, promises.” He kicked the door closed and toppled with her onto the bed. She squealed, trying to roll away and claim the upper berth, but he was faster, pinning her with his weight. “Hey! No fair. I started this, Zachariah Rawlins — ” He fastened his mouth over hers, sliding a hand between them and wrestling with her jeans. “And I’m going to finish it,” he said, finding her pulsing center, feeling it hot and wet and welcoming as it wrapped around his finger. She arched and shuddered, and he plunged again. “Zack,” she gasped, writhing as if torn between the pleasure he would give her and her determination to be the conqueror. He knew she’d just torment him if he gave her the upper hand. They’d played this game before. 295

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“I want — ” “Hmm?” he taunted, stroking the places he knew she liked best. She sighed, then she whimpered, her fingers clawing his shoulders. He revelled in the yowls and growls she made when he unleashed her femaleness. He loved when she tossed her head and pitched beneath him, consumed by her own need, taking him to heights he’d never dreamed of. “I want . . . to do . . . the loving,” she panted, licking her lips, the gleam in her eye promising a retribution worth dying for. He reached rather feverishly for his own jeans. “Why?” he whispered. “Don’t I make you feel good?” “Yes, but — ” He slipped his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his finger. “Don’t you like when I love you so you don’t have to think about business? So all you have to do is be my woman?” A gunshot cut off her answer. A second report bounced off the canyon walls and shook the windows. Their bodies tensed as they listened, straining with every nerve and fiber. “What was that?” she asked, her breath mingling with his. “I don’t know.” Their eyes locked, and the worry he saw in hers made him curse himself all over again for failing to protect what was hers. Easing from her, he slapped his buckle back into place, and threw open the door, running for his rifle. Within heartbeats, he heard her footfalls behind him on the stairs. The shearers were all up and armed. Beneath the slice of the harvest moon, their stubbled faces were taut, either with unease or frustration, as they peered at the ghostly fleeced shadows in the livestock pens. The guard dogs were barking furiously. “Pancho,” Zack called, sliding to a halt beside the burly Mexican. “What the hell’s going on?” “El diablo, señor,” the shearer said grimly. “He had a taste for more cabrito but dined instead on carnero.” “What?” Somewhat disheveled but properly buttoned, Bailey caught up with Zack and shook his arm. “What did he say?” Zack turned away, too guilty to face her for the moment. Jerky, carrying a lantern, and Pris were emerging from the rams’ pen. Pokey was snuffling and growling in their wake. 296

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“Two yearlings dead.” Grunting, Jerky halted and reached unceremoniously for Zack’s rifle. “Gimme yer gun. Gotta shoot Grumbles.” “What?” Bailey wedged herself between Jerky and the Winchester. “Why?” “Damned cougar ripped his guts out.” Her face turned ashen. She pivoted as if to run for the gate, but Zack grabbed her arm. “Hold on, Bailey. You don’t need to see that.” “Don’t tell me what I need!” she fired back, and twisted free. Pokey and Pris bounded after her. Zack muttered an oath, giving chase. The ram was in bad shape all right. Wheezing, he lay apart from the younger males, all of whom had packed into a huddle as far from their fallen comrades as they could get. They were eerily quiet, unlike the goats and the dogs, and the cattle that would have been mooing and milling in terror on Zack’s ranch. He remembered something Mac had told him: “When the flock falls silent, ye know there’s trouble, lad. Sheep willna bleat when they’re scared. They stand like stones, hoping the predator willna notice them.” “Grumbles,” Bailey murmured, dropping to her knees and placing a hand on her beloved stud’s horn. “Jerky, bring me the lantern!” “Aw, hell,” the old man groused, stalking through the gate. “A thousand dollars or not, I told you he ain’t worth savin’.” Zack’s jaw hardened with his shame. In the stark light of the lamp, he could see that Jerky’s prognosis was grimly accurate. But the lamp bared other truths too. Cougar paws had tracked through the blood. “One Toe, you bastard,” Bailey choked out. She glanced up at Pancho, who’d followed Jerky into the pen. “Did you shoot him?” “I do not think so, señorita. My men, we were, uh . . .” His gaze darted uncomfortably toward Zack. “We were busy when el diablo struck.” “Busy? Busy doing what?” The Mexican fidgeted under her piercing stare. Zack sighed, sparing the man a lie. “They were removing four doe carcasses at my command,” he said quietly. “One Toe struck the goat pens last night.” 297

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Bailey’s breath whistled through her teeth. To her credit, she didn’t explode with the outrage that darkened her face. “Jerky, put the ram out of its misery, please. Zack, I’d like a private word with you.” He nodded tersely, handing over his weapon as Bailey marched stiff-backed and tight-lipped out of the enclosure. When the report ricocheted off the canyon walls, her stride faltered, but she continued onward to the house without looking back. Silent, seething, she held open the door to the porch and gestured him inside. He cooperated, moving past her with a worried glance into her face. He was relieved to see anger, not tears. He faced her in the sitting room. “I know what you’re going to say — ” “Do you?” she bit out, crossing to the one dimly burning lamp on the wall and turning up its wick. Her features leapt into harsh relief, as if they’d been hammered out of bronze. “Actually, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you know me well enough to guess.” “All right.” He perched on the arm of the settee. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding so fast. It wasn’t as if she could fire him. “I won’t read your mind. Tell me.” “I want you to get busy tracking One Toe tomorrow. I’ll oversee the shearing.” His breath released in a rush. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. “That’s all?” “That’s all.” He eyed her narrowly. He’d gotten off too easily. “Then what?” “Shoot him, of course. I’ll have my hands full here. Think you can manage that?” “I reckon so,” he said cautiously. “Good. Then, good night.” She started walking to the hallway. He blocked her way. “Wait a minute. I know you’re spitting mad. I feel responsible for what happened. I tried to tell you earlier tonight about One Toe, but you didn’t want to listen.” She stopped dead in her tracks and gave him a look that had the force of an iron fist. “You see, you don’t know me.” One corner of her mouth curled faintly. “I’m not blaming you for the cougar’s return, Zack. That 298

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would be foolish. But keeping the report of the predation from me, that was inexcusable. You deliberately undermined my leadership in the eyes of those shearers.” “No, Bailey, I was trying to protect you — ” “Don’t give me that crap,” she flared, her metallic facade finally cracking. “That wasn’t protection, that was out-and-out sedition. To say I’m spitting mad wouldn’t do my feelings justice. You showed a complete lack of faith in my ability to make decisions and a thorough disregard for me as a partner. Your behavior proved you consider me inferior because I happen to be female. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Zack. Female or not, I’m no man’s lackey. And if you don’t like the idea of me being your equal in bed, in business, and in every other conceivable place, then you might as well pack your bags and get the hell off my range!” He stiffened. Her words cut. Cut deeply. What did their bed have to do with any of this? All he’d ever tried to do with his silence was keep her from the pain he knew she would feel if she saw her prized animals had been butchered. “I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “That was never my intent.” “Perhaps not. And yet you continue to try to control the running of this ranch, no matter how many times I prove myself capable of handling my own affairs. Is that what it comes down to, Zack? Can you simply not bear for your woman, your wife, to have her independence? Tell me once and for all, please! Break my heart now, for God’s sake, because I can’t keep holding on, waiting for you to see me as an asset instead of a lifelong burden.” He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and he folded his arms across his chest. His heart ached so much, he thought it might break up and crumble into the churning acid of his gut. How could she possibly think she was a burden to him when she never let him get close enough to do a damned thing for her? “Bailey, you’re not a burden. If you were, I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my days as your husband.” He tore his gaze away from hers and stared miserably over her shoulder. “And I’m not trying to take over your business. It’s just that I don’t know how to be with you. You say you love me, but there doesn’t seem to be a place for me here.” “What do you mean?” 299

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“I don’t . . . I mean, you never . . .” He blew out his breath and ran a rough hand through his hair. Finally, he shrugged. “You don’t ever seem to need me,” he said in a low, hollow voice. She sighed, and a long while passed. He could hear the clock in the hall ticking away his confidence as he waited, endlessly, for her answer. Finally, he heard the floorboards creak as she shifted, continuing to stand her ground a foot or more away. “Zack, of course I need you.” Her tone was quieter now, a delicate balance between exasperated and beseeching. “I need your support, your advice, your comfort when I’m upset. What I don’t need is a struggle for control. We’re two headstrong people. You keep saying you don’t want to argue, and yet everything you say and do directly challenges everything I try to be. Don’t you understand? I want a man to stand beside me, not on top of me.” He stole a glance at her. She looked calmer, less tense. He was glad to see that, but he wasn’t sure he understood what she was objecting to. If anyone did the challenging in this relationship, that person was Bailey, and he felt well within his rights to point that out. Still, he did have a modicum of sensitivity. He figured now was not the time to ask her to explain herself. She’d probably consider his question another attack on her independence, and all he wanted to do was make peace. He stepped forward, bridging the distance they’d somehow created. He sensed rather than saw her quiver, like some wild thing poised for flight, so he reached a hand to cup her cheek. Her pulse skittered as he lowered his head. “Zack — ” When she turned her face away, he raised his other hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek, gentling her for his kiss. He was stunned when she tasted like fresh tears. “Stop it!” She threw her arms out, knocking his away. “Bailey — ” “No!” She backed away from him like a caged animal, her chest heaving, her breathing shallow. “I won’t let you trick me like that anymore!” He gaped, dumbfounded. Now what was the woman prattling about? 300

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“Trick you? How am I tricking you?” “Y-you seduce me, and then you use sex to control me.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake — ” “That’s exactly what you do. Don’t deny it! You did it in the line shack, you tried it at the hoedown, and now you’re doing it again!” “Bailey, what I’m trying to do is show you I love you. I want to make peace with you, for God’s sake.” “Well, if you loved me, you’d find some other way to make peace. Sex doesn’t make our problems go away, it makes them worse. Just because you’re feeling all satisfied after we make love doesn’t mean I’m as happy as a lark!” He dropped his fists to his hips. Now he was getting angry. “See here, Bailey. I’ve never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to do.” “I’m not saying you did!” “Then just what the hell are you saying?” She made an exasperated sound. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?” “Yes, I’ve listened. And frankly, I’m tired of listening. When are you going to take a little portion of the blame?” “Me?” “That’s right. I figure the problem isn’t me trying to control you. I figure the real problem is you’re too damned scared to let yourself enjoy being a woman.” “That’s not true!” “Yeah?” He snorted. “How many times have you avoided feminine things? Jewelry, dresses, dancing, courting? You’re scared to hold babies, and you’d rather starve than cook. Even in bed you argue instead of surrendering to the pleasure I’m trying to give you.” Her chin trembled. “That’s not fair. I — I’m trying to pleasure you too.” “Well, that may be. But the fact of the matter is, Bailey, you’re afraid of becoming what you already are. Like it or not, you’re a woman, and you have a woman’s body. So stop punishing me for accepting the truth you would rather deny.” Bailey choked, her vision blurring. His words had struck a chord, a resonant chord, deep within her. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to feel it. 301

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“You’re wrong! You don’t know what I fear,” she flung back. “And what’s worse, you don’t really care! Because if you did, you’d stop trying to force me into being your idea of a woman.” Blinking back tears, she bolted past him. “Bailey — ” She reached the stairs and ran for her room, slamming the door closed behind her. Panting on the threshold, she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. It was then that she realized, to her supreme mortification, that she’d just become her mother. A creak on the stairs jolted her back to her surroundings. She quailed to hear his steady, purposeful footfalls ringing closer in the hall. She dived for the key and turned it in the lock. “Bailey.” His voice was quiet, laced with a thread of iron. It wasn’t her father’s voice, charged with rage and acrimony. The realization only made her more heartsick, more miserable. She covered her mouth and choked back a sob. Why was this happening to her and Zack? They loved each other, didn’t they? “Bailey,” he said again. “I don’t like when you lock doors on me.” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Then will you open up, please?” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed, struggling for the courage to speak. “I — I can’t. I want to think about what you said.” He was silent for a moment on the other side of the door. “Bailey, I love you.” “I love you too,” she said hoarsely. “Then let me in. Not just into the room, sweetheart. Let me into your life.” Tears burned twin trails down her cheeks. She trembled, her fingers twitching over the key as she ached to obey his husky, persuasive plea. The female side of her wanted nothing more than to throw back the door and launch herself into his arms. But her male side knew what would happen next. She’d swallow her resentments. She’d knuckle under, and they’d make love. In the morning, Zack would blissfully go about his day, thinking she was content and he was pardoned. Meanwhile, not a single damned thing would be solved. 302

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This pattern had to end. Either Zack accepted her on her own terms, or she sent him packing for good. Please, God, make him understand. I do need him. It’s just not the way he’s used to being needed. “Zack,” she ventured to say, struggling to keep the anxiety from her tone, “I can’t do what you ask. And I can’t accept your marriage proposal until this issue is resolved. Please, try to understand. . . .” The leather of his boots creaked. She caught her breath, her gaze riveted in morbid fascination on the doorknob. It never turned. Instead, she heard the floorboards groan as he walked wordlessly down the hall. The banging of the front door filled her with a sick sense of dread. Anxious, she ran to the window, peering past the curtains. She saw his silhouette striding across the yard. Jerky caught up with him, several short words were exchanged, then Zack took his Winchester into the barn. Boss emerged minutes later, a bedroll and two saddlebags bulging behind his master’s ramrod-straight spine. When Zack rode into the moonlight, he didn’t look back.

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Twenty-One Bailey dozed on and off through the night, sleeping little in the rocker by her open window. She kept hoping she’d hear Boss’s hooves crunch on the drive or the ka-chink of Zack’s spurs on the porch as he came home. As the sun rose, stretching its amber fingers above the horizon, she was waked instead by the sleepy calls of the shearers and the rattle of their pans as they cooked breakfast. Sighing heavily, she threw the blanket off her lap. Only then did she realize she’d fallen asleep with her doll in her arms. Oh, Zack. Biting her lip to stave off the tears she’d sworn she wouldn’t give in to again, she gazed down at the sweetly painted smile and the bright blue eyes beneath the golden ringlets. The doll was like a part of her she’d never known, the little girl who’d tried so hard to please Daddy and Mama, and in the end had sacrificed a piece of herself. Was it true, as Zack had claimed, that she was afraid of being what God had intended her to be? Perhaps it was. But no one had ever valued her as a female. At least, no one had until she’d found Zack. When she was in his arms, she didn’t feel like a misfit in her own body. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, accepted, and safe. The sensations were so new, she still wasn’t sure she could trust them, yet his love was helping her come to terms with herself and her life’s choices. She wished she could tell him that. She wished she could explain to him he was teaching her how to be different — no, to be whole. Becoming complete was scary, scarier than anything she’d ever faced in her life. So many things could still go wrong with the process. Zack might not like the final product. 304

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Maybe that was what she should have told him last night. She wondered, if the words had occurred to her then, would they have been enough to make him stay? Standing awkwardly before her armoire, she finally selected her daddy’s faded workshirt, the one she liked to wear whenever she felt too alone, and pulled it over her head. Its denim tail flapped against the back of her knees, and its sleeves dangled well below her fingertips. She took some consolation from the usual routine: rolling up the cuffs, fastening each button. She was just about to close the armoire doors, when the shimmer of sapphire caught her eye. Her first dancing dress. She smiled ruefully, fingering its satin folds. The rigging she’d worn when Zack proposed. On impulse, she tugged free the matching hair ribbon she’d used to weave the lace closed. Instead of her usual leather thong, she used the ribbon to bind her hair in the style she knew Zack would love. If he came home. The morning crawled by. Vasquez arrived to escort four of the shearers out of the canyon to the nearest line shack, where the other pastores had gathered the small flocks of adult goats they tended in addition to their sheep. Pancho stayed behind with Bailey and Jerky to finish clipping the yearlings. As casually as she could, she asked her cook if he knew when Zack would return. The old man grunted, scratching his grizzled chin with his shears. “Don’t know. Didn’t say.” He shaded his eyes and scowled up at the flickering thundercloud heading toward the canyon. “Storm brewing. Wouldn’t want to be caught in it.” “I hope you’re right. Jerky.” And I hope Zack feels the same way. She sighed. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if that thundercloud’s as dry as all the rest. It’s probably carrying nothing more than heat lightning.” He fixed her with a portentous eye. “That ain’t nuthin’ to sneeze at.” “Yeah, well, a wildfire isn’t what any of us ranchers need, that’s for sure.” By high noon, sunbeams were punching holes through great purple clouds that flickered and rumbled, chugging relentlessly closer on the wind. Pancho took one look at the lowering eastern sky and announced it was siesta time. Jerky spanked his last buck into its pen 305

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and hung up his shears to start dinner for the men. Pris and Pokey raced ahead of him to the kitchen. Bailey was left idle. She supposed she could continue shearing, but the idea didn’t appeal to her much while she was by herself. Besides, she spent enough time alone. Clipping was backbreaking, tedious work; without the camaraderie of the men, it was almost torture. She decided to saddle Sassy and ride up to the line shack to see what progress was being made there. Of course, her real motivation, she admitted to herself, was to ask Vasquez and the rest if they’d seen or heard from Zack. When she turned Sassy up the trail, she heard barking behind her. Twisting in the saddle, she spied Pokey galloping around the corner of the house, fleeing the kitchen, minus whatever food he’d been trying to steal from Jerky. She shook her head when the rascal caught up with her mare. “Pokey dog, you’re too big for me to carry and too stubby-legged to keep up with a pony. Go home.” The puppy pricked his ears, his tail wagging and his eyes bright with anticipation. Clearly, he was ready for adventure. “Home,” she repeated more sternly. He woofed in agreement and kept right on trotting at Sassy’s heels. Disgruntled, Bailey faced forward again. Insubordinate, flop-eared little cuss. The least Zack could have done was teach him the meaning of “home” before riding off and saddling her with the mongrel. “Pokey, do you know any words yet? Besides dinner, I mean.” He grinned up at her, smacking his nose with his tongue. “Yeah, well, I think you’re a whole lot smarter than you let on. Do you know where Zack is? Go find Zack.” Pokey lowered his snout, and Bailey slowed Sassy so the hound could surge ahead. If nothing else, she reminded herself, she could start Pokey on those hunting lessons he needed so badly. Cute wore off pretty fast in her eyes if a dog didn’t work for its supper. They cleared the rise with Pokey snuffling ahead. She watched his bobbing tail idly, wondering what scent he was really tracking as he led her northwest, in the general direction of the line shack. A grasshopper sprang up, and Pokey quailed, jumping about two feet himself. He charged eastward after the elusive bug, belly-flopping over the knee-high daisies and growling, ferocious threats. A smile 306

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quirked the corner of Bailey’s mouth. “Silly cowpoke’s dog. Pokey! Come.” She whistled, and he swung his head around, finally realizing she was leaving him behind. He bounded after Sassy. As they continued northwest, angling away from the storm, Bailey scanned the clouds to the east with an uneasy eye. She wasn’t particularly worried about a downpour overtaking her, but she was starting to wonder if she would have been wiser to wait out the racing thunderheads. The sky sizzled and crackled over Hank’s spread, eerily lavender where the lightning jabbed and ominously violet where plump shadows scuttled. There was a deadly beauty in the electrical show, one that made the flesh on Bailey’s neck prickle. She began to welcome the pugnacious booming of the cannon, even though the noise had probably helped to drive One Toe onto her spread. As long as Hank’s rain maker was firing, she knew she wasn’t the only fool outside in this weather. Deciding the shack was closer than the canyon at this point, Bailey encouraged Pokey with calls and whistles to keep up as she turned Sassy toward what was now a dry creek, thanks to the drought. The thought of her pastores and the shearers struggling to keep three hundred goats under control lent her patience each time Pokey’s curiosity got the better of him and he charged off after some invisible prey. At least in the ravine, growths of shin oak, scrub mesquite, and juniper would shelter her. She could ride beside the creek bed most of the way to the shack, and if the heat lightning did outrun her, she’d be relatively safe. She just hoped Zack was safe. Her throat constricted as she recalled how he’d ridden off without so much as a backward glance. Since he’d packed his saddlebags and bedroll, she figured he’d intended either one of two things: to avenge her thousand-dollar loss, as she’d asked, or to leave her and the ranch for good. She would have liked to think he was hunting One Toe, that he wasn’t so bullheaded that he’d call an end to their affair just because she’d stood her ground, demanding the freedom and respect that were her due. After all, she wasn’t asking any more of him than he would have asked of her. No man wanted a master. Why, then, would a man presume a woman wanted one? 307

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She sighed as Pokey charged ahead, scrambling so recklessly over the loose rocks that he started skidding on his haunches down the creek bank. “Pokey, heel.” She might as well have shouted an order at the clouds. A particularly loud boom rattled the earth. Sassy snorted, her ears swiveling forward, and pranced skittishly. For some reason, she refused to descend the slope to the creek bed. Bailey struggled with her recalcitrant mare as Pokey dashed off on another wildgoose chase. After struggling across the sucking mud — which was all that was left of one of Bailey’s finer watering holes — he halted abruptly on the other side and started sniffing in circles around the trunk of a shin oak. Suddenly he loosed an adolescent baying and headed straight up the other slope toward a dense growth of scrub. This time, he wasn’t so lucky. He lost his footing on the limestone gravel and started yiking, tumbling end over end in the midst of a tiny avalanche. Landing with a whimper and a thud, he thrashed around, his panic growing more pronounced when he couldn’t heave himself out of the pile of rocks and mud that had buried him up to his shoulders. Bailey rolled her eyes to the heavens. “Stupid cowpoke’s dog.” Dismounting, she tethered Sassy, gave her nervous mare a pat, and picked her way across some strategically placed stones to get to Pokey’s potential grave. “You know, Pokey, if I were Zack, I would have given you away too.” Big, anxious eyes rolled toward the sound of her voice, and the puppy cried, struggling even more frantically than before. “All right, all right, shh.” She squatted, grabbing the fur at the nape of his neck with one hand and pushing away stones with the other. Within moments, he popped free. He whined, trying to lick her face. When that failed, he planted his paws and shook off a spray of sludge. Bailey coughed, wiping splotches of mud from her cheek. “Thanks a lot, Pokey.” He twisted artfully, trying to free himself. “Oh, no, you don’t. This time, you’re coming with me.” 308

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She hauled him up onto her rock, goopy paws and all, and yanked off her bandanna, thinking to rub off the worst of the mud before she carried him back to Sassy. That’s when she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. Every nerve in her body jolted in warning, and she froze instinctively, her senses straining to pinpoint the cause of her unease. Pokey bristled, his lips curling back from his baby fangs. Bailey swallowed and stared in the direction of his twitching nose. A large male cougar was stalking them. A dried patch of blood stained the cat’s shoulder. The wound, little more than a powder burn, looked fresh enough to have been inflicted the night before. One Toe. Great God in heaven. Pokey began barking like a mad wolf, and One Toe loosed an answering growl. Judging by the tracks he’d made so silently in the mud, he’d come down the creek bank from the growth of scrub Pokey had been flushing. No doubt the cat had been dozing away the heat of the day, as was the cougar custom, until the puppy had blundered along to sacrifice itself as a snack. Bailey’s gut clenched. One glance at her horse, rearing and thrashing against her tether about fifty yards away, told her there was no way she’d be able to race back across the muddy creek bottom and grab her rifle from its saddle boot before the cat ran her down. She was vulnerable. All but defenseless. Her worst fears had risen from their grave. She reached a shaking hand for her Peacemaker. With its range limited to fifty paces, the Colt didn’t leave much room for error when a cougar was making a forty-foot leap for one’s throat. The Winchester would have been the better choice, since it was accurate up to two hundred yards. Why, oh, why hadn’t she chased after Pokey with her rifle? Because one doesn’t need rifles to rescue puppies from the mud, her logical side answered. She clung desperately to that thought, to that logic, as the cat prowled ever nearer. She wanted to scream and run; she fought fear back with all the tenacity her twenty-two years of training could muster. How many times had she told Zack and Mac, Hank and Nick, 309

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even her daddy, that she could fend for herself? That she didn’t need anyone else, that she could stand alone? Only last night, she’d driven Zack out of her bed and her house with her protestations. Dear God, what she wouldn’t give for his helping hand right now. Sixty yards, fifty-five yards, the cat slinked closer, its ears back, its throat rumbling. Bailey tried to dredge up facts to occupy her frantic mind. Pumas hunted alone. They were rarely seen by day. Their diets consisted of deer, some porcupine, rabbits. Sheep, goats, cattle, man — these were not preferred prey. But some cats grew accustomed to the taste. She swallowed bile, easing back her gun hammer with a little prayer. Slowly, carefully, she straightened, and One Toe halted, his tail twitching. He was close enough now for her to glimpse the silver whiskers on his muzzle. He was a mature cat, an elder to be reckoned with. To her frightened eyes, his taut, quivering body appeared much longer than the average fifty inches. With a full belly, he shouldn’t have the desire to attack her. But he was wounded. Angry. And he’d learned to kill for sport. As if she were somebody else watching from afar, she saw the lightning flicker around him. Thunder mingled with his throaty growls as he drew in his legs, preparing for the pounce. Then Pokey shattered her trancelike state. With a fearless puppy cry, he launched himself off the rock, racing in a circle, feinting to the left. “Pokey, no!” Horrified, she watched the age-old battle between canine and feline. One Toe snarled. He swiped with four deadly claws, but Pokey dodged, dancing backward, barking shrilly. One Toe rose from his crouch, his attention focused on the annoying morsel that dared to provoke him. Pokey backed farther away from Bailey’s rock. The stupid dog. The stupid little dog is trying to save me! She scooped up a stone and threw it with all her might. It glanced off the cat’s ribs. One Toe yowled, his head swinging her way. “Over here, you coward! Leave the baby alone!” Pokey charged back to her defense, and the cougar swiped again. Bailey bit her lip. As much as she feared for Pokey, there was nothing she could do short of getting herself killed to stop his idiotic bravery. Their only chance was her Winchester. 310

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She jumped back over the rocks, her boots precariously slippery from Pokey’s mud. She scrambled and cursed, thrown off balance, flailing wildly with her gun hand. She managed to reach the next rock, the last rock, but her foot slid, and she went down hard. The stone gouged her gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her .45 discharged. It slipped from her fingers, and panic seized her as she watched the mud swallow her Colt whole. “Mother of mercy, help!” I don’t want to die unloved and alone! “Send lightning, send Zack. Please, please, send help!” The cat was bounding after her now. Maybe it was bored with Pokey. Or maybe the gunshot had reminded it of its shoulder and the wound it wanted to avenge. Bailey churned frantically, trying to regain her footing, trying to find her Colt in the mire. “Bailey!” “Zack?” she half sobbed, trying to dash the mud from her eyes. She heard three rifle blasts, and she cringed, cowering, waiting for death. It never came. A raspy wheeze trailed into silence somewhere behind her. Peeking between her fingers, she saw One Toe had fallen no more than five feet from her boot. As the rifle reports rolled back from the hills, harmonizing with the thunder, she dared to look up the creek-bank. Her savior was silhouetted on a jet-black steed against the purple sky. Electrical currents hissed and sizzled behind them, chasing stark light patterns across man and mount in an almost otherworldly effect. Never in her life had she seen anything so magnificent. She wanted to cry. “Bailey.” She blinked, and he was beside her, dismounting in the mud. Strong fingers closed over her arms lifting her to her feet. She choked on the lump of words that had lodged in her throat. “Are you hurt?” he asked. She shook her head, gazing gratefully at him — her love, her man — and tried to work up the courage to speak. “I’ve been tracking all day. I heard the gunshot.” She nodded. “I saw dog prints and horse tracks,” he added hoarsely. “I figured it had to be you.” 311

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She opened her mouth to speak, but something guarded entered his eyes, belying the strain on his features and the tremor of his hands. She hesitated. He released her. Her opportunity was lost. Deflated, she watched as Pokey trotted up to his dead foe. With a snort that could have been a sigh, he sniffed the carcass. Zack knelt beside him. He patted the dog’s head before pushing the cougar over. His movements were so stilted, so unnatural, uneasiness slithered back into Bailey’s chest. Her limbs still quaked from her ordeal, and her heart was racing so fast, she felt dizzy. She wanted to ask him to hold her, but she didn’t feel comfortable asking for something that until last night he used to give so freely. Strangely, she didn’t feel comfortable with him at all. “One Toe must have had a little fox in him,” he said. “I finally figured out he was backtracking to throw me off his trail.” He shook his head and rose. “He hopped a couple of fence posts too.” Their eyes met. He was the first to look away. “Reckon the contest is over. Between the sheepherders and cattlemen anyway.” Her bottom lip trembled. Of all the things she wanted to hear from him at that minute, after everything they’d been through in the past sixteen hours, the contest wasn’t even on her list. “I — I’m sorry, Zack. About shutting you out last night. Thank you for coming back for me. I guess . . .” She swallowed. “I guess I’m not good at protecting myself after all.” His throat worked for a moment. He looked angry — no, hurt. She couldn’t tell. She reached a shaking hand to touch him, to steal some small degree of comfort, when suddenly his head snapped back around and he was facing her again. She flinched, retreating a step before the raw emotion etched into his features. Her attention was snatched away by a thick gray-black plume that was spiraling into the southeastern sky beyond his shoulder. Dread coiled like a sickness in her gut. Whatever he would have said in that instant was lost. “Oh, dear God,” she breathed. He frowned, and she pointed a quaking finger. “Zack, look. Smoke! It’s coming from the direction of the house!”

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Twenty-Two The look on Bailey’s face was almost too much for Zack to bear. As hurt as he was over her rejection the night before, when she’d slammed the door and sent him away, he knew Bailey was suffering even more to see her ranch besieged by wildfire. Running beside her to the horses, he shoved down his own pain and resurrected his anger — mostly at himself. Somehow circumstance had conspired against him again. Her home, their home, was in danger. With that heart-wrenching realization came the knowledge that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to spare her from the agony of watching her world turn to ashes. They spurred their horses to a dead run beneath the flash and rumble of the threatening storm. Even so, nearly twenty minutes passed before they reached the belching bowel of hell that once had been a pastoral canyon. Zack choked back a curse. From their vantage point on the cliff, he could see the flaming walls of her barn, its silo, and the towering inferno that had been a windmill. Lightning must have struck its blades, because they still showered sparks. Rings of fire devoured the dry grasses, pinning her livestock in their pens. He shuddered to hear the terrified bleating of the goats. The sheep huddled in macabre silence. “Stay here, where it’s safe!” he shouted, spurring Boss toward the path. “I can’t! The animals!” “Dammit, Bailey, for once don’t argue.” Bailey swallowed, watching fearfully as Zack and his gelding were swallowed by the smoke. Pokey whimpered in her arms. She could feel the puppy’s heart beating even faster than hers, and she sickened 313

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to think of her kids and lambs, her ewes and does, trapped in enclosures that she’d built to keep them safe. The irony made her squirm with guilt. Zack couldn’t possibly free all those goats and sheep by himself. She couldn’t sit there. She had to do something. After tethering Pokey beneath the shade of a sumac, she mouthed a prayer and spurred Sassy toward the nightmare below. In the distance, through the billowing walls of smoke, she spied a wizened, gnomelike man and the collie that were valiantly trying to rally the sheep. In her excitement, Pris’s sharp barks were more highpitched than usual, and Jerky’s calls were sprinkled with hacking coughs. Pancho’s sombrero bobbed near the barn as he chased Buttercup and the mule across the bridge to the yard beyond. Only the house stood untouched by the conflagration, wrapped as it was by the bend in the stream. One errant spark, one fickle breeze, though, and Bailey knew her home would be razed. Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? With shaking hands she wrestled Sassy to a halt and tied her, snorting and stomping, as close to the house as she dared. Zack had already dismounted and was sprinting across the bridge with his bandanna tied across his nose and mouth. Bailey thought to do the same, until she remembered she had dropped her neckerchief in the dry creek bed when she’d been running from One Toe. She muttered an oath. She didn’t have time to get a new one. “Jerky!” she shouted above a particularly ominous roll of thunder. Lightning sizzled and flashed. A cloud, fat and heavy with rain, loomed grayer than the smoke swirling over her canyon. Why wouldn’t the damned thing burst? “Jerky, set those Angora bucks free!” She couldn’t tell if he heard her or not. He and Pris were in the stud rams’ pen, trying to drive out the stupefied yearlings. Her eyes stinging from the smoke, she dodged patches of fire, keeping her head ducked and her sleeve across her nose as she raced toward her prize goats. With Grumbles gone, Wildhorn and his sons were the most valuable animals in the pens. Coughing, she blinked back tears as she struggled with the latches on the outer and inner enclosures. The bucks milled in consternation, pressing up against the gate. The added crush of terrified bodies slammed the barrier back, throwing Bailey off balance. She cried out 314

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as the bucks charged, pinning her between the gate and slashing barbed wire. “Bailey!” It was Zack’s voice, raised in near panic. “Bailey, look out!” A foreboding creaking suddenly gave way to the splintering of wood. Bailey glanced up in time to see the windmill uproot itself, toppling in flames. She could do little more than scream and throw her arms over her head. The tower crashed, miraculously bouncing off the fence, not her. Embers showered the enclosure. Walls of fire whooshed skyward. She was trapped with her bucks. Sobbing, she struggled to push the gate forward. Flames greedily consumed the grass behind her; the windmill belched fire, ringing the outer enclosure. As Wildhorn galloped madly past her, the yearlings retreated, pressing against the gate. Bailey gagged at the stench of their singed fleeces, but she knew the goats were in less danger of burning than of suffocating in the smoke. Mohair, like wool, was practically fire resistant. “Bailey!” “I’m here, Zack!” He materialized, running, a dark and glistening arrow that ripped through the smoke. Somehow he’d crossed hell to reach her island of death. Now he was beating a path through the bucks with a stick. “Hold on, baby! Hold on!” With superhuman strength, he plowed the gate through the crush of goats, freeing her from the fence. She staggered forward, slashed and blood-splattered, and he dragged her to his side. “Thank God,” he choked. “You’re alive.” He crushed her against his sodden length. She felt his tremor, the hammering of his heart. Then something wet and woolly descended over her head. “Quick! Wrap yourself in my saddle blanket.” She barely had time to protest before her feet left the ground. His shoulder slammed into her chest, knocking the wind from her for the second time that day. Hanging upside down, her head somewhere near his spine, she wheezed out a protest as he plowed through the goats. “Zack — ” “Keep your head down!” The smoke and heat intensified. She realized he was charging the outer ring of fire, and she quailed, uncertain whether to cower or flail. 315

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She could see nothing but the ever-brightening gloom beyond the blanket. Somehow, that was more frightening than witnessing the entire holocaust. “Zack, put me down!” she called in rising fear. “Quit squirming!” Thunder boomed. The earth heaved. Zack staggered, his heart slamming so hard into his ribs, he could almost feel it bleed. The smoke, the smell of horse — both were suffocating even to him, and he wasn’t swaddled in woolen darkness. “We’re almost there, Bailey. Hang on.” He ducked his head, gulping a breath to storm the final gate of hell. He could see little except a swirl of red, gray, and yellow. Cinders landed, making sizzling sounds on his precious load. He cursed the drought, the dry storm. He cursed himself for not being able to run faster when he banged his knees on broken timber and tripped over ruts in the yard. Suddenly the air grew cooler. The smoke became lighter. They’d made it through the blaze. He blinked the sting from his eyes. Vaguely, through the waves of heat, he could make out Pancho and Jerky, waiting near the big house. Taking the quickest route, Zack scrambled down the bank and plunged into the stream. Spray showered him; mud sucked him down. Bailey began writhing once more. “Where are you going?” Her voice was muffled, but her fright rang loud in his ear. “We can’t leave the sheep!” “It’s too late for them.” “No!” “You’ll only get yourself killed.” “You have no right to keep me from them!” “I’m sorry,” he ground out, barely keeping his balance as she kicked helplessly in his grasp. “You can curse me if you like, but I won’t stand by and watch you burn.” He struggled up the far bank. Pris whined, and Jerky muttered something like a prayer, his voice too raw from smoke to make the words intelligible. Suddenly Zack was pelted by wetness. Big, fat drops of rain fell faster until they cascaded in torrents, drenching his jeans, soaking his shirt and hair. 316

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Too little, too late, dammit. Oh, God, Bailey, I’m so sorry. His throat constricting, he climbed the porch steps and set her on her feet. She shoved blindly at his chest, trying to put distance between them as she tugged the blanket off her head. When she stared through the veil of the storm, the horror on her face made his heart wrench. From the barnyard to the rear of the box canyon, everything on the far side of the stream was ablaze. Engulfed by flames were the barn where he’d helped her save her cow; the enclosure where he’d ribbed her about her livestock’s names; the bridge over which he’d chased her, laughing, the first night they’d made love. “Don’t look,” he said hoarsely, catching her arm and turning her away from the inferno. The cows and Sassy, Pris and the mule, all cowered safely near the walls of the house. The rest of her animals cried piteously, trapped in their pens or against the limestone walls of the canyon. Bailey covered her ears. Judging by the way she screwed up her face, she hadn’t shut out the bleating. “Señorita, we did what we could. . . .” Pancho’s voice trailed off. Pris pushed her paw against Bailey’s thigh; Jerky cleared his throat. “The rain’ll save the house,” the cook said in a low, gruff voice. “That’s a blessing.” “How can you say that?” Bailey’s voice cracked. “There’s nothing blessed about this!” Her face was so white, Zack feared she might faint. “Bailey, you need to sit down — ” “Don’t tell me what I need!” She turned on him, her eyes huge and watery. “That’s how all this started: you telling me how I should be. If you hadn’t ridden away last night, I wouldn’t have gone out looking for you. I would have been here, and I could have stopped the fire!” He drew a sharp breath, for a moment too stunned to comprehend her attack. “There’s nothing you could have done, Bailey.” “You can’t know that! Damn your arrogance. How dare you throw me over your shoulder and decide whether or not I’m fit to save my sheep?” 317

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Pancho coughed delicately. Jerky scuffed his toe against the floorboards. Zack stood stone still. Every muscle in his frame strained to hold on to his fragile self-control. She’d flayed him alive last night with her tongue; she’d shut him out; she’d sent him away. Now, after he’d risked life and limb for her, she was spitting at him like a cornered wildcat. Had it ever occurred to her that he might have died in that blaze trying to save her ungrateful neck? “I made sure you stayed alive, Bailey. I’m not going to apologize for that.” “Of course not, Zack.” Tears were streaming down her face. “It’s either your way or no way. You always think you know what’s best.” His jaw started twitching. When she spun away, as if to dash off the porch into the yard, he closed hard fingers around her arm. “You’re not going out there again, Bailey.” She twisted, then tugged. A sob hiccupped from her throat. “Let me be! Damn you, is it too much to ask, on the worst day of my life, that you not exert your dominance? Can’t you just for once be understanding? I’ve lost everything! Boo and Mac, Grumbles and the sheep, the goats, the ranch, my father — everything! Everything I’ve ever worked for. Everything that means anything to me!” He felt the sting of those words all the way to his soul. “I see.” She dashed away tears, and he dropped his hand. Something gray and cold swept through him, mercilessly numbing the pain. He loved her ranch. He’d worked for it too. The only difference, he supposed, was that he didn’t place it above her in his affections. His bitterness threatened to choke him. At last the truth was told. He should have seen it coming. Hadn’t she delayed for three weeks in giving him an answer to his proposal? In some dark, cobwebbed corner of his being, he realized, a fear had taken root after his other failed courtships. He’d come to believe he couldn’t make a woman fall in love with him. He’d come to believe he wasn’t good enough, charming enough, heroic enough to be loved. He supposed that was why he’d been so desperate to make Bailey need him. Well, he’d failed on all accounts this time. 318

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Maybe it was for the best. He’d grown weary of arguing. Standing alone in her grief, Bailey was beyond reach, beyond reason. If she preferred loneliness over him, so be it. He didn’t have to stick around and let her carve out his heart. He didn’t have to plead for her forgiveness, beg for her hand in marriage. Love had its limits. He’d reached his. “I’ll send my men to help clear the carnage,” he said. “If you like, I’ll speak to Cord about making a place for you in his home. The stench will be overwhelming here until the carcasses are removed.” Bailey blinked. Anger no longer rode the crest of her grief, but as her rage ebbed, she felt as if she’d been pounded against the rocks and left to drown. To lose her ranch was to lose her freedom. In a society where a woman was the possession of her husband under the law, the only things Bailey had standing between her and oppression were her livestock and her eight thousand acres. Even so, she shouldn’t have lashed out at Zack. He wasn’t her enemy. “Zack, I’m sorry. I — ” He stepped past her into the rain. “I’ve had enough, Bailey.” She was too dazed to comprehend what he meant until he strode toward his horse. A tendril of dread wrapped around her heart. “Wait!” She hurried after him, heedless of the slashing raindrops that plastered her hair and rolled down her collar. “Wh-where are you going?” “You asked to be left alone. I’m obliging.” He swung into the saddle. “I didn’t mean you should leave!” He was turning Boss’s head around. She tried to reach his reins, but her boots slid in the mud. “Wait! When will you be back?” He hesitated, water spilling from his hat brim, Boss prancing nervously beneath him. She tried to see his eyes, but no light flickered there. His features were stark, unnaturally pale. “What would be the point? Obviously, we’ve both been mistaken to call this thing we have love. Love would hold us together during hardships like these. But I can’t think of a time when we’ve been further apart.” She gaped. He tipped his hat. “Good-bye, Bailey.” 319

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“No! I said I was sorry. Zack, please! Don’t leave me.” Boss broke into a canter. “Zack!” His spine grew more rigid at her cry. “Zack, you’re all I have left!” Thunder rumbled; the wind snatched her words away. All the pleas, all the apologies, were useless now. He was gone. The rain pummeled the ground for three days and three nights. Bailey watched it forlornly from the sitting room window in Cord Rawlins’s home. She’d gone there not so much because of the stench near her homestead, which was undeniable, or the flooding, which had always been more of a problem than any drought on her flat canyon floor. No, she’d gone there out of loneliness. And the cherished hope she might see Zack. He never appeared though. He never came home. Although none of his kinfolk seemed particularly concerned by his absence — they confided he liked his solitude — Bailey conjured all manner of disasters because he’d ridden off in a hail of lightning and rain. Besides, he’d been so blisteringly angry. He hadn’t been thinking straight, and she clung to that thought, hoping he’d spent the last few days holed up somewhere to ride out the storm and calm down. On the fourth evening of rain, Bailey’s worst fears for Zack’s safety were relieved by Seth. Defying the bedtime rules and earning his mother’s censure, the nine-year-old grumbled all the way up the stairs that he was going to hide out with his Uncle Zack in the Reedstrom Hotel so he, too, wouldn’t be pestered by women. Rorie and Fancy looked as surprised by Seth’s revelation as Bailey was. But before their womenfolk could question them, Wes and Cord suddenly remembered they had to muck stalls and bolted out the door. Too relieved by the news of Zack’s safety to want to throttle his brothers — at least for the moment — Bailey paced beside the sitting room window, waiting impatiently for the next lull in the downpour. Rorie perched on a rustic cowhide settee, rocking Little Wes and Sarah in the same cradle. Fancy sat in an armchair, reading aloud W. R. Alger’s The Friendship of Women, until Aunt Lally 320

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jumped up with an oath and hurried to the kitchen to rescue her burning pies. Her reading interrupted, Fancy set the book aside and looked at Bailey. “You’ve been pacing and muttering most of the night now, Bailey. You aren’t planning what I think you’re planning, are you?” Bailey’s chin rose with determination. “I can’t let Zack ride out of my life. I have to make him change his mind.” “So you’re going to hit him with a club and drag him off to your cave, is that it?” Bailey winced. “Well . . . he is my man.” Fancy sighed, shaking her head. “Bailey, Bailey, Bailey. Wooing a man requires tact. Some finesse. Zack’s as stubborn as you are. If you start butting heads again, you’ll do more harm than good.” “I have to agree,” Rorie said. “There are other ways besides arguing to earn the respect you want from your man.” Bailey shifted from foot to foot. “There are?” Fancy smiled, a mischievous glint lighting her violet eyes. “Oh, most certainly. We are the cleverer sex, after all.” Bailey could heartily agree with that. Postponing her hastily made plan to dash off into the stormy night and beat down Zack’s door, she dragged a cane chair into a pool of lamplight and joined the older, wiser women at the far side of the sitting room. “What kind of ways?” she prompted, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning forward in rapt attention. “Well,” Fancy said, “there’s always the method of listening politely when he speaks, thanking him warmly for his counsel, and then going out and doing exactly what you wanted to do in the first place.” Bailey blinked at this advice. “But isn’t that kind of, uh, underhanded?” “Oh, no — ” Fancy hesitated, catching Rorie’s eye. “Well, I suppose it can be,” she amended. “But only if you’re asking for advice you never intend to use. Most men go around giving women advice whether we ask for it or not. That’s the problem with them. They mean well, of course. They want to protect us, and they just can’t seem to get it through their heads that we can fend quite well for ourselves.” Bailey nodded vigorously. Giving unwanted advice was one of Zack’s problems, all right. 321

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“What do you do when a man refuses to accept that you’ve made up your mind?” she asked after a moment of thought. “Or when he pretends you’re incapable of making a sensible decision?” A nostalgic smile curved Rorie’s lips. “I remember once when Wes thought he was in the right, when he was in the wrong.” “Just once?” Fancy quipped. Rorie laughed above her teacup. “You have a point, of course, but we’re trying to repair Wes’s reputation as the family hothead.” She winked. “You see,” she continued, addressing Bailey, “about two years ago, Wes decided to shut himself away from his kin because he thought Cord would never forgive him after a particularly unpleasant argument. Realizing the real problem was nothing more than silly male pride, I wrote to Fancy to get the two brothers back together again. Wes was furious with me.” She grinned at Bailey. “But in the end, he realized the action I took was a course he should have taken months earlier. “Nobody ever wants to admit they’re wrong,” Rorie continued. “Especially Wes. But even my husband is willing to support my decisions when I make it easy on his pride. I’ve always held the opinion that blame casting and grudge holding take a whole lot more effort than forgiveness. After all, love is the essence of forgiveness. And you love Zack, don’t you?” Bailey nodded, her expression woeful. “Yes, but I’ve never been very good at forgiveness. I mean, my whole life, I’ve been angry at my mother. And my father too, in a way.” She bit her lip as the old, hurtful memories lanced her chest. “Besides, forgiveness takes time, and I’m not very good at waiting either.” “I used to be the same way,” Fancy confessed, demurely lacing her fingers. “When Cord and I were, er, still on opposite sides of the law, I made a grave mistake, a mistake that nearly cost him Zack and Aunt Lally along with his ranch. And so, believing Cord would never forgive me, I ran away while he was in Nevada.” She smiled. “Imagine my surprise when he tracked down my stagecoach and married me on the spot. “You see, Bailey,” she continued quietly, “Cord was the one who taught me about forgiveness. I could have saved myself a lot of heartache if I’d been patient and waited for him to come home so we could straighten out that misunderstanding. Instead, I let fear and 322

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pride rule my head. Now whenever I get angry with him, I remember how he went the extra mile for me. And I try to find a way to make a compromise we both can live with.” Bailey fidgeted. She had tried to compromise with Zack . . . hadn’t she? “But what happens if Cord doesn’t want to reach an agreement with you?” Fancy’s lips curved in a smug little smile. “Then I make it worth his while,” she drawled, wrapping a black curl around her forefinger. “How?” Rorie exchanged an amused look with her sister-in-law. “Let’s just say we women have a whole, mmm, arsenal of weapons at our disposal. I’ve never considered tears to be fair in love and war. But wits are.” “Kisses too,” Fancy purred. Bailey frowned, considering their advice. She could see a degree of logic in substituting kisses for arguments. When Zack kissed her, he distracted her embarrassingly well. But she didn’t want to use sex the way she’d accused him of using it on her. And she didn’t want to spend her days thinking up ways to outsmart him. Surely there was some other way to live in peace with the man she loved. She stared wistfully at the mantel and the daguerreotype of Zack that sat on it, his arms folded and his legs straddled to show off his champion rodeo buckle and spurs. Maybe being less opinionated and more understanding was the solution, she thought, inspired by the ardent desire to be a better wife to Zack than her mother had been to her father. For love’s sake, Bailey supposed she could take the middle ground more often when Zack crossed her. Compromise would be a challenge, of course, but she’d never passed up a chance to meet a challenge. She just hoped Zack would give her the opportunity to prove she was every inch the woman he needed her to be. A loud rap rattled the hotel door. Startled, Zack broke out of his doom-and-gloom reverie long enough to bark, “Go the hell away.” The door swung open. “Howdy to you too, grumpy-puss. Punch any mutton lately?” Zack scowled at his younger brother. “What are you doing here? And how did you unlock that — ” 323

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Wes grinned, holding up the widdy he’d confiscated from a thief during his Texas Ranger days. Zack muttered an oath, and Cord chuckled, following his kid brother into the room. “Thought you’d like some of Aunt Lally’s pumpkin pie, seeing as how you’ve been holed up here for five days eating nothing but sawdust and cobwebs,” Cord drawled, mocking his middle brother’s mood. “’Course, it was a long ride from the ranch. There isn’t much left.” Wes sighed with gusto and patted his stomach. Cord tossed the crumb-filled pie tin onto the chest of drawers. “So . . .” Disregarding the inhospitable look Zack sent him from the bed, Wes lowered himself into a chair and propped his feet up on the footboard. “Miss anyone yet?” “If I did,” Zack retorted, “it wouldn’t be you.” Removing his hat, Cord sat on the neatly folded quilt beside Zack. “It stopped raining for a spell. You just might be able to ride home in time for dinner. I hear that old sheepherder, Jerky, makes a mean cabrito chili.” Zack’s jaw hardened, and he kept his arms and ankles crossed. “No sheepherder cooks in any home of mine.” “Bailey will be right glad to hear that,” Wes quipped. “I reckon she’s not looking forward to that particular aspect of marriage.” “I told you. There’s not going to be any marriage.” “Aw, c’mon, Zack. Get off your high horse. It takes two to make an argument, you know.” Cord cleared his throat. “The womenfolk have been talking to Bailey, Zack. We thought it only fair to warn you.” “Yeah,” Wes said. “You’d best come get her before they ruin her for good.” Zack arched an eyebrow. “Talking to her? About what?” “We’re not sure,” Wes admitted. “But I did hear something about a woman’s arsenal before they caught me red-handed and chased me away from the keyhole. After that, they barred the door and sat up giggling till the witching hour.” He shook his head. “I sure wouldn’t want to be in your boots, pard.” Zack narrowed his eyes. So Fancy and Rorie were helping Bailey plot something, were they? “Doesn’t make a difference to me,” he said loftily. “If that girl can’t show a little gratitude after I risked my life to save her hide — 324

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and twice in one afternoon, mind you — then I figure it’s best to cut my losses. Clear out of that relationship before I get dragged in any deeper.” Cord’s green gaze pinned him to the headboard. “So what you’re trying to tell us is you’d rather be right than happy?” Zack squirmed. He never did understand why a man couldn’t be right and be happy. But he had to admit, feuding with Bailey never gave him a good night’s sleep. Pride was a cold bedfellow. “I’ve tried to make peace with her,” he protested sullenly. “I asked her to marry me, to let me into her life, and she slammed the door in my face.” “That’s not exactly how we heard it told,” Cord said more gently. “Didn’t you undermine her orders to those sheep shearers?” “I was trying to save her from being hurt. She loved those stupid goats. She loved them more than she loved me. To hear her tell it, she loves everything more than she loves me.” “I’m sure she was crazy out of her mind when she talked that way,” Cord said. “Wasn’t her ranch burning down at the time?” Wes added wryly. Zack’s neck heated. He hated when his brothers were right. They never let him hear the end of it. “So she sent you boys here to browbeat me, is that it?” “Nope,” Cord said. “We figured you’ve been doing enough of that on your own. I have to admit though, her story has some merit to it. I helped raise you, and I know there are times when you, uh, can take on the personality of one of your bulls.” Zack scowled at him. “A cantankerous bull,” Wes supplied helpfully. Zack scowled at him in turn. “It’s easy for y’all to make fun,” he grumbled. “Rorie never crossed Wes a day in her life. As for Fancy, she mellowed out considerably after the nuptials.” Cord and Wes blinked at him, their mouths agape. Suddenly they burst out laughing, rocking back on their seats, slapping their knees. “What’s so funny?” Zack demanded warily. “You, thinking life with Rorie is all ‘Yes, Wes, thank you, Wes, and as you please, Mr. Wes, sir.’” 325

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Cord chuckled, wiping his eyes. “You’re lucky Fancy didn’t overhear you. You’d be praying for mercy between swallows of crow.” Zack pressed his lips together. “So what’s your point?” “The point is, Romeo,” Wes answered, “you still don’t know a consarned thing about women. Some fellas just have to learn the hard way, and I reckon you must be one of them.” Zack snorted at his brother’s half-baked notion. “You seem to forget. Bailey’s not like Rorie. Or Fancy either. She’s spent so much time being ranch boss, she wants to be boss of me too.” “Uh-huh.” Wes grinned. “Who does that sound like?” Zack reddened. “Bailey’s a whole lot like Rorie and Fancy,” Cord was quick to intercede. “The only reason you don’t see me and Wes waging pitched battles on the front porch with our wives is that we’ve learned how to handle them.” “Yeah?” Zack asked dubiously. “Sure. When Fancy is hell-bent on something, like lecturing the hurdy-gurdy girls, I let her do it. I figure it’s not worth arguing about, unless she puts herself in danger. In the long run, she just might convince some girl to aspire to a better way of life, and that makes her feel good.” Cord grinned. “And believe me, good things come to a man who makes his wife feel good.” Wes chuckled. “Amen, brother. You can’t go getting your nose in a snit every time a woman gets an idea, Zack. They’re skittish enough as it is, with a whole convoluted thinking process that isn’t ever likely to cotton to yours. “For instance, Rorie thinks women ought to have the right to preach at church. I figure there must be a good reason why silence is the Golden Rule, so I keep quiet rather than pointing out that women can preach six days of the week, while church on Sunday is the only place we menfolk can get a word in edgewise.” Wes smirked. “’Course, I’m such an ideal husband, I’m sure Rorie would never object to a thing about me.” Cord chuckled. Even Zack cracked a smile at that. “You’ve just got to love your woman, Zack,” Wes continued, more solemn now and sincere. “You’ve got to love her, and listen to her, and give her some space now and then. Isn’t that what you want from Bailey?” 326

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“Yes, but . . .” Zack swallowed. He’d given her his heart. He’d offered her his name. He’d tried so hard to understand her, but none of his efforts seemed to work. “What if I do all the things you suggest, and they still aren’t enough for us to keep getting along?” Cord squeezed his shoulder. “Then you give her more love, son.” Wes nodded. “You can’t ever go wrong with that recipe.” Zack sighed. Maybe they were right. Maybe more love, a little diplomacy, and lots of compromise could salvage his relationship with Bailey. He’d had to spend five miserable days in this hotel before he’d been able to admit he didn’t want a cloying, clinging spouse any more than she did. He’d grown to like the independence her unconventionality gave him. She didn’t pressure him to do she-stuff; she didn’t nag or whine or throw a fit to earn his attention. She simply gave him the room to be with her or to be with himself, as he chose. She was the kind of woman who understood the needs of a private man like him. And he was beginning to understand that his needs were her needs. Although he sensed his brothers’ advice was sound, he couldn’t very well test it until he proved to Bailey how wrong he’d been to declare they had no future together. Her hurtful words had cut him deeply, but in the final analysis he and he alone had made his worst fears come to pass when he’d lost all patience and told her good-bye. Now he faced the prospect of losing her forever if he couldn’t find some way to make amends. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, wondering what to do, what to say. A bolt of inspiration struck him. Grinning, he leaned forward, gesturing his brothers closer in a conspiratorial fashion. “I have an idea,” he said, his eagerness mounting. “I have to take a trip, so I’ll need y’all to cover for me. . . .”

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Twenty-Three October fifteenth dawned blustery but warm. With no word from Zack in nearly three weeks, Bailey’s heart was heavy as she watched the Rawlins family wagons arrive at her ranch shortly after dawn. Beneath the pale streaks of sunrise, she could see Zack wasn’t among his laughing, chattering kinfolk and the ranch hands who jumped down, unloading fence posts, carpentry tools, and picnic baskets to help with her barn raising. When she’d returned to her big house several days earlier, she’d learned Zack had been true to his promise. He’d ordered his men to remove the carcasses from the fire-scorched pens, but he’d had no personal involvement in the activities Rorie and Fancy had organized for this day to help Bailey get back on her feet. In fact, as long as she’d been a guest in Cord’s home, Zack hadn’t shown his face on his family’s ranch. Bailey had every reason to believe her presence had driven him away. He was determined to cut off all communication with her. Either that, or he’d fallen off the edge of the earth. The strangest part was, he hadn’t even bothered to make an appearance at the Bullwhip Saloon on October first, when Hank had stunned the entire county by declining his election win and appointing Zack as the Cattlemen’s president. Apparently Hank had bigger political offices in mind now that he fancied himself a rainmaker. The cattlemen were still in an uproar, and everyone was out beating the bushes for Zack. Cord and Wes had solemnly sworn they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of their brother since the day the rain stopped falling more than two weeks earlier. Sighing heavily, Bailey pasted on a smile and strolled off the porch to welcome her neighbors. 328

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“Morning.” She nodded to the men and reached to take a stack of quilts and table coverings from Rorie. The newest Rawlins bride took one look at her face, and her smile of greeting faded. “He’s not here, is he?” Rorie murmured. Bailey shrugged. The gesture kept her shoulders from slumping abysmally low. “I reckon the day’s still young.” Fancy, on her way to the picnic table with a basket, must have overheard their exchange. She halted in mid-stride and cast a speculative look after her husband, who was disappearing around the corner of the privy with five-year-old Billy in tow. “Those Rawlins men are thicker than thieves,” she muttered in Bailey’s ear. Then she quickly cornered her brother-in-law before he could sneak out of earshot with another child. “Wes,” Fancy asked pleasantly, “where’s your brother?” The picture of innocence, Wes stood holding Merrilee’s hand. “You mean Cord, ma’am? Why, I reckon he’s, er, helping Billy stave off an accident.” Megan giggled to hear of her youngest brother’s indisposition, but Rorie sternly faced her husband. “You know very well who Fancy means, Wes. Bailey has been more patient with you three scapegraces than either Fancy or I would have been. It’s time you came clean. What tomfoolery has Zack been up to?” Outnumbered three to one, Wes didn’t look in the least bit daunted. “Aw, you know Zack, ladies. He has so much common sense wrapped up in that head of his, it’s gotten harder than a rock. He isn’t capable of tomfoolery. “But don’t you worry none, Miss Bailey,” he added, adopting a slightly more serious tone. “Zack’s heart isn’t as stone hard as his noggin.” Merrilee’s eyes grew impossibly round. “Did Uncle Zack turn to stone, Papa?” Megan caught her breath. “Like the Indian prince in the bedtime story?” Skirting her uncle, she ran anxiously to Bailey and threw her arms around her hips. “Miss, you have to find Uncle Zack. You have to kiss him! Only a kiss from his true love can save him!” Wes flashed Bailey a lopsided grin, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Had he been the one to put that idea in the children’s 329

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heads? That she and Zack were true loves? She wished it were true. She wished Zack would come back and let it be true. . . . “Megan,” Fancy gently chided her daughter, “bedtime stories can’t happen to real people.” “At least the part about turning to stone can’t,” Wes said, winking at his wife. “Reckon I’m no Indian prince, but I know a lot about true love.” Rorie blushed prettily. Fancy wasn’t as easily disarmed as her sister-in-law, though. “Hmm. I suppose Zack must be involved in something awfully important to have forgotten his election day,” she prompted Wes. Hope flurried through Bailey’s chest. “Do you think he’ll come for the barn raising, then?” Three sets of expectant female eyes bored into their mischievous quarry. Wes shrugged, flashing Bailey an enigmatic smile. “He will if he knows what’s good for him.” By midmorning, the canyon echoed with the rasping of saws, the pounding of hammers, and the shouts and grunts of men. Townsfolk and farmers, sheepmen and cowboys — the river of volunteers had overwhelmed Bailey, nearly bringing her to tears. Rorie and Fancy must have rallied the whole county for the barn raising. The Good Samaritans kept flowing in, bringing their women, their picnic lunches, and their tools. Some of them brought other things as well. Rob Cole donated four hundred yards of barbed wire for her new pens; the Rawlins men supplied cedar fence posts, and Judge Larabee staked the capital to roof her outbuildings in fresh tin. Feeling strangely displaced, Bailey wandered between the sycamore tree — where the women were gossiping as they guarded their baked goods from wide-eyed youngsters — and the wooden frames of her new smokehouse, toolshed, and barn, where the men were laughing as they rubbed elbows. She kept hoping a black gelding would top the rim of the canyon, or she’d hear a whiskey-smooth bass voice calling out her name. But the river of volunteers had dwindled to a trickle now. The last arrivals, the Rotterdams, came around eleven o’clock, herding a fine Berkshire sow and five halfgrown shoats. Bailey intercepted Hank near her well while the twins fenced the hogs inside one of the pens that Rob and Jesse Cole had fin330

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ished stringing. The fifty or so yearling goats that had outclimbed the fire and her twenty surviving breeding ewes would have to be culled from Vasquez’s flocks after the volunteers finished raising her buildings. “Mornin’, Miss Bailey.” Hank greeted her with uncharacteristic humility. His deep blue eyes scanned the charred grounds, the barren orchard, and the flurry of activity taking place in the new barnyard. “I’m mighty sorry to see my storm brought you so much trouble.” Bailey arched her eyebrows as the twins joined them, flanking her. “Your storm?” “Pa claims his cannon brought the rain,” Nat explained with careful gravity. Hank snorted. “‘Claims’ nothing, boy. Old Reb took only a week to warm up to her job, not like all those upstart pretenders who’ve been humbugging this county since last autumn. But go ahead, have your doubts. You won’t be so quick to thumb your nose at my cannon when a Rotterdam sits in the governor’s mansion.” Nat looked to his brother for support. Nick rolled his eyes as if to say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Bailey hid her smile. Hank wasn’t the only one taking credit for the end of the drought. Preacher Underwood’s congregation boasted their six months of prayers had been answered, while the Indian rain dancers claimed their lifelong influence with the Great Spirit had done the trick. “Well, I’m glad you came by, Hank,” she told him solemnly. “It means a lot.” He reddened, giving her shoulder an awkward pat. “Seemed like the least I could do, ma’am, after you were so generous with your water. Folks around these parts ain’t forgotten how you’ve always been ready to lend a hand to those in need. I know the Rotterdams and McShanes have had some, er, misunderstandings in the past, but that’s all behind us now, right, neighbor?” Bailey blinked the sting from her eyes. Her daddy would have been dumbfounded to hear the Rotterdam patriarch say such a thing. “Reckon so, Hank.” Nick grinned, elbowing her in the ribs. “We figured you’d get plenty of bull from that sweetheart of yours, so we went ahead and brought you some pork.” 331

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“Yeah, in honor of your rodeo,” Nat chimed in. He leaned toward her and whispered, “I still say you were the better pig herder.” Bailey managed a weak laugh. She didn’t seem able to pass more than a minute or two without someone reminding her of Zack . . . and the love she’d apparently lost. Hank’s cagey eyes were studying her. “You haven’t heard from him, have you.” She sighed. “No. Have you?” “No, ma’am, I haven’t.” Hank’s brow furrowed. “Seems strange though. He used to want that presidential office plenty bad.” “Someone oughta tan Rawlins’s hide for running out on you,” Nat grumbled. “Yeah. Want us to do it?” Nick asked hopefully. “Naw.” She forced a smile. “Amaryllis would have my head if you showed up at the altar with a broken nose.” “Shoot. I ain’t asked her to marry me yet.” Nat snorted. “Don’t think I’m going to stand in for you this time.” Hank chuckled. “I reckon what my boys are trying to say, Miss Bailey, is that you’re still welcome to become a Rotterdam.” Her vision blurred. “Thanks,” she murmured hoarsely. Three great bear hugs ensued, then the Rotterdams — her nemeses, her neighbors, her friends — ambled off to pick up hammers and help her rebuild her life. A life, she conceded despondently, that wouldn’t have much purpose without Zack. The day wore on. With every inch that the sun slid closer to the canyon rim, her heart sank nearer to the breaking point. Zack didn’t appear. He didn’t send word. No one seemed to know where he was. I guess he was right, she thought. I guess our love isn’t strong enough to survive hardships. Cord and Wes exchanged dark looks as they helped their wives load the last of their sleepy children into the wagonbeds. The Rawlins clan was the last to leave as the sun winked behind the canyon. Cord cleared his throat. “You sure you don’t want us to stay, Miss Bailey? I mean, there’s still plenty of work we can do, even though we got the buildings up and most of the pens fenced.” “That won’t be necessary,” she said firmly. “You’ve been more than neighborly already, and I won’t forget how kind your family has been 332

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to me. But it’s time I started picking up the pieces on my own. Like I always have.” Her smile was wan. “Besides, your children are tired. They need their rest.” Fancy fidgeted, looking to Rorie for support. “Bailey, I’m sure Zack was just delayed.” “Of course,” Rorie said quickly. “I’m sure he would have wanted to be here to help you raise your barn. He cares about you.” Bailey kept her smile fixed as she clasped each of their hands. “Thank you. And thank you for your help. Have a safe journey home.” Not until they stopped waving and the wagons rolled out of sight did she let a tear spill past her lashes. God, it was lonely. She’d never realized just how lonely, because in days gone by, she’d always had some chore or business problem to distract her from the price she’d paid for her independence. Now she wished with all her heart she had more than a cook and some dogs to come home to. She wished she had a family like the Rawlinses. She wished she had Zack. Wandering aimlessly, she walked around her new buildings with their fragrant cedar and shiny tin roofs. Buttercup and her calf looked content in their mangers; Sassy and the mule happily munched oats in their stalls. With Mac gone and Zack never likely to return, Bailey supposed she had to face facts. She would have to hire on a foreman. Jerky had done what he could, of course, but he was no longer up to the backbreaking labor. Even now she suspected he was dozing to the lullabies of the crickets on the back porch with the dogs. He’d had a full day. So had Pris and Pokey. They’d eaten twice their weight in food. Her smile faded as she rounded the corner and approached her new bridge. Her own pastores had laid the timbers. They’d each offered her their best half-breed rams to start studding her stock over again. Their generosity had moved her deeply, but she’d declined. She wanted fullblooded merinos. Rambouillets would be better, but God only knew how she would find the money to buy them. It would take every penny she owned just to pay a good foreman and buy winter grain. It was times like these when she wished she had someone to talk to. Someone to love. She desperately wished she could let herself cry on the shoulder of a person who wouldn’t expect her to be strong and unemotional, like a boss. She thought of her mother. She wished now 333

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she’d read her letters before they’d burned along with Mac’s shack. It would be nice to have family again, even if they could never be as warm and loving as Zack’s. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to write to Lucinda and bury the hatchet. After all, if she could make peace with her mother, surely there was hope for a truce between her and Zack. She just prayed it wouldn’t be twenty-two years in the making, like hers and Lucinda’s. Wearily, Bailey walked toward the house. No lamps burned in the windows, but a quarter moon was rising fast through the deepening indigo of the heavens. The walls of the canyon loomed over her, great jagged cliffs of ebony shadow. From the path came a flicker of white, catching her eye. She frowned, squinting into the quickly fading twilight. She heard the faint scrabble of hooves, an indignant baaing, and the resonant barking of a dog. She sighed. Another sheepherder was coming to pay his respects. She supposed she should be grateful for the company, but disappointment gripped her instead. She’d have to be strong for a little while longer. She’d have to stave off the brunt of her tears. Wiping the dampness from her cheeks, she marshalled her courage and dragged her feet toward the pass that dumped out onto her driveway. She thought it strange that the silhouette on the herder’s head looked more like a Stetson than a sombrero. She thought it stranger still that he should travel on horseback rather than on foot, and that he held a coil of rope in his hands to swat his recalcitrant charges. His dog was too large for a Border collie; still, other breeds could be trained to herd sheep. This one didn’t look particularly helpful though, the way it trotted at the center of the fleecy formation. In fact, the closer they came, the less her guest and his dog looked like a well-precisioned team. She began to suspect neither knew much about sheep. She began to suspect . . . The herder was Zack! With an unladylike whoop, she threw off her hat and raced across the blackened earth toward the great, prancing gelding and the cowboy on his back. The half-dozen sheep ran amok at her approach, but she didn’t care. She could sic Pris on them later. “Zack, you came home!” 334

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He caught her in mid-jump, sweeping her up before him onto Boss’s back. His face was solemn as she threw her arms around his neck, knocking his hat from his brow. “Reckon I did.” Uncertainly, she blinked into his unwavering stare, waiting for the warmth to fire in his eyes. Her heart hammered so hard, she was certain he must hear it above her shuddering breaths. “Are — are you here to stay?” Boss shifted beneath her, patiently walking the ram and its trailing brood toward an open pen. “That all depends.” Zack’s dimples creased so fleetingly, she wasn’t sure she’d seen them. “Seems like we’ve got a heap of making up to do.” She bit her lip, uncertain what to make of this response. “We can work things out, Zack. I know we can. I love you, and . . . and I want to be your wife.” “Made up your mind, then, did you?” She swallowed. He looked so grave. Maybe he hadn’t changed his mind after all. Maybe he was only paying a neighborly call to bring her a few sheep. Nervously, she glanced at the animals now huddled inside the safety of a pen. In the moonlight, with their smooth bodies and broad chests, they bore more than a passing resemblance to — “Rambouillets!” Her heart kicked hard. “You bought me Rambouillets?” She searched his face for some hint of his motive. “But they’re considered the best in the world.” “That’s what Mac said.” The corner of Zack’s mouth quirked. “I figured he could teach me a thing or two about the breed.” “You — you went to see Mac?” “Uh-huh.” She blinked up into his eyes, two bottomless pools of molasses, and her mind reeled to know he’d journeyed all the way to visit Mac. Had the two men she loved most in the world made peace? Surely Zack wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t have some feelings for her. Surely he wouldn’t have traveled all the way from Rio Grande valley to Bandera with six sheep — rambouillets sheep, no less — if he didn’t want to make amends. As if guessing her eager train of thought, he smoothed his features into stoic lines. “Now, then. In honor of the McShane family tradition 335

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of naming breeders instead of notching them, I have a couple of new arrivals for you to meet. That strapping young stud over there is Champ. And that’s. Bonnie, Bessie, Beulah, Belle, and Bernadine,” he continued, pointing out each of the ewes in turn. “Uh . . . you named a ewe Bernadine?” The French equivalent for brave as a bear? She couldn’t keep her nose from wrinkling. “Got a problem with that?” “Nope,” she answered hastily. I’ll just call her Nadine. “Good. Now, this here oversized, slobbering eyesore,” he drawled, his voice a delicious rumble in her ear, “is what you’d call their guard dog. The cur scares the living daylights out of coyotes, but he doesn’t have a lick of sense when it comes to droving — er, herding,” he corrected himself. He cast her a sideways look. “I would’ve named him Boo, but I figured that name’s gone down in history. So I dubbed him Cur Mudgeon.” “Curmudgeon,” she repeated carefully, gazing down with some bemusement on the younger, uglier cousin of her own dearly departed hound. Poor pup. We’ll find you a decent name soon. The beast licked its chops. “He looks kind of hungry,” she noted. “Naw. He always looks like that. It’s part of his strategy for scaring off varmints.” “I see,” she said, matching his grave tone and hiding her smile. After three weeks of herding, her cattleman had apparently grown attached to his hoofed locusts and their canine defender. She desperately wanted to believe Zack’s growing fondness for sheep was a good sign. He dismounted, helping her down from his horse. The heat of his hands on her waist shot a crackling response down every nerve. It was a heady, bittersweet sensation, and her fingers trembled on his shoulders as he let her slide to the ground. Why was he stalling? Why wouldn’t he tell her whether he wanted her as his wife? “Come see the sheep,” he said in a husky murmur, taking her hand and leading her to the pen. “But — ” “I want to make sure you approve. I’m still green at judging woollies.” She trailed after him, for once in her life more interested in romance than business. “Can’t this wait till the sun’s up?” 336

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“Nope.” She stifled her sigh and pressed past him. The females were relatively tame. They let her move among them, running her hands over their backs as she inspected the weight and texture of their fleeces. They were beautiful animals, no doubt the pride and joy of Mac and his brother-in-law. Now they were Zack’s. She glanced his way. He instantly hid his grin. Folding his arms, he jerked his head toward the ram. A strange premonition danced through her insides. Her pulse quickening, she turned toward Champ. That’s when she spied the sheen of something satiny tied around his neck. She hadn’t noticed the bow behind his horns before . . . or the small scroll of paper attached to the ribbon. Her hands shaking, she stooped to retrieve it from the ram, who snorted and trotted off, greatly relieved to be free of his red noose. The message was brief, but it brought a mist to her eyes. She tried to focus on the words again in the last fading rays of twilight: “I’m your wedding gift, if you’ll still have a bullheaded cowboy as mate.” “Oh, Zack.” Her throat constricted. She couldn’t say a single thing more. All she could do was stand there helplessly nodding, his proposal clutched to her chest. His arms closed around her, and his warm, earthy chuckle resonated through every fiber of her being. “Don’t tell me you’re actually giving me the last word.” When she laughed, she tasted tears. “That would be a first, wouldn’t it?” “Uh-huh.” His hands smoothed over her back, drawing her closer. For a precious moment, the only sound she heard was the rushing cadence of his heart. “Bailey, I’m sorry.” His voice sounded strangely hushed above her head. “I should never have walked out on you. Not when you needed me — ” “It’s behind us now, Zack. You came back. That’s all that matters.” He swallowed. The tension slowly eased from his shoulders, and he nuzzled her hair. “I tried to get here sooner. I never realized sheep would take so damned long to walk here from the train depot.” 337

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She giggled into his shoulder. “I missed you,” he whispered against her ear. She slipped her arms around his waist. “I missed you too.” “I should have known I couldn’t live without you, Bailey. When I nearly lost you twice in one day, I think I must have gone mad.” A lump rose to her throat. “I did lose you, Zack. And it was the single most awful feeling in the world. I . . . didn’t think I could go on without you.” He cupped her cheek in his palm, raising her head. She was surprised, and deeply moved, to see the moistness in his eyes. “Honey, you’ll never have to be alone again if you don’t want to be. I know I’ve made mistakes. I may never fully understand all the things you feel, or even how you think, but I’m trying. I swear I am. The important thing is, I know I love you. I want to be what you need.” His thumb brushed in gentle entreaty over her lips. “What you want.” She felt the giddy rush of feeling, smoky warm, sweetly feminine. For once, she didn’t mind. On this night she was glad to be a woman. A woman in love with her man. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed up into the soulful eyes of the lover who had seen beyond her bluster, daring to cherish the truth of who she was; the mate who had gifted her with his friendship and his heart so she could find the courage to be what she’d always secretly wanted to be: whole. “So,” she said, her skin tingling beneath his caress, “how are we going to settle that cattleman-sheep rancher rodeo?” “You mean the contest?” “Sure. I figure you’re the winner, since you rode out and shot Old One Toe.” An endearing dimple flirted with the corner of his mouth. “I did, didn’t I?” “Yep. And since you bagged that cat, I reckon we’ll have to say the cattlemen won.” “Hmm.” He slanted her a mischievous look. “Can’t say I agree with you there.” “No?” He shook his head. “Seeing as how I’m a cattle, goat, and sheep rancher now, I reckon both sides will just have to settle for a draw.” “That’s right sporting of you.” 338

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“Naw. I still want my prize.” “Do you now?” She arched a brow at his half-serious tone. “I’m a little short on cash at the moment.” “I don’t mind you being short as much as I mind waiting for my reward.” His lashes drifted lower, and his voice dropped to a throbbing murmur. “What do you say we work something out in trade?” “You mean compromise?” “You could call it that.” A lovely shiver of anticipation tiptoed down her spine. “What did you have in mind?” “How about letting me have my way with you tonight?” “Hmm.” She snuggled closer, threading her fingers through his hair. “I guess I could agree to that. But on one condition.” “And what might that be?” “I get to have my way with you tomorrow morning.” “Fair enough.” His husky whisper wrapped around her, promising a lifetime of sweet persuasions. And when his kiss sealed that promise for all the tomorrows to come, she knew in her heart they needed only to reach out to each other to walk hand in hand down the middle road, forever.

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Author’s Note As I wrote Texas Wildcat, the Lone Star State was in the middle of a three-year drought, and communities in the Hill Country, where I live, were forced to start water rationing. Despite the hardships Texans faced in 1996, they suffered a far worse drought in 1883, a year when old-timers were heard to grouse, “The sun’s hot enough to raise blisters on a boot heel.” Drought hit Texas again in 1886, and by the middle of July, many of the settlers were pulling up stakes, leaving whole communities deserted. For the sake of this novel, I combined research for both of these droughts and set my dry spell in the summer of 1884. Fortunately, droughts never discourage Texans for long. With rawhide tenacity — and their notorious sense of humor — many hold the belief that rain will come along “next year.” As one old cattle rancher once quipped to his wife, “We haven’t lost everything. We still have the mortgage!”

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Biography Adrienne deWolfe Adrienne deWolfe believes in following her dreams. The trouble is, the pesky things keep changing. Shortly after her thirty-eighth writing award helped her launch a college-level teaching career, she found herself standing on stage singing Mozart's Requiem--to applause, no less. That wily performance bug, which she thought she'd quashed in high school, returned to lead her on a fabulous new odyssey: helping people heal. Now Adrienne operates a private practice as a holistic healer, specializing in sound and music therapy. When she isn't playing her harp at local hospitals, she's bribing her cat not to sing with her in public.

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