by Jan Freed
Not hardly. Grateful he couldn’t see her face, she turned and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
His body shifted toward the window. “Looks like it’s close to dawn. I’d have gotten up soon, anyway.”
“What did I…” Go on, coward, spit it out. “What did I scream?”
He hesitated a fraction too long. “Damned if I know. One thing’s for sure. My money’s on you, instead of Ada, at the next county fair.”
She struggled to make the connection.
“The pig-calling contest,” he explained. “You pack a mean set of lungs for such a little thing.”
His chuckle rumbled pleasantly against her ear. She managed a shaky smile, surprised to realize her trembling had stopped. Dangerous. She was too warm, too content, too willing to stay in his arms indefinitely. This time when she pushed away, he let her go.
She lay back and pulled the quilt to her chin, uncertain how their relationship had changed, sure only that it had.
“I guess I should thank you,” she finally said.
“No need. I didn’t want you to wake Dad.” He sprang up as if released from an unpleasant duty and headed for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t linger to make sure.
Margaret stared at the closed door in bemusement. Normally it took her several hours to recover from the dream. Never in her lifetime would she have expected Scott Hayes to speed the process. She almost wished he hadn’t. His compassion increased his virility by a thousandfold. As her horror had receded, every nerve ending in her body had tingled with awareness.
Funny. She’d never been as physically conscious of Matt, although she’d planned to marry him. He’d been a handsome young veterinary student working the summer at Riverbend when they’d met. She’d craved his unconditional love, so different from her parents’ embarrassed tolerance, but never his touch.
Nor had Jim ever caused this distressing reaction. She’d found him attractive, but that was secondary to the opportunity he’d offered—the chance to start a new life unfettered by guilt or her father’s censure. If truth were told, the physical side of her marriage had been disappointing. All those disconcerting noises, all that sweaty skin…
…that tanned, sweaty skin. An image of Scott as he’d looked the day before mocked her thoughts.
Far from distasteful, Scott’s glistening torso had fascinated her. When he’d reached up and held Twister’s bridle, his biceps had bunched and the corded sinew of his forearms flexed. Leather work gloves only emphasized his hard muscles, the kind earned through strenuous physical labor, not honed and perfected in a gym.
Blinking, Margaret shook off both the vision and her sappy smile. She yawned and stretched. The first blush of dawn tinged the lace curtains. Shadows solidified into an armoire, a scarred dresser and silver-spotted mirror. Margaret fingered the Wedding Ring quilt beneath her chin and admired the workmanship.
Scott was right. Everything on this ranch had been made or purchased to last through generations of hard wear. The sense of permanency charmed her, challenged her to be just as strong, just as capable of earning her keep.
Muffled kitchen sounds told her Scott was starting the first pot of coffee. Grant would be up soon. What could she make for breakfast that would be appetizing, as well as low in fat?
Cereal. That she could handle.
Throwing back the covers, she indulged in one last joint-popping stretch. Anticipation spread like caffeine through her blood, vanquishing fatigue. There was a long, exhausting day ahead of her. She couldn’t wait to get started.
THREE HOURS LATER Margaret’s enthusiasm had faded considerably. “Hold still, darn it!”
Twister swished his tail, jerking the currycomb from her hand—but not from a nasty snarl. He swished again, avoiding her frantic grab. His third, violent swish sent the heavy metal comb rocketing into the back plank wall like a deadly missile.
Freed of the annoyance, he turned and gazed at Margaret with liquid brown innocence.
“Nice try, handsome, but no bananas. You’re going to look respectable for Dr. Morley if it kills me.” Which it almost had.
Pete’s worried face appeared over the stall door. He swept off his disreputable hat and wiped his brow. “Praise the Lord, you ain’t dead.”
“Save your prayers for Scott. I’m going to shoot him for letting Twister’s tail get in this condition.” She glared at the long, tangled mess, filled with burrs and range debris. “Hasn’t Scott ever combed it?”
Pete plunked on his hat and draped his wrists over the half door. “Can’t say he has. Should he do it before he tends the herd or after he tends his pa?”
Margaret smoothed her palm down Twister’s freshly brushed coat, as soft and sleek as sealskin now. “I’m sorry. Scott didn’t deserve that.” She sent Pete a challenging glance. “He doesn’t like me much, and I get defensive, say things I shouldn’t. He’s a hard man to get along with.”
“No harder’n he’s had to be, I reckon.”
She knew H & H Cattle Company had once been a thriving operation. For the first time, she allowed herself to consider its imminent failure as something other than her good fortune.
“He really loves this ranch, doesn’t he?”
Pete’s light blue eyes studied her kindly, and Margaret had the strange feeling he saw right through her skin to the knot of guilt and confusion inside.
He appeared to make some decision. “His ma got the cancer when he was little, y’know. Part of Grant up and died with her, seemed like. Scott sorta took over after that. Been doin’ the work of three men since he was fifteen.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “If he expects a lot from other folks, it’s ‘cause he expects even more from hisself. No need—”
Twister’s head snaked forward, his ears flat and teeth bared.
Margaret simultaneously smacked his shoulder and shouted, “No!” The stallion’s strong teeth clacked a hairbreadth from Pete’s fingers.
The wrangler stepped back with a yelped curse.
“You all right?” a voice boomed from the makeshift tack room.
“Oh, just dandy, boss.”
Margaret shot Twister a dark look and elbowed him aside to lean over the door. Scott was heading this way fast. Stopping outside the stall, he folded his arms and waited.
“Nothin’ like almost losin’ a hand t’get your blood singin’ Dixie.” Pete smiled weakly, going from pale to ruddy under the younger man’s disgusted stare. “He’s acted so different lately, guess I thought he might’ve mellowed some.”
“Guess you thought wrong.” Scott snorted a laugh. “How many chunks does he have to take outta your hide before you learn some sense?”
“It was my fault.” Margaret spoke up, wanting to ease Pete’s embarrassment. “Stallions are unpredictable at best—” she cocked her head at a moist blast of air on her neck “—and should be handled with extreme caution at all times—” she swatted at the muzzle nibbling her hair “—but I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I’ll be more careful from now on.” Twister planted his chin on her shoulder and heaved a noisy sigh. She studiously ignored the heavy weight.
“Yeah, I can see how vicious he is around you.” Scott moved forward and rubbed Twister’s forehead in a slow circle. “Some friend you are. Meet a pretty girl and you’ve got no time for me anymore.” He looked up. “Stealing my buddies must be a hobby of yours, Maggie.”
Being a jerk must be yours. She arched a brow. “I was Matt’s girlfriend. Preferring a girlfriend’s company over a buddy’s is normal for most men. What does that make you, Scott?”
Her implication seemed to amuse him. He gave her a lecherous smile and lowered his voice. “I’ll be happy to show you, darlin’. Any time. Any place.”
A trill of sensation rose from the vicinity of her stomach. Irritated with herself, she shoved Twister’s muzzle off her shoulder. He promptly
returned it.
“Smart guy.” Scott’s raspy growl stroked her nerves.
Damn his insolent, sexy hide. How could she respond like this to a man who didn’t even like her? To cover her confusion, she reached up and massaged Twister’s throat, blurting the first thought that came to mind. “Here’s the reason Twister will win the Ar-mand Hammer Classic.”
Scott’s lazy arrogance fled. “What are you talking about?”
Pressing the back of her hand against Twister’s throat, she ran her flexed fingers forward between the wings of his jaw bones. Her thumb slipped in beside the four finger joints with room to spare.
“Watch this,” she ordered, unable to quell a triumphant grin as she placed the thumb of her opposite hand next to the fingers already in place. “Count ‘em and weep, ladies and gentlemen. A six-finger jaw!”
Scott looked at her blankly.
“Twister’s the only six-finger foal Riverbend ever produced. You might act a little happier.”
“Why?”
Lowering her hands, she suppressed her disappointment. Scott couldn’t realize how hard she’d labored to match the perfect sire and dam for just such an occurrence. He couldn’t know what a miracle beating the genetic odds really was.
“The airflow factor,” she said. “Some experts think the airway—the throat and voice box—is more important than the lungs when it comes to winning races. I happen to agree.”
“And a six-finger jaw is good?”
“Jump-up-and-shout-Hallelujah good.”
He nudged his hat brim back, a devilish glint in his eye. “Why?”
He was teasing her, she realized in amazement, and the novelty made her smile. “Twister doesn’t have to work as hard as other horses. More oxygen reaches his lungs, and he converts his body’s fuel more efficiently.”
“Lord help us,” Pete said on a moan. “The last thing that stud needs is more energy.”
Scott slowly turned. “What do you care? You’ve got a woman doing all your work.”
“I insisted,” Margaret said.
Pete sent her a grateful look. “I ain’t never seen the likes of her with critters, boss. She even had that killer pig actin’ like a pussycat.”
“Speaking of which, weren’t you supposed to get that front stall ready for him?”
Pete’s face screwed up in a mutinous mass of wrinkles.
Scott folded his arms.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.” He turned and shuffled off, grumbling under his breath. “A cowboy workin’ with pigs. It ain’t natural, I tell ya. S’pose they’ll be callin’ me a pigboy, next. Just ain’t natural…”
Margaret met Scott’s eyes, then broke into peals of laughter. It took her a moment to realize he hadn’t joined in, but was watching her curiously. She lowered her gaze and cursed the heat searing her cheeks.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you let go and really laugh,” he said.
She looked up, captivated by a glimpse of the man who’d banished her nightmare in the circle of his arms. “I don’t suppose I’ve had much reason to laugh around you in the past.”
They exchanged a cautious look, filled with what-ifs. What if she hadn’t frozen up all those years ago when he’d asked for her phone number? What if she’d actually gone out with him then, as she’d longed to do? Would they be friends now? Margaret studied the rugged structure of his face, the width of his shoulders, the sudden alertness in his eyes that made her both wary and excited—and admitted the truth. They would be much more than friends.
She would’ve made sure of it.
Twister pricked his ears forward and lifted his head, interrupting the tense moment. The distant whine of a truck engine announced Dr. Morley’s arrival. Margaret threw the stallion a dismayed glance.
“Rats. I never finished your tail.” She smoothed her own hair, then hurriedly retucked her shirt into the waistband of her jeans.
“Must be some vet,” Scott said, his familiar sarcasm back.
“One of the best,” she agreed, grabbing Twister’s lead rope and unlatching the door. “He’s Riverbend’s veterinarian. Frankly I’m surprised he agreed to accept us as clients.”
Pushing the door open with her boot, she led the stallion into the corridor. The truck had crested the hill by the sound of it. She wanted Twister ready and waiting for Dr. Morley, not vice versa.
Scott closed the half door and slouched back against it, his elbows propped on the ledge. “How old is he?”
“Wha…who?” She quickly cross-tied Twister and tightened his halter.
“Dr. Morley.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Late thirties, maybe?” Hmm. If Dr. Morley used a stomach tube for worming, she’d probably need the twitch to control Twister.
“There’s your answer.”
“Huh?” She headed past Scott for the tack room.
“That’s why he agreed to go slumming here.”
Margaret stopped in midstride. Slumming? She turned and inspected Scott coolly. “That’s an ugly chip on your shoulder, mister. I suggest you get rid of it before Dr. Morley walks in. He’s doing us both a favor by examining Twister.”
Scott shoved away from the door and advanced with catlike grace. “You just don’t get it, do you, Maggie?” Wrapping callused fingers around her chin, he drew her face closer to his. “A man would have to be dead to say no to you. If Morley’s in his thirties, you couldn’t keep him away with Mace. So don’t talk like he’s doing me a favor, lady. I’ve got nothing to do with it or your crazy scheme.”
Releasing her chin, he stalked off down the corridor, leaving the tingle of his fingers behind.
SCOTT SHOVED one shoulder against the door of Lul-ing Feed and Hardware and stumbled into a wealth of scents. Grain and leather, fresh-cut lumber and insecticide—the mingling smells had been irresistible to him as a boy. They still had the power to stir up vague yearnings, remind him of unfulfilled dreams.
He closed the off-kilter door with a thrust of his rump and grunted. After Maggie’s startling nightmare, followed by his own jealousy of Dr. Morley two days ago, her departure for Dallas yesterday had suited him fine. His priorities were clear now.
The sooner he found a practical solution to his problems, the better. He’d reached for the sky once before and hit the ground hard. He wouldn’t survive another fall.
Behind a counter near the door, Pudge Webster lowered the Luling Gazette. His round face, rounder body and black button eyes hadn’t changed much since high school. Scott supposed that was what inheriting a debt-free business and sitting on your ass all day did for you.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in, boys,” Pudge said, folding his paper and laying it beside the vintage cash register.
Scott tipped his hat brim. “H’lo Pudge. Ben, Lester. How y’all been?”
The two ancient “boys” playing dominoes on an upended spool of chain never glanced up. Lit by a tall window frosted with spiderwebs, they looked eerily frozen in time.
As usual, Pudge answered for them all. “Fair to middlin’. Can’t complain. How’s your dad feeling these days? I heard tell he was up and around. Spry enough to chase some pig, according to the widow Gates. Was she pulling my leg or what?”
Scott wandered to a display of tick spray without answering. Pudge wouldn’t notice.
“Funny you should come in today. Must be ESP or sump’n. I says to Ben just this morning, Ben, I says, we ain’t seen Scott Hayes around here in a while. He knows I’ll let his feed bill ride another month….” Pudge met Scott’s eyes and paled. “H-hell, what are friends for, I says, didn’t I, Ben? And then dang if you didn’t walk in.”
The door burst open. Four heads turned as Maggie stumbled in clutching a Neiman Marcus shopping bag.
She stood blinking in the dim light, wearing a belted silk jacket with pants in the same dusky rose fabric. Her ash blond hair, swept back into a low bun, shone as richly as the gold clips at her ears. Matching suede flats and shoulder bag completed the pricey getup
.
Judging by Pudge’s rare silence, Scott wasn’t the only one feeling outclassed right now.
He watched her search the store, find him and walk quickly forward, looking better with each step. She didn’t seem depressed. Trading a Porsche for a Greyhound bus would’ve made him miserable.
“You’re early,” he said gruffly. Her bus wasn’t due for another ten minutes. “How was the ride?”
“Actually not too bad. I enjoyed looking at the scenery.”
His surge of gladness shocked him.
Setting the Neiman’s bag on the floor, she pawed through her purse. “I had the most interesting woman sitting next to me. She’s moving to Gonzales—Ah, here it is!” Pulling out a business card, Maggie waggled it under his nose.
Distracted by the silver mischief in her eyes, the unexpected dimple in her left cheek, he finally focused on the hot pink lettering: Lorna Lane, Dance Instructor and Massage Therapist.
Maggie seemed to be waiting for his comment.
“Just what a farm and ranch community needs,” he drawled.
“That’s what I told her. After the Armand Hammer Classic in August, we might trade our services. You know, I teach her how to ride, she teaches me how to two-step. What do you think?”
He thought this animated woman should slip back into her haughty-princess peg hole where she belonged. Folding his arms, he looked her up and down.
“I dunno, darlin’. Learning massage would be a whole lot more…interesting.” He gave her a lazy tomcat grin. “You can practice on me.”
Her nose lifted on cue. She dropped the card into her purse and gave him a chilly glare. Unfortunately the idea of Maggie practicing interesting things made more than his brain perk up. He slipped behind the pyramid of insecticides.
“No problems turning the Porsche in?” he asked, touching a bottle here, a jar there.
“The mileage was a little high, but the dealership owner let it slide. He even gave me a ride to the bus depot.”
I’ll bet he did. “Looks like you squeezed in a trip to Neiman’s first.” He eyed her shopping bag with disgust. “There go Twister’s shoes for the month.”
