The Texas Way

by Jan Freed

  Her silence ground him under her dainty foot.

  He blew out a breath. “I would’ve picked you up at the station. You didn’t have to walk here.”

  She hesitated just long enough to irritate him. “It wasn’t far. I saw your truck pass by and figured you were killing time here. Besides, I need supplies for Twister.”

  Dismissing him with a regal turn, she smiled at Pudge in that soft, feminine way she reserved for other men.

  “Hello, Martin. Nice to see you again.” She moved to the knotty-pine counter, tossed her purse in front of the cash register and nodded politely at the domino players. “Mr. Drake. Mr. Tobin. You’re both looking well.”

  Martin? Scott nearly tripped over the abandoned shopping bag in his effort to see Pudge’s reaction. The name only his mother had used had him sucking in his paunch and puffing out his chest. “H-hello, Margaret. Good to see you, too. Sounds like you’ll be staying awhile.”

  “That’s right. I’m training a horse at the H & H ranch,” she explained, waiting until Pudge’s shocked expression grew self-conscious under her cool regard. “I’ll need a high-performance feed mixed up please.” She ticked off the items on her fingers. “Cracked corn, whole oats, soybean meal, molasses, calcium carbonate, brewer’s yeast…oh, and dicalcium phosphate.”

  She fumbled in her purse and withdrew what looked like an index card, handing it to Pudge. “Here’s the quantity and percentages for you to keep on file.”

  He studied the card and nodded. “This looks like what I used to help Mom mix up for Riverbend every month. But Liz Howarth doesn’t buy from me anymore.” His black eyes hardened, strangely at odds with his plump face. “Even if I stocked everything she wanted, I can’t compete with San Antonio’s volume-discount prices.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Martin. Training racehorses isn’t cheap. Liz has to take advantage of cost efficiencies wherever possible. But I certainly have no intention of taking my business elsewhere.”

  Laying her forearm on the counter, Maggie traced the scarred wood with one fingertip. “The thing is, though, I really need my first month’s feed order by tomorrow morning.” Her finger stopped. “In fifty-pound bags.” She looked up through her lashes. “Cash on delivery. If that wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

  Pudge nearly fell off his stool shaking his head. “Shoot, no, Margaret. I’ll deliver it to Scott’s place myself first thing tomorrow.”

  “Perfect! I knew I could count on you. And by the way, I’ll need about twenty bales of good clean timothy hay, also.”

  Scott snorted loudly from behind the display. So much for counting on Luling Feed and Hardware. When Maggie sent him an over-the-shoulder glare, he couldn’t control his smirk.

  She turned back to Pudge. “You don’t have it?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Not timothy hay, no. But I can order it, Margaret. Shouldn’t take more’n a cou-pla days—”

  “The Taylor farm puts in a few fields of timothy each year for their stock,” a querulous voice interrupted.

  Maggie swiveled to Ben and favored him with her luminous gaze. “Mr. Drake, you’re a genius! Martin can buy Bill Taylor’s surplus and pick it up on the way to the H & H. I’m so glad that’s settled. Now, how’s that new great-grandson of yours doing?”

  Ben cracked a gummy smile, fumbled in the pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out a wallet-sized photograph.

  “Asked Nancy fer a pitcher like y’said.”

  Maggie glided to his side and draped an arm over his shoulder. Watching blond head meet silver, Scott felt an odd little catch in his chest.

  “He’s going to break the ladies’ hearts,” Maggie predicted. “I’ll bet you shattered a few in your day, too, didn’t you?”

  Ben ducked his chin in a surprisingly boyish gesture. Across the scattered dominoes, Lester scowled fiercely, his hands fisting on the makeshift table.

  The old coot was jealous, Scott realized, turning a measuring gaze on Maggie. She’d certainly made the most of her earlier visit to the store. No wonder she knew too damn much about his business.

  Just then she straightened and patted Lester’s gnarled brown knuckles. “How’s your arthritis, Mr. Tobin? Did you try that cream I told you about?”

  He jerked back his hand and crossed his arms. “Don’t need no cream.”

  “He fergot the name, is what,” Ben said with a reproving glance at his friend. “I can’t recollect it, neither. Our memories ain’t so good no more.”

  Lester sent a pained look Scott’s way.

  Taking pity, Scott turned his back and pretended to study a jar of screw-worm ointment.

  “My memory’s terrible, too.” Maggie’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I forget everything unless it’s written down. You know, Mr. Tobin, I’d be happy to get a tube of that cream at the pharmacy for you. It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Why don’t you just write down the name for Lester?” Pudge suggested.

  Something about her absolute silence prickled Scott’s neck. He turned. She was staring vacantly at Pudge’s puzzled frown.

  “I ain’t dead yet,” Lester groused, breaking her trancelike state. “I’ll write it here on my score pad if you’ll spell it out, Margaret.”

  “N-no, this is silly.” Grabbing her purse, she headed for the door. “I know exactly what to look for, and the pharmacy is right across the street. Be back in a minute.”

  Jerking the door open, she slipped out as two strangers walked in.

  Scott picked up Maggie’s Neiman Marcus bag from the floor and strolled to the hardware section. Damn, what had she bought that was so heavy? Certainly not the clothes he’d suspected.

  Everything about the woman confused him. One minute high society, the next down-home country. One minute supremely confident, the next incapable of speech. She’d had a dream about Matt’s death and screamed, “It should have been me.” She’d fussed over two lonely old men without demeaning their dignity. Could it all be an act?

  He reached the last aisle, set the shopping bag at his feet and found the roofing nails he wanted. Hell, he wanted everything in the store, what with all the repairs and improvements needed around the place. His leg jammed against a hard edge, and Scott focused all his anger, all his seething frustration on Maggie’s hapless bag.

  Of course her concern had all been an act. The spoiled little princess thought nothing of shopping at a ritzy store while he had to think twice about buying a friggin’ bag of penny nails!

  With a mindless growl, he gave the bag a kick that toppled it over and sent three items sprawling.

  Scott stared down at the boxed Teflon-coated skillet and smoke alarm for a long moment before crouching to pick up a partially hidden book. A cookbook, actually, titled Heart-Healthy Eating for Life.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the nameless emotion tightening his chest. He’d damn well better find a practical solution to his problems soon.

  Another fall would destroy him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  YAWNING SO HARD her jaw popped, Margaret leaned back against the headboard. The long bus ride from Dallas, her close call at the feed store, Scott’s silence on the trip back to the ranch—the day’s tension was catching up to her now. A normal person would go to sleep. But then, that was the crux of her problems. She wasn’t normal.

  Stifling another yawn, she pulled out a sheet of notepaper, clutched her pencil in a death grip and hunched over. Careful. Don’t forget the smile, or it will be a c instead of an e. Oh, so slowly, she formed the letter.

  Of all the tasks dyslexia made difficult, writing was the hardest. Her tutors had explained that a phonetic-based approach wouldn’t work for someone with her poor auditory memory for symbols. She’d learned, instead, how to recognize words on sight like the faces of friends, sometimes drawing picture notes that captured the word’s meaning. By matching the picture note to the printed word, she linked meaning to symbol and was able to recall the word thereafter. Sweet liberation!


  Focusing now on reproducing each letter, she glanced frequently at the cookbook lying next to her on the bed. An hour passed. When she straightened at last, it was after midnight. Her nightgown clung to damp skin, her shoulders ached, and she shook from exhaustion.

  But a list of fifteen grocery items marched somewhat unevenly down the page.

  Absurd to feel so proud. Yet she didn’t deny herself the moment. There’d been all too few such moments in her life.

  Tucking the grocery list into Grant’s cookbook, she smiled fondly. She’d given the book to him that afternoon, along with the frying-pan replacement and smoke alarm. He’d wrapped her in a bear hug so warm and safe and affectionate she’d ached with the pleasure. She would’ve tried to move a mountain if he’d asked. Writing the grocery list had only been slightly harder.

  Scott had grumbled something about her paying top dollar. But she’d rather he think her extravagant than admit entering an unfamiliar store would disorient her. It had taken her years to learn the layout of Neiman-Marcus.

  She picked up her hairbrush from the nightstand and began the one-hundred strokes ritual. As a young child, she used to close her eyes and imagine that it was her mother brushing her hair. Later, the action soothed her ego, affirmed her sense of self when she felt particularly worthless. Particularly stupid.

  Sighing now at the memory, Margaret slid the brush onto the nightstand, switched off the lamp and snuggled under the covers. Silence engulfed her in a soothing balm. It was always this way after completing a demanding task. Fatigue was a common symptom of dyslexia. She’d learned to pace herself and catnap when she could.

  Ten minutes later she was still staring at the ceiling. Moonlight filtered through the ligustrum bush outside her window and created fluttery shadows on the plaster. The longer she looked, the wider awake she felt. Maybe some herbal tea would help. It was the only item besides her clothes she’d brought to the ranch.

  Slipping out of bed, she groped in the closet for her knee-length kimono and gave it a tug. The wire hanger did a half gainer off the rod and clattered against the wood floor. Cringing, she belted her robe and tiptoed to the door. The groaning hinges made her wince again. Did all old houses make this much noise?

  Once past Scott’s door, she let out her breath and scuttled into the kitchen. Teabag, sugar, mug—everything was here but a kettle. She filled a pan with water and set it on the stove, turning on the proper burner with ease. Only on-the-spot pressure caused her to freeze up as she had her first morning cooking breakfast, or yesterday at the feed store in front of Pudge. Propping her backside against the counter, she folded her arms and felt her muscles relax.

  Despite its shabbiness, she loved this kitchen. With a fresh coat of paint, some new curtains—okay, maybe new linoleum, too—it would look warm and homey. Far different from the stainless-steel-and-black-tile-marvel in her parents’ home. The cook had never allowed her inside except on rare occasions.

  Frowning, she glanced out the window. The night looked so peaceful….

  Minutes later she sat on the cement stoop holding a mug of tea, gazing at nothing, just absorbing the quiet. Mingled smells teased her nose. Loamy soil. Rusty metal. Sweet clover. Tangy steam. Odd how much sharper odors were at this hour.

  Not a breath of wind stirred. She took a slow sip, her swallow sounding unnaturally loud. The barn stood iced in moonlight, camouflaging weathered boards and peeling paint and…Scott.

  Her spine stiffened. She squeezed the ceramic mug in her lap until the heat penetrated her brain. Shifting her grip to the handle, she watched him push off the shadowed wall and amble toward the stoop. Loose-limbed. Broad-shouldered. All cowboy, despite the fact he wasn’t wearing a hat. Or boots. With every step his feet flashed pale, three shades lighter than his muscular arms. Had this been a commercial, his low-slung jeans would have sold millions of Levi’s.

  He reached the steps and stopped, pushing two fingers up at a nonexistent hat brim. His face darkened. Was he blushing?

  Margaret smiled.

  “Habit,” he said, shrugging. His gaze swept her slowly, taking in silk hitched high above her knees.

  She tugged her kimono hem down, her toes curling against the cement. “It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

  He shot her a surprised look. “You think so?”

  “Well, it can’t compare with the Austrian Alps or the canals of Venice. But I guess in a pinch it’s okay.” Irritation sharpened her voice. His sheepish expression didn’t pacify her. “Every place has its own unique beauty. Why do you assume I can’t appreciate your ranch?”

  He stared off somewhere into the yard and frowned. “It’s just that…well, you’re not the kind of woman…” Blowing out a breath, he looked down at his feet, then back up at her. “You just don’t fit here, that’s all.”

  She hadn’t expected the truth to hurt so much. Taking a quick sip of tea, she rubbed the glazed daisy on her mug. “What kind of woman do you think fits here?”

  When she peeked through her lashes, he wore the pained “how did I get myself into this” expression of a man thigh-high into a knee-deep conversation. She decided to modify her question.

  “Did your mother and sister fit?”

  At first she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he mumbled, “Yes and no.”

  She arched a brow.

  He rumpled his hair and hooked a thumb in one pocket, the action pulling his waistband farther down. “Do you have any idea how hard ranch life is on a woman?”

  Her gaze snapped up. He was deadly serious. “I’m sure it’s not easy. I’ve had a small taste of it.”

  He snorted a laugh. “This ranch is a skeleton operation. No hired hands to feed, the cattle herd down to twenty head, no chickens, milk cows, goats, cats. Hell, most ranches are a regular zoo compared with this one. You can’t judge ranch life by the way the H & H is now. But when Mama was alive, her work never stopped.”

  The way he said Mama brought a lump to her throat. Oh, to be loved like that! She took another sip of tea and ached for the boy inside the man. “Was your mother a frail woman?”

  He seemed startled. “Frail? No, but she was the only child of older parents. She never lifted a finger growing up, except for her piano lessons. When she married Dad, she married a lifetime of hard labor. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry—we didn’t have a dryer until Laura was in high school—tending the farm animals, along with the calves that always manage to get sick.” He folded his arms and widened his stance. “Then of course there was the isolation.”

  His eyes dared her to dispute him. She set her mug down and hugged her knees. “Luling’s not so far.”

  “Too far to have a cup of coffee with a neighbor. Not big enough to offer theater or the symphony or any of the finer things Mama grew up with in Boston. Living on this ranch killed her—” He stopped and shook his head, as if regretting his outburst.

  “Pete told me she had cancer,” Margaret said gently.

  “Doctors still don’t know what causes cancer. Who knows, if she’d had an easier life…”

  “She had a happy life. That’s all a woman wants.”

  He cocked his head. “How do you know she was happy?”

  Margaret smiled, completely confident. “She was married to your father.”

  He stared, the stern angles and planes of his face softening.

  Her insides turned to mush. She struggled for composure. “Tell me about Laura,” she blurted.

  His eyes lit. A full-scale smile transformed his face into a younger, carefree version of the one she knew.

  Her lips curved in response. “I take it you’re rather fond of her.”

  “Laura’s just like me. Strong-willed, opinionated, exasperating…”

  Irresistible, Margaret supplied. The thought wiped the smile from her face. An irresistible man could control her, ruin her plans for an independent future. Better he stay insufferable.

  “Laura hated living on the ranch, even though she was a tomboy. The routine cr
ushed her spirit. A college scholarship was her ticket to the big city, and there’s no stopping her now.” He chuckled, obviously proud.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She and her husband, Alec, own an advertising agency in Houston. A real ‘hot shop,’ from what I understand. She’s expecting their first child in August.” He unfolded his arms, a veil of wistfulness settling over his features.

  He’s lonely, just like me. “Why haven’t you ever married, Scott?” She’d wondered before but had never had the nerve to ask.

  His expression closed up. He propped his foot on the first step and brushed something from his jeans. “1 plan to someday.”

  “When you find a woman who ‘fits,’” she guessed intuitively.

  “Something like that. No sense us both being miserable.”

  Oddly depressed, Margaret rested her cheek against her knees. Minutes passed and her lids grew heavy.

  “You should be in bed,” he said.

  She looked up. “We both should be.”

  His gaze sharpened. The innocent words took on a loaded meaning. Her sleepiness vanished, replaced with heart-stopping awareness.

  For an instant his eyes held suppressed wildness and frustration—suggesting sweaty skin and tangled sheets and come-and-get-it promise.

  Then he blinked and looked away, banishing the promise as if it had never been. “Go on in, Maggie.”

  Rising on shaky legs, she turned, opened the screen door and shoved against the inner door. A low mutter followed her into the kitchen, “One of us should get some sleep.”

  Slamming the door shut, she fled before the urge to stay grew stronger.

  SCOTT SQUINTED at the Lexus heading down the hill and muttered a curse. It was pure bad luck he was stuck on the roof with no time to escape.

  Pete had driven into town for the weekly grocery run, Dad had tagged along for the change of scenery, and Maggie was off with Twister somewhere. Scott had gotten maybe three hours of sleep after their little chat on the back stoop last night. And most of that had been filled with dreams of moon-spun hair and shapely legs and eyes so full of compassion he’d ached and felt comforted at the same time.