by Jan Freed
Pounding shingles had seemed like a good idea this morning. Right about now it ranked up there with getting an enema.
Hammering down a cedar shake, he stole glimpses of the approaching luxury car and its blond-haired driver. Scott hadn’t talked to Maggie’s father since the day Donald Winston had brought her dream foal to the H & H. The colt was a gift, he’d said, for preventing his daughter from eloping with a penniless veterinary student. The fact that Matt had died during the course of events hadn’t seemed to bother Donald much.
But it had ripped Scott apart.
With shattering grief over the needless death of his best friend. With agonizing guilt over his own role in the tragedy. And with bitter contempt for the woman primarily responsible—a woman he’d blamed so blindly, he’d accepted the foal she loved out of sheer meanness and a desire to punish.
He’d felt justified and vindicated—at the time. But time had a way of moving on, of putting details into perspective. In retrospect, he saw that accepting Twister smacked of a payoff. Scott had managed to avoid thinking about it for years. And then Maggie had shown up in his field eight days ago.
Shifting his knees on the pitched roof, he heard a car door slam and the sound of crunching gravel. The footsteps stopped directly below.
“Can you tell me where Margaret is?” Donald asked without preamble.
Scott pulled the last nail from his mouth and positioned the head carefully. Driving it home in one whack, he sat back on his heels, tugged off his gloves and squinted down.
The older man gazed up, his gray eyes the exact color of Maggie’s and filled with impatience. The hand riding his hip flashed Morse-code signals off a diamond on his pinky. His sports jacket alone probably cost more than Scott’s entire past-due feed bill.
“I expect she’ll show up soon,” Scott finally answered, tucking the gloves into his back pocket. “The farrier just left. Maggie took Twister out for a quick test drive.”
“So it’s Maggie now, is it?”
“What of it?”
“Sounds like you two are pretty cozy all of a sudden.”
“Get to the point.”
Donald smoothed his graying blond hair and blew out a breath. “The point is, people are talking. And not about your stallion, either. They’re wondering why a woman with Margaret’s prospects moved in with a confirmed bachelor.”
“Dad lives here, too.”
“Oh, excuse me. Two confirmed bachelors.”
The thought that others might have the wrong impression of Maggie’s living arrangement knotted Scott’s stomach. “Maggie gets room and board, period. If folks want to make more of it than that, there’s nothing I can do to stop them.” He tossed his hammer in the toolbox with a jarring clatter.
“I disagree. Anyone who can keep my daughter from marrying Matt Collins is smart enough to nip a little gossip in the bud.”
Slamming the toolbox lid shut, Scott glared down. He’d been wrong earlier. This man’s eyes were nothing like Maggie’s. Nothing at all.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t like me, Scott? I thought we had an understanding.”
“What I understand is that you haven’t visited this ranch in five years, and both of us wanted it that way. What are you doing here, Donald?”
All pretense at civility fled. “I’ve come for Margaret,” Donald admitted, flinging a hand at the stack of shingles by Scott’s knees. “The least my daughter deserves is a decent roof over her head.”
“If you’d helped your daughter when she needed you, maybe she’d have one.”
“Why you…I’ll have you know I asked Margaret to move back home and she refused! What did she tell you?”
“Nothing, Daddy.”
Scott jerked his gaze toward the sharp voice. Maggie stood several feet from the ladder, facing Donald with quiet dignity.
“I was too embarrassed to admit my wealthy father wouldn’t grant me a loan.”
Giving in to a compelling need he couldn’t explain, Scott maneuvered to the edge of the roof and climbed down.
Donald stepped aside to make room. “And why would I throw away good money to help you start your own breeding farm? You don’t have the skills to survive as a receptionist, much less run a prosperous stable.”
“How do you know?” Maggie demanded.
He walked up and squeezed her shoulders. “Margaret, honey, don’t make me list the reasons. Look at this ridiculous scheme of yours to race a cow pony. If that doesn’t prove you’ve got no head for business, I don’t know what does.”
“Come on, Daddy. You of all people know this ‘cow pony’s’ potential. We used to discuss his pedigree for hours, remember?”
“You’re the one who forgot it and ran away with the first boy who gave you a second glance.”
Margaret shook her head. “I always intended to come back for Twist of Fate. I would have, if you hadn’t given him away.”
Their gazes locked, shimmering with pain and resentment.
Donald looked away first. His arms fell to his sides. “Pack your bags, Margaret. I’m taking you home.”
Her eyes widened. “I have responsibilities here. A job.” Her voice rose as he started to turn. “What would I do at home?”
He spun around, his hands fisted. “Dammit, girl, how do I know? Have lunch with your friends. Join your mother’s bridge club. Do whatever you did when you were married to Jim, but do it where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Where I can’t embarrass you, don’t you mean?”
Ignoring her, he cocked a belligerent eyebrow at Scott. “Try to stop us, and I’ll press charges so fast you’ll be sleeping in a cell tonight.”
Scott took a combative step forward.
“I’m not going, Daddy.”
Scott stopped, some instinct telling him not to interfere.
“Don’t be stupid, Margaret. Now get your things together and bring them to the car.”
Her chin came up. “Don’t call me stupid. And believe me, I am not going with you.”
Scott hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and grinned.
Donald’s shocked expression revealed volumes about their relationship. “Be rational, Margaret. I’m…sorry I spoke to you that way. But why struggle so hard if it’s not necessary? Your mother and I agree you’ll be much happier living with us at home.”
“You have no idea what makes me happy. No idea what I’m capable of accomplishing outside of a show ring. I want the chance to succeed—or fail—on my own.”
“But there’s no need.” He seemed truly puzzled. “With your looks, you won’t have any problem finding another—”
“No! I won’t be pawned off on some man again.”
“Now see here, young lady, I won’t tolerate your attitude! When this ridiculous plan to race Twist of Fate blows up in your face, don’t expect your mother and me to welcome you back with open arms.”
She laughed, a bitter sound totally devoid of joy. “Don’t worry, Daddy, that’s the last thing I’d expect. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
Donald threw up his hands and heaved a sigh. “All right, let’s talk about what it’ll take to make you come home. There’s an SC 400 Coupe on the lot with your name on it.”
Scott noted Maggie’s stricken expression and moved to stand beside her. “Since you don’t hear so good, Winston, I’ll put it to you another way. Get the hell off my property. And don’t come back without an engraved invitation.”
GRANT STOOD before the rows of canned vegetables and tried not to look as foolish as he felt. All around him, shoppers—every damned one of them women—tossed items into their carts with decisive plunks while he stared at the overwhelming selection. Luling’s new mega grocery store was too modern, too bright, too mega for Grant’s tastes.
He squinted at the childish scrawl on the crumpled notepaper in his hand. He never should have offered to tackle Margaret’s list by himself. But Pete had few enough opportunities to do personal errands, and Grant had wanted
to give him a break.
Pulling down a can of peas at random, he read the label. Loaded with sodium. A definite no-no, according to his new cookbook. He’d been touched by Margaret’s gift, even more so by her gentle insistence that he follow the book’s guidelines, but dammit…
He shoved the can back into place, found a brand labeled Sodium Free and threw it into his basket. Bland food. Mild exercise. Restrained activities. Why hadn’t they just put a gun to his head and been done with it?
Rolling the cart forward, he blew out a guilty breath. He was lucky. He knew that. The doctors assured him he would eventually feel stronger than he had in years. But ever since his first heart attack, he’d been confused and grouchy and, yes, deeply ashamed.
His brush with death had jolted him awake, opened his eyes to the way he’d retreated from life and allowed his son to carry the burden of H & H Cattle Company’s problems alone. It wasn’t fair or honorable. He couldn’t undo years of indifference, and it sickened him.
“Uh, sir? Are you looking for a particular brand or something?”
Grant frowned at the stock boy shelving cans of tuna ten feet down the aisle, then flashed a sheepish grin. “No, son, you caught me daydreaming is all. I’m not exactly a pro at this.”
The teenager nodded self-importantly. “My name’s Bruce. You need any help, just ask for me. I’ve been here three months.”
“Will do, Bruce.”
Three whole months, eh? Grant headed for the next aisle, his smile mutating to a scowl at the sight of Ellen Gates fondling tomatoes in the produce section. He whipped around and rolled back toward Bruce at a fast clip.
“You never saw me,” Grant told the startled young man, who broke into a knowing grin.
At the far end of the store, he finally slowed. Damn, that’d been close! Ellen was turning into a major nuisance. At first her bedside attention had been flattering. He’d been weak, not dead, and he couldn’t help reacting to the sheer bounty she offered.
Now his eyes glazed over at the mere sight of her. The woman was dumb as a stump, and he avoided her as much as possible without hurting her feelings. Patricia had ruined him for other women.
So why are you having those dreams, hmm?
Turning into the last aisle, he stopped at the sight of his nighttime fantasy in the flesh. As if conjured by his taunting mind, Ada Butler stood studying the shelves. His pulse picked up speed.
What the hell was wrong with him? This was Ada. His neighbor. His friend.
And one fine-looking woman, you idiot.
She wore ordinary jeans and boots with a plain white shirt. But her figure was trim and youthful, with enough curves to fill his palms nicely. Short, dark hair threaded with silver curled around a heart-shaped face. In profile, her nose tilted up in a kissable curve. She reached high, the action lifting her breasts, and grasped something on the top shelf. He knew the exact moment she sensed him.
Her head snapped around and their gazes met. His eyes narrowed with intensity. Hers widened in shock.
They were turquoise, those eyes, and fringed with short, thick lashes untouched by mascara.
He dragged in a lungful of air. “Hello, Ada.”
Her hand jerked back. A beat later, she crouched beneath a waterfall of tumbling pink boxes. When the last one trickled off the shelf, Grant was there to catch it. She uncovered her head and straightened.
He cleared his throat and held out a pink box of tampons.
Blushing furiously, she snatched it from his hand and turned to put it into her cart. The bottom was filled with pink. She stared for a long moment, shrugged and dropped the box on top of the others.
“That oughtta hold me till menopause.”
She looked up with a grin that raised his spirits and had him chuckling along with her. The sizzling tension of moments before had vanished.
As they restacked boxes in companionable silence, he chided himself for acting like a randy kid. He had more important things to focus on. Like pulling his own weight at the ranch.
Sliding the last box into place, Ada gestured to their handiwork. “Thanks for the help, Grant.” She glanced at the single can of peas in his cart. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No…no, I’ll manage. But thanks for asking.”
Nodding, she stared straight ahead, then hesitantly back at him. “Well, then, I guess I’ll finish my shopping now.” She gripped her cart handle, but didn’t move.
“Sure, go ahead. I’ve got quite a bit left myself.” He gripped his cart handle, but didn’t move.
She was his neighbor and his friend and a lot smarter than a stump. There was no crime in enjoying her company, for God’s sake. He watched her start to roll forward and experienced a stab of alarm. Snatching up the crumpled shopping list from his cart, he smoothed the paper against his stomach and held it out.
“Maybe you could help me a little.”
Brightening, she took the list from his hand and gave it a cursory glance. “I can take you right to these items.”
“But can you do it without running into Ellen Gates?”
“Ellen’s here?”
Grant nodded, unconsciously comparing Ellen’s vacant blue eyes with Ada’s penetrating gaze, alive now with mischief. “Think you can do it?” he repeated.
She snorted and arched a brow. “Does a hog like molasses spice cake?”
CHAPTER SIX
MARGARET ENTERED the cool barn and allowed her rigid spine to sag. Facing down her father had sucked the heart right out of her. She’d held on to her control while watching his car drive off. She’d calmly brushed Twister and turned him out to pasture. She’d even managed to thank Scott for his support and send him back up the ladder with a casual wave.
But now that her guard was down…Oh, God, would she ever grow indifferent to disappointing her parents? Their scorn still had the power to wound her, to make her feel like a frightened twelve-year-old lying awake, pillow hugged tightly to her chest, listening to their shouting drift down the hallway.
“I’ve donated a fortune to that school, goddammit. You’d better talk this new teacher out of testing Margaret, or they’ll have no choice but to kick her out.”
“Me talk to her? This is all your fault! None of my family ever had these problems. Your own brother never made it past the sixth grade…”
Margaret shoved back the hurtful memory, only to have others take its place.
They’d blamed her for the failure of her marriage naturally. Berated her even more for signing a prenuptial agreement that left her virtually out on the streets. “You should’ve taken Jim to the cleaners,” her mother, charity fund-raiser extraordinaire, had said with a sneer. But Margaret couldn’t in good conscience take assets she’d had no part in accumulating.
Hugging her stomach, she remembered the smug satisfaction in her father’s eyes when he’d refused her request for a loan. She hadn’t asked for much. He would hardly notice the loss. But it wasn’t money he was afraid of losing. Donald Winston was afraid of losing face.
Armed with a high school diploma and a keen instinct for trends, he’d made millions securing some of the first import-car dealerships in the country. The elite strata of society he’d worked so hard to enter contained the very people who owned racehorses. He expected her to fail big time. And he wanted her to crawl back home before she had the chance to embarrass him.
Well, think again, Daddy.
An unfamiliar curl of pride straightened her shoulders. Perversely, tears battled for release. As she had since childhood, Margaret sought the nearest animal for comfort.
Slipping into the front stall of the barn, she closed the door and turned. Four cloven-hoofed feet stepped back. A flat, glistening snout sniffed the air. Licorice-drop eyes never wavered from hers.
“A real tough guy, huh? That’s okay. Trust shouldn’t be given lightly. Believe me, I know.” She sank down and sat cross-legged in the straw, gazing at the weanling pig in sympathy.
“It’s strange h
ere without your mom and brothers and sisters, isn’t it? You don’t have to pretend with me. I know you’re lonely and scared.”
And she did know. She’d always known how creatures felt, a gift she attributed as much to reading animal body language as to instinct. She watched the shoat lower his snout, sensed when his impulse to flee became curiosity and groped deep in her pocket.
Withdrawing her hand, she held it out and crooned, “C’mere sweetie. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
Squat legs braced, he stretched out his nose.
“Mmm, just smell that yummy grain.” She swayed her cupped palm, the better for him to whiff its contents.
Led by his quivering snout, he took a stiff step. Then another and another. He covered the final distance in a greedy lunge.
Margaret smiled at the feel of his shoveling mouth, the sound of his snuffling grunts. His little tail whirled in a blurring circle. As he scarfed up the last particles of grain from her palm, she scratched behind his ear with her opposite hand, replacing one pleasure with another. Soon he was pressing against her fingers in ecstasy.
She arched a brow. “Killer pig, humph! You’re nothing but a pussycat, you big fake.”
A baritone chuckle unrolled above her head. When she slapped both hands over her thumping heart, the leaning animal fell into the nest formed by her crossed legs and snuggled there contentedly.
How long had Scott been watching her, his tanned forearms braced on the half door, his amber eyes slitted with lazy amusement?
“You scared me to death!” she snapped.
“How do you do that, Maggie?”
“Do what? Have a heart attack?”
He flashed an unrepentant grin, then flung a hand at the pig reclining in her lap. “No, how do you tame wild studs and killer pigs? That animal won’t go near me or Pete, and we’re the ones who feed him. What’s your secret?”
Wiping a sticky palm on her jodhpurs, Margaret smiled down at the runt. He gazed back with porcine adoration.
“He knows I love him,” she said simply, stroking the purebred Hampshire from his white-haired collar to his sturdy black rump.
