The Texas Way

by Jan Freed

  “Did you love Matt?”

  Her head whipped up. Scott’s eyes were inquisitive, not accusing. For some reason, that made her furious. “It’s a little late to be asking that, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But I’m asking, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t before.”

  No, he hadn’t asked. He’d vehemently warned his friend against eloping with her, filling Matt’s ears with prejudiced assumptions. Had last night’s talk in the moonlight softened Scott’s attitude toward her? Rattling snores rose from her lap and filled the stall. Intent on each other, neither she nor Scott paid attention.

  She searched his eyes, wishing they weren’t eternally shadowed by a hat. “Will you believe what I tell you now?”

  His jaw clenched, then relaxed. “Yeah. I’ll believe you.”

  But he didn’t want to, that much was obvious. She picked at a snarl of straw on her boot and thought about lying just to spite him. In the end, she knew that was a coward’s answer. Analyzing and accepting her feelings for Matt had been painfully hard. He’d been her admirer and defender, her last act of defiance against her father—but he’d never been her lover. Scott deserved the truth.

  Sweeping the hollow stalks aside, she lifted her gaze. “Yes, I loved Matt…as a friend. A best friend.”

  Scott snorted. “That job was already filled. He didn’t need a best friend.”

  She smiled sadly. “But I did.”

  “Dammit, Maggie, that was no reason to marry him.” He lifted his hat, finger-raked his hair, jammed the hat down low. “Rural veterinarians work long, grueling hours for chicken feed. Matt deserved a wife who wouldn’t hightail it back to her cush life when the going got rough.”

  Enough was enough! “If you’ll recall, I was running away from the cush life to be with Matt. I am sick to death of people thinking they know what I want. Daddy. Jim. You. Matt was the only person who understood me. A word of praise from him was worth ten Corvettes, a dozen Riverbends. He didn’t care a fig about my money or my looks or my roomful of trophies. He loved me. Me—can you believe it?”

  She noted his expression and laughed, the sound a half sob. “No, I can see you can’t. I couldn’t, either, but I wanted to. I wanted to so much I panicked at the thought of losing him, and I forced him into that car, and—” she drew a shuddering breath “—I destroyed the most precious person on earth to me. So go on and hate me all you want, Scott, it really doesn’t matter. Because you’ll never hate me as much as I hate myself.”

  Margaret bowed her head, unable to face his inevitable scorn. Or worse, his pity. The pig slept on, content and oblivious in her lap.

  “Maggie.”

  Blinking rapidly, she curled her fingers around a warm, floppy ear.

  “Maggie, look at me.” Scott’s voice sounded as ragged as her emotions. “Please.”

  She slowly raised her chin and thrust it out.

  His mouth quirked once before compressing into a grim line. “I miss him, too, darlin’.”

  It wasn’t an apology. He hadn’t said he didn’t hate her. But for just an instant he shared his loneliness and grief, and some of her own pain eased.

  “I would’ve been a good wife to Matt,” she said, wondering why it was vital he believe her. “Friendship isn’t a bad foundation for marriage. Eventually I would have loved him the way a wife loves a husband.”

  “The way you loved your lawyer.” He-tipped up his hat brim as if to see her better.

  “My law…you mean Jim?” She huffed and idly rubbed the ear in her hand. “Not hardly.”

  “You didn’t love your husband?”

  “No.” Let him draw his own conclusions. “At least not that way.”

  He cocked his head and studied her with keen interest. Gradually his eyes darkened, held hers captive while the mood shifted, became something thick and languid and undeniably sexual. “I’m curious, Maggie. If you didn’t love Matt or your ex that way, how do you know how a wife should love a husband?”

  She’d read books, and seen movies. She’d imagined feelings she’d never experienced with Matt or Jim.

  “I…” Margaret moistened her lips, distracted when his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her heartbeat accelerated to jackhammer speed.

  “Yes?”

  “I just know, okay?”

  “Okay. So tell me. How should a wife love a husband?”

  The Mule had nothing on Scott Hayes. He wasn’t going to drop it. “She should w-want to be with him all the time and feel miserable when she’s not.”

  His gaze climbed up, smoky topaz and filled with speculation. “That’s it?”

  “Sh-she should want to take care of him. And ease his mind when he’s worried.” Her voice sounded far away even to her own ears.

  “Very…sweet. But surely there’s more?”

  The fantasy gripped her. She couldn’t breathe or look away from Scott’s glittering eyes. Heat swirled and pooled low in her belly.

  “She should want to plan a future with him, full of hope and…and babies.”

  A tic pulsed in his cheek. “And?”

  And? She squirmed, her cheeks burning.

  “Tell me, Maggie. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  When she found her voice, it came out as a husky whisper. “A wife should want to touch her husband, should want to be touched by him.”

  Scott straightened slowly, his eyes never wavering from hers. The click of the door latch rang in her ears as he slipped inside the stall. From her vantage point he literally towered, six feet plus of lean cowboy so overwhelming she lowered her gaze.

  His dun-colored boots were darker at the toes, his jean cuffs frayed at the heels. He walked forward with athletic grace and eased down into a crouch. The stall shrank. His wide shoulders blocked her vision, his musky male scent flared her nostrils. She felt small and quivery and thoroughly female as she gazed up at his taut, rugged face.

  “How does she want to be touched, darlin’?”

  She couldn’t answer, could only stare with unconscious yearning into his eyes. His pupils dilated, his brown irises swirling with gold flecks. He lightly stroked a thumb down her cheek.

  “Like that, maybe?”

  Her lips parted on a sigh.

  His blunt fingertips tunneled beneath her hair and curled around her sensitive nape. “Like this, do you

  think?” Her lashes fell steadily as he massaged her neck.

  “Or how about something a little more intimate…something a husband would claim by rights?”

  Warm fingers cupped her breast and lifted. Her lids popped open.

  His cheeks and mouth were drawn tight, his eyes fierce with predatory concentration. She should slap his face. At the very least, push him away.

  Her fist came up, catching the brim of his hat and flipping it off his head like a bottle cap. Spreading her fingers, she plunged her hand into his shaggy hair. Ahh, just as she’d thought. The twining chocolate-and caramel-colored strands felt sinfully delicious.

  “A wife has her rights, too,” she said, enjoying his stunned expression.

  The moment froze as they both considered the possibilities. The masculine fingers around her neck exerted a steady pressure, pulling her mouth closer. Closer. His breath was warm and tinged with mint. Unable to look directly into the golden blaze of his eyes, she lowered her lashes. Their lips touched. Everything in her melted. She parted her lips to the masterly coaxing of his tongue.

  He wasn’t worshipful like Matt or smoothly polished like Jim. His tongue swirled and teased and…mated, she realized with a thrill.

  He clutched her hair and tilted her head back. She welcomed his tender roughness, welcomed the heat that incinerated the past and left only the here and now. Her tongue learned his salty, unique taste and dipped for more. His hand left her breast to press be-

  tween her shoulder blades and crush her against his chest.

  The rumble in his throat was cut short by a piercing squeal slicing
up from her lap.

  “Son of a bitch!” Scott sprang up and clutched his thigh, aiming a murderous glare at the pig now sheltered in Margaret’s arms. “He bit me! That ungrateful little runt bit me, and you’re comforting him?”

  Lost in a sensual fog, it took a moment for his words to register. She struggled to look contrite, instead of disappointed at the interruption. “Is the skin broken?”

  Gingerly probing the site of attack, Scott raised his head. A fallen lock of hair covered one eye. “I guess not. No thanks to that little…psychopath you’re protecting.”

  The man who’d expanded her sensual horizons moments ago now wore a boyish pout. Cute. Very cute.

  Scooping his hat from the floor, he brushed it off and crammed it home. “Sure, go ahead and smile. But Pete’s right. That pig is dangerous, and I’m not going to put up with much more from him.”

  The inspiration struck from nowhere.

  “I’ve got it!” Margaret said, gazing down at the runt’s distinctive black-and-white markings.

  “Huh?”

  “His name. I’ve been trying to think of one for days, but nothing was right.”

  “How about calling him Supper?” Man and pig exchanged a look of mutual hostility.

  “No, that’s cruel. Leave the poor thing some dignity. But Orca—now that’s a name to respect.”

  “Orca?” Scott stared reflectively at the black-and-white animal. “Orca…killer pig.” He met Margaret’s eyes and grinned crookedly. “I like it!”

  Cute. Very cute.

  Boy, was she in trouble.

  MARGARET ADJUSTED her reins and tried to concentrate on Twister’s rocking canter. Instead, images flashed in time with his hoofbeats. The confrontation with her father. Her confession of self-hatred. Scott’s kiss.

  After the ups and downs of the past few hours, her emotions were mincemeat.

  One fact remained perfectly clear. She would need all her energy and concentration to establish her reputation as a winning trainer. She had nothing to spare for a charismatic and surprisingly complex cowboy-even if his kiss had blown her boots off!

  It wouldn’t happen again, she vowed. She wouldn’t jeopardize her dream for the transient thrill he offered.

  That decided, she settled down to business. Spine straight, knees and ankles flexed, heels down, stirrups on the balls of her feet. The correct riding form had been instilled in her muscles by years of practice, leaving her mind free to focus on Twister.

  Oh, he was glorious! Fit beyond her wildest hopes. Smoother-gaited and more responsive than his dam, Aladdin’s Girl, despite having no formal training. If things had been different, Margaret had no doubt he

  would already be an international champion. Regret twinged and passed, swept away by the wind in her face, the urgent expectancy of spring in the parched land.

  She rode past mesquite branches furred with green buds. Brown scrub fallen in preparation for new growth. Darting birds with twigs in their beaks. And everywhere the tender, green tips of sprouting grass.

  Life. Renewal. Second chances. The signs were all around her, bolstering her confidence in a plan her father obviously believed would fail. But Twister would succeed. She knew he would.

  They’d covered about three miles of hilly terrain, alternating walk, trot and canter. She’d planned on turning around and heading back to the barn until she spotted a graded dirt road ahead—a long, flat stretch connecting the main compound with an obscure county highway.

  How do you feel? Her question flowed through the reins to Twister.

  She read his response in the tug of his bit, the raised flag of his tail, the unlabored sound of his breathing. Impatient. Eager. Strong.

  Licking suddenly dry lips, she turned him toward the road. When his hooves struck the packed red dirt, she slowed to a stop and faced the substitute racetrack ribboning into the horizon. Wispy clouds drifted across a marine blue sky. A gentle breeze stirred the hair against her shoulders. Her stomach churned, but she had to know.

  Dismounting, she shortened the stirrups and swung back up into the saddle. “All right, handsome,” she murmured, gathering the reins and crouching forward into jockey position. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  With hands and knees and heart she commanded Go!

  Only her training saved her from falling. Nothing could have prepared her heart for the sensation of being shot out of a cannon while perched atop the hurtling cannonball.

  Pounding hooves thundered in her ears. Strands of mane lashed her cheeks. Equine muscles extended and bunched in rapid succession. She narrowed her eyes against a wall of stinging wind and smiled with pure joy. Never had she felt such unleashed power, such…freedom. She settled her weight over Twister’s withers and soared.

  After three, maybe four furlongs, common sense nagged her to stop. Reluctantly she pulled on the reins.

  Twister shook his head and struggled to resume a full gallop. It took every ounce of her strength and a good measure of The Mule to bring him to a bowed-neck, trembling halt. Even then he danced in place.

  “You need to learn some manners, boy,” she scolded, grinning hugely. He was barely winded!

  She’d exercised enough Riverbend hopefuls to know Twister was special—a virtual running machine. Apparently roughing it on the open range had been a blessing, after all. The sloping, rocky surfaces of the H & H had stimulated both his muscles and hooves to grow hard and strong in defense. Dr. Morley had said as much after examining the stallion three days ago. This little experiment verified his theory.

  Suddenly she couldn’t wait to tell Scott. He might smile that boyish, lighthearted way she’d glimpsed in the barn. Not that she cared if he worried himself sick of course.

  Pulling out the rough map she’d drawn last week of the ranch layout, she pinpointed her present location. Directions were tricky for her. Without the diagram, she would’ve been hopelessly lost.

  As it was, she added thirty minutes to her ride by cutting over to the north fence line and following it back. In her experience, the axiom Better Safe than Sorry was exceedingly good advice.

  Cresting the final hill, which sloped down to the house, she reined in. A beige pickup, sporting the forest green silhouette of a running horse on the door panel, sat next to the barn.

  Three people stood near the tall ladder propped against the house. One of them turned and waved. Love, respect and a touch of apprehension propelled the hand Margaret lifted in return.

  THE LORD DIDN’T WANT him to fix the roof today, Scott decided. No, this was one of those days He felt like testing Scott’s mettle. Why else would He send forth the plagues of Donald, Lust, and now these two characters—all before noon?

  “Look, there she is!” Liz Howarth said, waving with one hand and tugging on Thomas Morley’s sleeve with the other. “Oh, my God, what a beauty.”

  Maggie and Twister were headed down the hill at a trot. “Posting,” as she called her fluid up-and-down movement, seemed a waste of energy to Scott. But he had to admit she looked damn good wasting it.

  Dr. Morley smiled. “What did I tell you? Wait’ll you see that chest. It’s magnificent!”

  Scott glanced sharply at the tall, black-haired veterinarian. Get a grip, Hayes. He’s talking about the horse.

  Wearing creased black slacks, loafers and a black linen shirt, Dr. Morley was as different from Doc Chalmers as a Doberman pinscher was from a basset hound. The younger vet had handled Twister’s examination three days ago capably and without fear, Scott admitted. So why did he feel like shoving those perfect white teeth down the man’s throat?

  Because he’s not looking at Twister now, buddy boy.

  Horse and rider had stopped in the yard. Maggie’s normally smooth blond hair appeared tousled and snarled. Her cheeks glowed pink, her eyes sparkled with excitement. Her white shirt was rumpled and unevenly tucked into tight black jodhpurs. She looked fresh from a session of heavy petting, and Scott wanted to drag her from the saddle and finish the job.

>   Morley reached her first.

  When she swung her leg over the stallion’s hindquarters and kicked out of the stirrups, he grabbed her slim waist and set her on the ground.

  “Thank you Dr. Morley,” she said, slipping from the doctor’s fingers seconds before Scott would’ve pried them off and broken each one individually. “Is everything okay? I mean, the lab tests didn’t show…?”

  “No, no, everything’s fine. In fact, that’s the reason I came with Liz—to go over the results.”

  Maggie nodded vaguely, her attention somewhere else. “Would you excuse me a moment, Dr. Mor-ley?”

  Beside Scott, Liz opened her arms.

  Tossing the reins to Morley, Maggie ran forward and fell into the taller woman’s embrace. “Liz, oh, Liz. It’s so good to see you again. I’ve really missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, honey. How’ve you been?”

  Scott’s mouth twisted cynically. Liz Howarth was going on forty, but came in a timeless package. Three years ago those pouty red lips and sultry blue eyes had sauntered into the Silver Spur saloon after Scott’s fourth shot of tequila. He’d been drunk enough to unwrap the package and sober enough to feel cheated.

  Studying Maggie’s softened features now, Scott was genuinely surprised. Liz was one of the most selfish, egotistical women he’d ever encountered. He found it hard to believe she’d inspired and kept Maggie’s loyalty all these years.

  Pulling back, Liz held Maggie at arm’s length. “Shame on you, training a Riverbend-bred horse and not letting me know. I had to hear about it from Thomas.” She gestured at the veterinarian.

  “I wanted to, but…”

  Liz chafed Maggie’s wrists. “But what?”

  “I was embarrassed. You defended my decision to quit showing horses when nobody else did, and here I am trying something even riskier.”

  “Now she admits it,” Scott muttered under his breath.

  “Racing is a crapshoot,” Liz agreed, draping an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “That’s why I wanted to see you. Not everyone’s cut out for the stress, hon. It’s not too late to admit you made a mistake.”