by Jan Freed
She gestured widely at the kitchen. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate.”
Avoiding her eyes, he buttoned his cuff and started on the other sleeve. “Don’t thank me too much. I’m about to put you to work. Dad went over to Ada’s to shower and change, but they’ll be back soon.”
Startled, she moved from the doorway and checked the clock. Ten after six! Grant must have gathered his things and left while she was in the tub.
“I—I didn’t mean to take so long in the bathroom. Oh, Scott, nothing’s ready. What will I serve?” Her newfound confidence cratered in the face of hostessing a dinner party with no dinner.
He met her eyes then, his gaze steady and calm. “The meat’s marinating in the refrigerator. The vegetables are washed. And the cake’s being taken care of. Trust me, Maggie. Everything will be fine.”
Her chest loosened. She released a shaky breath. “All right, oh, wise and great one. How can I help?”
“Set the table.”
She nodded, warming under his obvious approval.
His lids lowered, his leonine gaze sliding to her feet, then climbing leisurely back up to her hair. Heat of another kind spilled through her veins as he stared at the dainty gold heart trembling on her chest.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he said gruffly, striding out of the kitchen as if the hounds of hell yapped at his boot heels.
Margaret blinked at the empty doorway. Alone with her thoughts, she didn’t try to restrain her silly grin. It stayed with her as she bustled into action, pulling china and glasses from the cabinet. It refused to leave as she folded napkins and set out flatware. It remained plastered while she dragged in an extra chair from the porch. And when Ada and Grant burst in through the kitchen door, it grew to face-cracking proportions. They looked fabulous.
Grant’s black jeans and royal blue Western shirt complemented his graying auburn hair perfectly. Ada’s long denim skirt and red blouse set with silver studs flattered her dark coloring and trim figure. Together, they could turn heads in a posh city nightclub or a country dance hall.
If Grant was surprised at Margaret’s transformation, he hid it well. “Another gorgeous woman. Pinch me, Ada, so I’ll know I haven’t died and gone to heaven.”
Ada closed the door with one hip and set two bottles of Chablis on the counter. “I’ll pinch you, all right, if you don’t keep your eyes where they belong. Why steal the egg when the hen is nice and plump?” Her teasing glance included Margaret in the fun.
“That all depends—” Grant plopped a three-layer chocolate cake beside the wine “—on how nice and plump the hen is.”
“Nicer than an old fox deserves and plumper than the hen would like.”
“Ah, but old foxes prefer their hens with a little meat on them. There’s more to sink their teeth into, don’t you know?”
Watching the exchange, Margaret empathized with Ada’s sudden flush. When the Hayes men turned on that singularly intense, masculine look, no woman under ninety could remain unaffected. Judging from the melting gaze Ada returned, she was no exception.
Feeling voyeuristic, Margaret turned away and gaped, helpless to do otherwise.
“Why do I get the feeling I missed something here?” Scott asked from the hall doorway.
He wore casual dark blue slacks and a matching blue knit sports shirt with forest green collar and sleeve bands. His black loafers and belt gleamed dully, as did the silver watch on his wrist. He’d combed his wet hair back from his forehead, but already it slid forward in varying lengths and colors of brown. His square jaw had a shiny, just-shaved look, and he smelled of some wonderful, outdoorsy cologne.
The members of her Junior League would’ve collectively swooned at the sight of him.
“You’ve got the wrong party, mister,” Grant said, his eyes belying his stern tone. “The nearest country club’s twenty miles east of—” he clapped a hand to his chest “—good Lord, it’s Scott. For a minute I thought a stockbroker had made a wrong turn into our gate.”
Ada pushed Grant’s shoulder. “Behave yourself.” She smiled warmly at Scott. “You look very handsome, doesn’t he, Margaret?”
Handsome. Urbane. Intimidating. She couldn’t stop staring.
Scott flicked his eyes her way, then gazed stonily ahead.
He was nervous! And embarrassed, if the red stain creeping up his tanned throat was any indication. She knew that awful, squirmy sensation well.
“If that’s what a stockbroker looks like, remind me to call Merrill Lynch in the morning,” Margaret said with feeling.
Scott’s startled gaze met her admiring one. Suddenly the man who’d held her while she cried was visible. Thank you, his eyes said.
She smiled, happiness spreading giddily through her system.
Walking briskly into the room, Scott took command. “Okay, people, we’ve got a small kitchen here and everybody’s got to cooperate to make this work.” He pulled Grant’s cookbook off the top of the refrigerator and opened it to a marked page. “Maggie and I will handle the—” he peered down at the recipe and read slowly “—Burgundy Beef with Parsleyed Fet-tuccine. Dad, you and Ada are in charge of the salad. Nothing fancy. The stuff in the fridge is already washed.”
He answered a sharp knock on the door and Pete walked in, spiffed and shined in stiff new jeans and a crisp white Western-yoked shirt. Scott pointed a finger at the wrangler. “You’ve got bartender duty, Pete, and I need a beer. Pronto. You’ll have to ask what everybody else wants.”
Scott scanned each face in turn. “Anybody have any questions?”
Margaret cringed. Her dinner guests were being ordered to prepare their own meal. Yet Scott must have warned them in advance. The sight of their kind, willing expressions misted her eyes.
“No? Okay then, let’s get this party on the road.” Scott snapped his fingers above his head. “Bartender, I’m waiting.”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Pete grumbled without rancor, pushing past Scott and opening the refrigerator. “S’long as I’m here, who else wants a beer?”
“I do,” Margaret piped up, earning several double takes. She lifted her chin and sniffed. “In the bottle, not a glass.”
Grins broke out all around, and everybody moved into action.
It should’ve been a disaster. There was a lot to do and very little space in which to do it. But somehow, they’d all caught the same festive mood, and even the jostling and collisions became part of the fun.
Working as a team in such close quarters afforded intriguing opportunities. Like arms and hips brushing. Fingers fumbling for the same knife. A small hand placed on a brawny shoulder, a large hand splayed on a delicate back—all for the common cause of course.
To her astonishment, Pete could handle a corkscrew as deftly as a pitchfork. He lifted the wet half of the cork to his knobby nose, haughtily pronounced the wine fit for consumption and proceeded to do more than his share of consuming. His rusty cackle punctuated the general chaos at regular intervals.
Margaret didn’t even try to read the cookbook recipe, but followed Scott’s instructions like a willing slave. She would be strong and independent tomorrow. Tonight she would be happy.
“Make way, comin’ through,” Scott finally bellowed, lifting a pot of boiling water off the stove and heading for the sink.
Margaret dropped in a collander seconds before a torrent of water and pasta poured into the strainer. Billows of steam forced her back. She touched Scott’s arm, her fingers lingering on taut biceps.
He bent his head solicitously, his eyes worried. “Did I splash you?”
She shook her head, but didn’t lift her fingers. Some inner demon made her gently massage his muscle, instead. It hardened to steel. His eyes smoldered.
She couldn’t breathe, looking into those eyes. They promised her things she couldn’t put a name to, but yearned for just the same. Her ears buzzed. Everything ceased to exist but his slow, knowing smile.
“Watch out,
Maggie. You’re askin’ to get burned.”
“What if I’m careful?”
Their gazes locked, hers shyly curious, his threatening to consume her in its sudden blaze.
“Salad’s on!” Grant called from the table, drawing Scott’s attention.
Margaret sighed, whether with relief or disappointment she couldn’t have said.
Joining the bustle of people settling around the table, she decided relief was the wiser emotion. Scott was a natural leader, charismatic and authoritative. Just look at how they’d all accepted his direction without protest. But the same vitality that attracted her would eventually swallow her personality whole. And the warm sense of family she’d experienced tonight was equally dangerous to her need to stand alone.
She was a fool to play with fire, no matter how tempting the flames.
“A toast,” Grant said, raising his wineglass and looking around the table. “To Margaret. For making this one of the nicest birthdays I’ve had in years.”
“Here, here!” the others chorused.
Margaret forced a wobbly smile, wishing the thought of standing alone didn’t make her feel so very, very lonely.
CHAPTER TEN
SCOTT LEANED AGAINST the Cryopreservation Mobile Unit door and grinned in satisfaction. Chalk up another winning idea for Maggie. In the week since his dad’s birthday celebration, she’d plunged into ranch life with tireless enthusiasm. The house was cleaner than it’d been in years. The vegetable garden was making a comeback. Hell, she’d even started making new kitchen curtains out of some old sheets.
Not that she’d asked him for permission to play Suzy Homemaker. Scott jammed his boot toe into the dirt and shoveled a furrow. The only time Maggie had come near was when she’d recommended the cryopreservation service. He’d been grumpy and resistant—even though her reluctance to be around him suited his purposes just fine. But she’d insisted he couldn’t afford not to utilize modern technology.
Now Bandolero was getting “plugged into” a frozen-semen distribution network that opened up a worldwide market for his bloodline. Who’d’ve thought?
“Daydreaming about all the money you’re gonna make on that lusty SOB?”
Scott jerked and twisted around. Dr. Lawson smiled from the other side of the van.
“Promises, promises,” Scott mumbled under his breath.
“Hop in and I’ll give you a ride to the house.”
“Thanks.” He’d just as soon avoid his dad and Pete, who’d griped about his foul mood during the entire extraction procedure.
Climbing into the passenger seat, Scott waited for the portly, middle-aged veterinarian to settle behind the wheel before speaking. “So you think Bandolero has potential?”
“There’s no thinking about it. That’s as fine a Santa Gertrudis bull as any I’ve seen. When he’s plugged into the international network, he’ll make you a pretty penny,” Dr. Lawson assured him, pulling away from the H & H holding pens. Dad and Pete trailed behind in the pickup.
Scott checked the side mirror and frowned at the billowing dust. Damn, they needed some rain. The biggest water tank was dangerously low—almost as drained as his operating capital. He’d have to pen the herd close to the house and its supply of artesian-well water soon. And that meant higher feed bills.
Shoving aside the troublesome thoughts, he turned to the vet. “I should be able to haul Bandolero to your San Antonio clinic on Wednesday if that works for you.” Collection was much easier and more reliable in a controlled environment.
“Fine. Ten days at the clinic should yield enough doses to put you in business. I’ll be happy to lend my endorsement to Bandolero’s electronic file if you’d like.”
Scott cocked one eyebrow.
Dr. Lawson chuckled. “Margaret’s very persuasive. When I closed my general practice and started specializing in cryopreservation, I wouldn’t have made it without referrals from Riverbend Arabian Farm. She thought I might enjoy helping out a newcomer.”
Maggie had asked this man a favor on his behalf? “Look, you’re not obligated to—”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t risk my reputation on a bull that couldn’t cut it.” Pulling a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, Dr. Lawson blotted his receding hairline, leaned forward and adjusted the air-conditioning temperature. “A van full of liquid nitrogen, and I can’t get cool,” he grumbled, sitting back with a huff.
“How long have you known Mag—er, Margaret?”
“Since she was a teenager. Shyest little thing I ever saw, but that didn’t keep her from dogging my heels and asking a million questions. She knows more about Arabians than a lot of the top trainers I deal with.”
“More than Liz Howarth?”
There was a beat of silence. “Liz can make a horse perform, no doubt about it.”
“But?”
Shrewd hazel eyes glanced at Scott consideringly. The van hit a rut and jerked Dr. Lawson’s gaze back to the road. He seemed to make a decision.
“I once saw Margaret arguing with Liz over a gelding scheduled to show the next day. Margaret insisted the horse was in pain and should be withdrawn from competition. She was in tears, so I offered to check him over.
“Liz wouldn’t let me in the stall. Said she’d get the staff vet to examine him. Still, I managed to swing by his stall later and take a closer look.” His expression grew pensive.
Scott waited. The house and barn loomed into sight. “Dr. Lawson?”
“Huh? Oh, yes. Well, damned if I could find anything wrong with that animal. But on my next visit, his stall was empty. Margaret had gone back to school, and Liz said the gelding’s owners had decided to get rid of a loser.”
“They sold him?”
“That’s what Liz implied. But actually he collapsed right after an English Pleasure class. Died within twenty-four hours, a groom told me.”
Dr. Lawson pulled up in front of the house, cut the engine and draped an arm over the seat back. “The diagnosis was serum hepatitis from a contaminated tetanus shot. The symptoms hadn’t appeared yet when I examined the gelding or when Liz kept him in the show. But Margaret knew something was wrong.” His gaze sharpened. “You tell me who knows more about horses.”
The ranch pickup rattled to a stop beside the van, diverting Dr. Lawson’s attention. His story only confirmed what Scott had known for weeks. Maggie was special. Her uncanny gift with animals, combined with her practical experience, would ensure her success when she left the H & H.
As if on cue, Maggie emerged from the barn and smiled, each strand of her blond hair reflecting sunlight. Ignoring the sudden ache in his chest, Scott slid out of the van amid slamming doors all around. He lagged behind the other men as they walked toward the barn.
She faced them eagerly. “So how did it go? Was Liberty Bell cooperative? Did you get a good sample?”
Scott felt his face heat. His dad studied a thumbnail. Pete looked toward his trailer longingly.
She made a sound of disgust. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Dr. Lawson?”
The veterinarian chuckled. “We could’ve used a breeding rack to support Bandolero’s weight, but Liberty Bell’s a big girl. She’s fine, and we got a good sample.”
“What about his sperm motility?”
“His pre- and post-freezing evaluations are excellent.”
“That’s fantastic!” She turned to Scott with a smile. “When are you taking him to the clinic?”
Her clear gray eyes shone. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Wednesday, if you don’t need the truck.”
“Not me. Grant, Pete?”
They shook their heads, obviously as uncomfortable in front of Maggie with the subject matter as Scott.
“I’d best be gettin’ back t’work now,” Pete mumbled.
“I think I’ll go get lunch started,” Grant added, shaking Dr. Lawson’s hand. “Thanks for coming out. It was…an education.”
“Thank Margaret for calling me. I’m always happy to add a bull of Bandolero’s calibe
r to the network.” As Grant and Pete headed off in opposite directions, the doctor cocked his head at Margaret. “So where’s this wonderful stallion of yours you told me about?”
“In the barn. But he’s not really, um, my stallion. Scott and I, um, share ownership.”
Now she blushes, Scott thought in amazement.
“Whatever. If he’s out of Aladdin’s Girl and Pei-chur, you’ll be needing my services for him, too.” Dr. Lawson glanced at the van speculatively. “You know…the unit’s not usually set up for both cattle and horses, but I’ve got an appointment at Shamrock Stables this afternoon. I could get a test sample from your stallion now if you’d like.”
Scott exchanged a hesitant look with Maggie.
“Wouldn’t cost you anything,” Dr. Lawson added, sweetening the offer. “Equine cryopreservation is years behind the cattle industry. Until the success ratio catches up, I don’t charge for the first collection. If the sperm can withstand the stress of freezing and thawing, the straws are yours free and clear.”
“Straws?” Scott asked weakly.
“Breeding doses,” Margaret supplied. “But Dr. Lawson, we don’t have a mare.”
“I have a breeding dummy in the van.”
“Breeding dummy?” A ludicrous image flashed in Scott’s mind. “You don’t mean…?”
Dr. Lawson’s eyes twinkled. “’Fraid so.”
Scott bristled with masculine indignation. “Twister wouldn’t be fooled.”
“Right.” Maggie folded her arms, her condescending expression as old as Eve. “And men buy Playboy for the articles. Care to place a little bet that Twister won’t be fooled?”
Behind her back, Dr. Lawson made a negative chopping motion with his hand.
Scott swallowed his first response and shook his head.
She grinned. “Smart move. Those dummies all look alike in the dark.”
Watching Maggie saunter toward the van, Scott almost wished the princess would come back. At least she’d been quiet.
TWISTER TOSSED his head playfully, sensing freedom just ahead in the south pasture. During the two weeks since Dr. Lawson’s visit, Margaret had intensified the stallion’s workouts. The stallion looked forward to his daily turnout, especially since she’d begun letting Orca into the pasture, as well. If only the pig would cooperate.
