by Jan Freed
Holding Twister by a lead rope, Margaret glared down at the eighty-pound culprit who had blocked her shins one too many times. “That’s it, Orca! If you can’t walk straight, I’m taking you back to the barn.”
The pig looked up with a “Who, me?” expression that made Margaret’s lips twitch. If she gave in to laughter, he’d never behave. Eventually he broke under the pressure and sidled out of her way.
“Good boy,” she praised him, her brief pat stirring his tail like wind on a whirligig.
Half a mile up the dirt track, she stopped at one of the few slatted aluminum gates on the ranch and eased it open. Orca squirmed through and trotted off. Twister nickered anxiously, not wanting to be left behind.
“All right, all right, let me get this open all the way.” She gave the lead shank a sharp jerk. “Hey, quit pushing! Have I ever left you behind?”
Ignoring Margaret completely, Twister gazed at the pig rooting happily beneath a live oak in the center of the field. Why did she bother? It was like trying to restrain a little boy at the gate of an amusement park while his best friend boarded the roller coaster. She unlatched the frayed halter, slipped it off and turned her face aside.
Clods of dirt sprayed her cheek as Twister thrust into a hard gallop. She brushed off her face and watched him slide to a stop beside Orca. The barrel-shaped pig looked homely and graceless next to the majestic stallion. Yet, as sculptured gray muzzle touched uplifted snout, she felt her heart contract.
Unconcerned with physical differences, the two animals had established an odd-couple friendship baffling to everyone but Margaret.
Twister had lived in isolation since Scott had sold all his animals but the cattle more than a year ago. Orca had been ripped from his mother and deposited in the same environment. She’d sensed their loneliness and suggested they be introduced. From that day on, they seemed much happier in each other’s company than when alone.
At some silent cue, the two animals broke apart and resumed separate activities. She closed the gate and stacked her hands on top.
It was already the second week of June. The Ar-mand Hammer Classic was in late August. So much depended on Twister’s talent. Since he’d never started a race, he had to show two officially timed works and be gate-approved in order to enter the Classic. Bandera Downs was the nearest racing facility, about ninety miles away. But Twister desperately needed experience on a track before he was officially clocked for the record.
Riverbend had a practice track. Within easy riding distance, too. Much as she hated to use anything connected with her father or put Liz in an awkward position, Margaret was prepared to do both for her future’s sake. Besides, Donald Winston rarely visited Riverbend. He preferred escorting his friends to the racetrack paddock before post time and playing the grand owner there. When he did visit the farm, he always alerted his general manager in advance.
What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him or Liz.
Margaret had phoned and invited her mentor to stop by today for a cup of coffee and a chat. If all went well, Twister would soon get the experience he needed.
Chin planted on her hands, she drifted into her fa vorite daydream. The one where Twister pounded across the finish line in first place and Scott wrapped her in his arms. The one where Scott continued the devastating kiss he’d started in the barn so many weeks ago. The one where, this time, he didn’t stop, and the kiss went on and on and on….
Margaret blinked. Something about Twister grazing in the distance—a stillness perhaps—sharpened her gaze. His head swept up and turned to the west. Grass fell from his mouth unheeded. He pricked his ears forward and sniffed the air.
Suddenly his top lip curled up over his nostrils in a strange, almost laughlike gesture. Margaret wasn’t amused. The special flehmen action, which trapped air inside the stallion’s nasal cavities, spelled trouble.
Sure enough, Twister uncurled his lip and arched his neck in a bulging display of macho power. He galloped to the barbed-wire fence and veered at the last second, racing parallel for twenty yards before wheeling to gallop against the wire in the opposite direction.
Margaret shuddered. Each Riverbend pasture was fenced with solid oak boards. Gates were custom-made of two-inch steel pipe. Hinges and latches were free of protruding bolts or edges. Every feasible hazard had been eliminated for the safety of the horses. In contrast, this ranch was a veritable booby trap.
She turned in the direction Twister was gazing. Nothing there. Maybe the whiff he’d caught was far away. Stallions could detect certain smells up to half a mile from the source.
Her hopes plummeted at the sight of a dark-haired woman trotting into sight astride a dainty blood-bay horse. Margaret lifted her hand and motioned urgently for the rider to turn back. Liz smiled, rose in her stirrups and waved.
Twister emitted a forceful nicker. With a look of startled awareness, Liz settled back into the saddle, turned her horse around and cantered back the way she’d come.
Margaret spared no time watching her leave. Slipping through the fence, she headed for the stallion racing away from her up the fence line. Barbs snagged his tender flesh as he went. In his state of high arousal, he obviously didn’t feel them.
At the far corner of the field he stopped, his head held high, his gaze fixed on the point where the mare had disappeared. He let out a high, extended whinny. Come here! he commanded.
When he got no response, Twister turned and galloped back toward the gate, his silver tail streaming behind him like smoke from a locomotive.
He was going to charge the barbed wire. Maybe try to jump it! Yelling wouldn’t stop him. He’d tear himself to shreds in his frenzy to get to the mare.
With a curious sense of weightlessness, Margaret moved into his direct path. Her mind blocked out the drumming hoofbeats, the hot sun on her skin, the gritty dust in her mouth, the sight of eleven hundred pounds of runaway muscle and bone charging closer and closer to where she stood. She focused solely on the wild spirit filled with raging frustration.
Easy, friend, I am here, her thoughts warned. Twister, stop!
Twister’s head snapped forward. He dug in his hooves and rode his haunches to a skidding stop that sprayed her with dirt.
Her arms trembling, Margaret quickly slipped the halter over his head and fastened the buckle. His ribs heaved. Trickles of blood marred his beautiful pearl gray coat on both sides. If she hadn’t broken through to him…
Still holding the lead rope, Margaret threw her arms around his neck and hugged. She barely registered the sound of pounding feet. Twister fidgeted, his attention still focused on the unseen mare.
“You little fool!”
Hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around.
Scott glowered down at her, looking more furious than she’d ever seen him. “Just what on God’s green earth were you trying to do a minute ago? Get yourself killed?”
Stung at his lack of faith, she tilted her jaw. “He was about to charge the fence. I had to stop him.”
His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “What if he hadn’t stopped? What if he’d run you over? My God, do you know how I felt running down that road knowing I was too far away to reach you?” He shook her hard enough to snap her head back, then released her abruptly.
She rubbed her shoulders, noting with a mixture of chagrin and pleasure the pallor underneath his tan. “I’m sorry I worried you. But Twister stopped, didn’t he? I knew he would hear me.”
Scott looked at her oddly. “You never opened your mouth, Maggie.”
The implication hovered between them. She turned wondering eyes on the stallion. Already the incident seemed unreal, as if she’d been dreaming. Whatever connection she and Twister had shared was broken now. He danced in place, gazing anxiously at the horizon.
“Where’s Liz?” she asked, sidestepping further discussion.
“Waiting for you up at the house. I was heading in for lunch when she rode up asking where you were. She took off before I could stop her,
came back a little while later and I…had this feeling. Dad has the truck, or I would’ve gotten here sooner.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Liz knows better than to bring a mare anywhere near Twister.” Margaret thrust the lead shank into Scott’s hands. “How about doing a little male bonding with your old buddy and taking Twister for a walk? A long walk, in the opposite direction of the house.”
“What about these cuts?” Frowning, he gently probed several gouges in the gray coat.
She hid a smile. Big, bad Scott Hayes was a fraud. “They’re superficial, thank goodness. He’ll be fine. Give me at least thirty minutes, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. But I’ve got a better idea than walking.” In one fluid motion, he grabbed a fistful of mane and vaulted up onto Twister’s back. “Open the gate, would you?”
For a minute she couldn’t move. During the entire time she’d lived on the ranch, she’d never seen Scott ride the stallion. The sight of two such perfect male specimens together was magnificent.
She opened the gate, squelching a pang of jealousy as the stallion trotted through and continued on up the dirt track without balking. Scott rode with the natural, athletic grace he exhibited in all things.
Sensing he had control of Twister despite his lack of a bridle, she started to close the gate. Orca squealed indignantly from across the field. Margaret waited while he trotted toward her on stubby legs, his ears flapping rhythmically. He reached the gate and snapped at a metal slat in passing.
“Don’t get mad at the gate for shutting you in. It’s your fault for not paying closer attention. I have other things on my mind.” Like giving Liz a piece of it when I see her. Fastening the latch, Margaret headed for the house with Orca grunting at her heels.
Five minutes later, she watched Liz rise from a chair on the front porch and walk down the steps. Her tweed jodhpurs, wheat-colored blouse and glossy black chignon were mannequin perfect. “I’ve been so worried. Are you all right?” Liz asked, her concerned blue gaze doing a lot to soothe Margaret’s irritation.
Orca chose that moment to plop his rump on Margaret’s left boot and sit doggy-style, his forelegs braced. He yawned widely and smacked his lips.
Resisting the urge to giggle, she bent down and scratched a floppy ear. “Twister’s a little nicked up, but he’ll be okay with some antiseptic.” She nodded toward the dozing bay whose reins were looped over the porch rail. “I can’t believe you brought a mare that’s in heat onto this ranch.”
“In heat?” Liz shook her head slowly, as if unable to credit her ears. “Margaret Winston, I did no such thing! You of all people should know that.”
Memory of Liz’s patient instruction in the ring sent heat to Margaret’s cheeks. She owed her first taste of winning, as well as much of what she knew about Arabians, to this woman’s guidance.
“You’re right, I do know.”
Liz sniffed, obviously still wounded. “Dancing Flame was teased just this morning and nearly kicked poor Nova’s face in. I wouldn’t have ridden her otherwise.”
“Nova’s still in action?” The gentle standardbred stallion used to gauge Riverbend mares’ heat cycles had been a favorite of Margaret’s. “He must be, what? Twenty-two, at least.”
“Twenty-three. And I trust a mare’s reaction to him over a veterinarian’s opinion any day. If your stallion cut himself up over Dancing Flame, he must be extremely excitable.”
“I can handle him.”
Liz looked as if she wanted to object, then shrugged. “Maybe so, but what about his jockey? What about the strangers he encounters at the racetrack. How are his manners there?”
“He, um, hasn’t run on a racetrack yet. I’ve been conditioning him here on the ranch.”
In the eloquent silence, Margaret felt sixteen years old again, her horsemanship skills reduced to amateur status next to an acknowledged master’s.
Suddenly Liz smiled. “Don’t look so glum. It’s not that bad. I’d say it’s time we saw what your Twister can do on a real track.” She draped her arm around Margaret’s shoulders and squeezed. “Why don’t you make that cup of coffee you promised me, and we’ll talk some more?”
“WHOA, TWISTER, hold up.” Scott shifted his weight and grimaced as steamy denim clung to his buttocks and thighs.
Ah, yes, the joys of riding bareback. How could he have forgotten? Not that remembering would’ve changed his impulsive action. His need to reach the highest point on the H & H ranch had been too strong.
He gazed at the sweeping view of cleared fields and dense brush below. Clouds skudded across a blue-bonnet sky, trailing shadows over the land.
His land.
He knew every sandstone rock, every clump of cactus, every gully and tree and precious blade of grass on the place. He’d dreamed of improving and expanding it into something grand. He’d settled for keeping it, period. The land was all-important. His reason for living.
Yet for the first time since he was twelve, the panoramic vista ahead failed to soothe him. He couldn’t shake the image of Maggie standing directly in Twister’s path.
She’d looked so small and fragile. She would’ve been crushed like a sprig of clover beneath Twister’s hooves if he hadn’t stopped. Watching the scene unfold had been…Scott drew in a strangled breath. He never wanted to feel that way again as long as he lived.
Ever since his father’s birthday celebration, his feelings toward Maggie had changed. Become something that involved his heart, as well as hormones. He actually looked forward now to each new day. Hell, he even thought Twister might be the answer to the H & H’s financial problems, after all.
A lazy horsefly circled Twister’s ears. The stallion shook his head. His long tail swished, slapping Scott’s leg and jolting him back to the present.
Bandolero wouldn’t bring in appreciable income for months. Scott would have to sell some of the herd to cover expenses through the summer. He would make an appointment with the bank and ask for another extension. And he would damn well keep his hands off Maggie until he knew which way the wind blew.
She deserved better than a bankrupt cowboy.
For two weeks he’d managed to treat her as a big brother would, truly believing he could keep his banked attraction under control. But today’s episode proved he’d been fooling himself as much as her.
Big brothers did not shake their sisters silly to keep from kissing them senseless.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ANOTHER POLE flashed by. Twister hugged the inside rail as Margaret crouched low over his withers. Air whistled in her ears. Her hands pumped back and forth. His thudding hooves vibrated through the stirrup irons, up her legs and into her very bones.
Two days ago Liz had offered the use of River-bend’s track to an unproved six-year-old. Margaret grinned behind the stallion’s whipping mane. He’d proved himself all right. The courage of desert ancestors fed his spirit. The blood of champions fueled his heart.
The dirt track ahead beckoned dry and smooth. Safe, her conscience assured her. The desire to show Scott exactly what they owned got the best of her.
She loosened the reins a notch.
Twister flattened his ears and lengthened his neck, converting the extra inch of rein into pure undiluted speed—wind across sand. Margaret laughed aloud.
This was more than talent. This was greatness of a kind horsemen hungered for, spent lifetimes and fortunes breeding for in the hopes of producing an athlete like Twister.
He swept past the eighth pole for the second time, completing one and one-eighth miles—the same distance as the Armand Hammer Classic. Margaret pulled back firmly on the reins. Twister shook his head but didn’t slow. Setting her teeth, she stood in the stirrups and hauled back using her full weight.
“Stop, you stubborn mule,” she commanded.
Although comparable in size to male jockeys, she lacked their upper-body strength. Twister strained against the bit. Now what? Just when she thought her arms would wrench from their sockets, he slowed to an easy gallop.
As he rounded the far curve of the track and headed into the homestretch, Margaret settled down in the flat racing saddle. Two figures hung over the outside rail near the eighth pole. Her gaze fastened on the one wearing a cowboy hat. His grin flashed white in the distance. She raised her arm and waved—and heard a muffled pop.
Twister jerked.
Then clamped his teeth on the bit and surged forward, ripping one rein from her loosened grip. She teetered. Recovered. Hung on grimly during his erratic flight down the track. He was out of control. And so was she.
The loose rein writhed in the air. She grabbed for it, bumping perilously against his neck before scrabbling upright. If he stepped on the rein…
She’d once seen a mare’s neck snap in a similar situation.
“Jump!” Scott shouted in the distance.
Kicking free of the irons, she gripped Twister’s heaving ribs with her thighs. Balance. That was the key. Native Americans had done this kind of thing without killing themselves.
Lower and lower she leaned, watching for her chance. The rein hit the dirt and rebounded wildly in her direction. She stretched her torso to the limit, caught the rein with the tip of her fingers and groaned when it slithered away. Her weakening legs slipped. With a last surge of energy, she swung herself upright. And gasped.
There was no time to think, no time to do anything but gather the one pitiful rein she held and feel Twister’s powerful hindquarters bunch.
Then they were flying over the outside railing at the far curve of the track. The landing jarred Margaret’s teeth and propelled her halfway up Twister’s neck. Somehow she managed to get back in the saddle.
Twister, stop! her mind commanded.
No connection. She was too unfocused.
Twister pounded over a manicured lawn, his hooves kicking up huge divots of turf. He streaked past a bed of rosebushes, his dangling rein snagging through the thorns.
