by Jan Freed
“We don’t have any choice, Maggie.” His voice sounded unnaturally thick, but resolute.
She knew the admission cost him dearly, not only in lost dreams, but companionship, as well. Scott had raised Twister from a foal, and a lasting bond had been formed in the process. Intellectually she acknowledged that Scott was right. But, oh…how would she bear the loss?
Dropping her head, she noted with detachment the blood saturating the front of her white shirt and trailing into her navy slacks. The sound of Twister’s labored breathing filled her head. Was he in pain? What was he feeling? Once before, when he’d tried to reach Liz’s mare, Dancing Flame, Margaret had entered a realm of mental communication with Twister. Could she reach him that way again?
She looked up into Scott’s tormented eyes. “Why don’t you go sign whatever it is Dr. Morley needs for permission and give me a minute alone with Twister?”
“I’ve got the medical forms in my office,” Liz volunteered from behind.
Scott squeezed Margaret’s hand. He swallowed twice in rapid succession, then nodded bleakly and rose to walk with Liz and Dr. Morley down the corridor.
Sitting inside the stall, Margaret lifted Twister’s head and cradled it in her lap. He’d withdrawn to an inner world, oblivious to his surroundings. Still, she stroked his neck and scratched his favorite spot beneath his chin, untangled his mane with her fingers and crooned loving nonsense.
The actions comforted her. Soothed and relaxed the part of her mind she desperately wanted to function beyond what she’d ever attempted in the past. Drawing a deep breath, she lapsed into silence and closed her eyes. Channeled her mental energy into probing an invisible and mysterious barrier. Pushed hard…harder…harder still…and it dissolved like mist.
FEAR. SUFFOCATING, paralyzing. Swallowing Margaret whole and snuffing out all light. She struggled to break free, then stopped.
He was alone. So alone.
Twister, I am here.
Confusion. Flickering, wary. Circling her tentatively, then swelling with wonder. Strengthening with hope. She smiled in the darkness.
Yes. Friend is here.
Joy. Dazzling, blinding. Prancing and cavorting, then racing beyond the fear. Higher and higher. Faster and faster. Fainter and fainter.
Twister, stop!
Love. Infinite, humbling. Filling her heart to bursting, then vanishing into nothingness.
She was alone. So alone.
MARGARET GASPED and opened her eyes. Scott was leaning down, gripping her shoulders hard enough to bruise. His frightened expression melted into relief.
He lifted one hand and brushed beneath her eyes with his knuckle. For the first time, Margaret realized she was crying.
“Scott…” Awe closed her throat. She couldn’t seem to stop her tears.
“I know darlin’, I know. You can get up now. Twister’s…gone.”
She looked down at the head she still cradled. No tortured breath stirred Twister’s velvety nostrils. He lay utterly still. Yet she couldn’t mourn him. Not after what she’d just experienced.
“C’mon, Maggie. It’s better this way. Twister’s out of pain now.” Scott’s own pain showed in his slow speech, his carefully controlled expression, the tremor in his hand that reached out to help her up.
She placed her palm in his, but resisted his pull. “I was with him at the end, Scott.”
He squeezed her hand briefly. “I’m glad. Twister loved you.”
Platitudes, spoken to ease her heartache when it was his own that needed soothing. She tugged Scott’s hand for attention, recalling Twister’s joy and lack of fear.
“You don’t understand. I was with him in his mind. He wasn’t in pain, Scott.” Margaret stared into Scott’s skeptical eyes and willed him to believe. “Remember the day Twister almost ran me over? I was with him then, too. I stopped him with my mind. And just now…Oh, Scott.”
She saw him struggle with the concept and search her face intently. When she smiled, his eyes widened. Something of her wonder and tranquillity must have shown, because the terrible rigidity of his features relaxed.
He rubbed her palm with his thumb. “I’m glad.” No platitude this time, she sensed, but sincerely felt. “Let’s go home now, Maggie.”
THE SMALL GRANITE headstone sparkled in the early August sunlight. Maggie’s doing. She’d driven into Gonzales and ordered it the day after Twister’s death. Hat in hand, he glanced at the inscription he’d memorized long ago.
Twist of Fate, aka Twister. May his spirit run free forever.
The red mound of dirt had settled a bit, but no grass had rooted. Maggie’s roses lay wedged against the headstone. The dozen long-stemmed beauties, tied with a vivid red ribbon, were brown and brittle now. The attached card stirred in the breeze. Scott had memorized that, too.
Congratulations to the woman who finally brought Scott to his knees. Love, Laura.
Maggie’d received the extravagant delivery the day Twister died, before Laura had known of the tragedy. Scott hadn’t explained that his sister was making good on a personal vow. Nor had he given Maggie any reason since then to believe the card’s sentiment. He’d stared at those damn roses in the center of his kitchen table for more than a week, then one day they’d disappeared. And that’d been even worse.
Scott put on his hat and snugged it down. The dry, windy hill supported little but cactus, a stunted mesquite tree and now a lonely grave. It’d seemed fitting to bury the stallion here, the place where Scott had planned and dreamed. He snorted and kicked the mounded dirt.
The bank would foreclose on the ranch in two weeks. Maggie’d sent résumés to all the top breeding farms. One of them would pan out soon. Grant had insisted she stay this long to save what meager funds she had left until she found a position. As for father and son…
Twister’s insurance settlement had covered about half the balance due on Scott’s most recent bank loan. Much as he hated to sell the herd, he and his father needed the money to tide them over until Scott found a job. He had a strong back and a good brain, marketable commodities in this area. He would find work—as long as no employer expected him to have a heart, too. That had died with Twister.
The proof lay before him, in the panoramic view that failed to stir his emotions. He scrubbed his face with both hands and muttered a curse. Maggie would marry him if he asked. The knowledge tortured him day and night. Maintaining his facade of cold indifference was a living hell in the presence of her constant loving support.
He could start over, she insisted. This was a setback, nothing more. She would help. She wanted to help, if he would only let her.
When the temptation to agree became unbearable, he made himself picture her living in an apartment inferior to the maid’s quarters at Riverbend. Or driving his disreputable pickup truck another five years. Or replacing her designer wardrobe piece by piece with discount-store specials. It didn’t matter that her values weren’t that shallow, that she didn’t seem to care about such things.
He cared. Desperately. Deeply. With everything that made him who he was and allowed him a small measure of masculine pride. It was the Texas way.
Sighing, he headed for the truck at the bottom of the hill and vowed not to weaken. Hurting Maggie now would save her a lifetime of drudgery. She would thank him for his kindness one day.
Ten minutes later Scott drove up to the yellow farmhouse and narrowed his eyes at the Lexus parked in front. Donald Winston had phoned once after Twister’s accident and surprised them all. Instead of ranting over the use of Riverbend without Donald’s knowledge, he’d expressed sympathy and repeated his offer for Maggie to live at her childhood home. She’d turned him down, against Scott’s protests. Cutting the engine, he wondered now if Donald was here to bully her in person.
Scott opened the kitchen door to the sound of voices in the parlor. He walked up the hall and stopped in the doorway. Maggie and Donald sat on the sofa, oblivious to anyone but themselves.
“I’m offering you exa
ctly what you said you wanted, Margaret. How can you turn me down?”
“For one thing, Daddy, it’s not exactly what I said I wanted. And what I wanted then isn’t what I want now, anyway.”
Donald looked thoroughly confused.
“For another thing, I could never take Liz’s job away from her. She taught me everything I know. Riverbend is her home. It would devastate her to leave.”
“She’s already left, dammit. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I fired her yesterday.”
Maggie’s eyes widened, then flashed. “Liz has devoted ten years to making Riverbend the best—”
“Liz Howarth has been stealing Riverbend blind for at least seven years! She’s been in cahoots with Thomas Morley for the last three, trumping up fake injuries and splitting his overcharges.”
Maggie grew very still. “H-how do you know?”
“You remember Harold and Jean Canning? They’ve dabbled in Arabians now for several years. Harold brought in his Lexus for servicing and stopped by my office with an invoice from Riverbend. It included treatment charges for a laceration on his gelding. Harold said his daughter had just seen the horse and there hadn’t been any sign of a wound.”
Maggie shook her head as if trying to absorb the news.
“I sent my accountant down for a look-see. The deeper my man got into the books, the lower Liz sank. I still don’t have the total figure, but if you had all the money she skimmed over the years, you’d have your own breeding operation now, I can tell you that.”
Leaning against the doorframe, Scott watched Maggie’s face grow pale. She looked dazed and a little lost and a lot vulnerable. It took all his control to stay where he was.
She drew a shaky breath. “What’s going to happen to her and Dr. Morley?”
“I’m pressing full charges.”
“They could go to prison?”
“Very likely. We all have to pay for our mistakes sometime. At least we should. I’m certainly paying for not keeping a closer eye on Riverbend.” Donald reached out as if to stroke Maggie’s hair, then let his hand fall awkwardly to his lap. “And I…I’ve made a lot of mistakes with you, Margaret. I know that. But I’ve kept tabs on what you’ve been doing recently, and it’s damn impressive. If you’d accept my offer to manage Riverbend, I’d be very proud.”
Maggie looked as shocked as if he’d slapped her. Pink tinged her cheeks. “But all the paperwork…I’m so slow…”
“I’d hire an office manager for the clerical stuff. I need someone with an overall working knowledge of Arabians to manage the farm. Someone I can trust. I can’t think of anyone more qualified than you.”
She smiled tremulously, her eyes glistening. “Oh, Daddy.”
Scott was torn between gratitude for Donald’s words and anger that they’d come so late. He pushed off the doorframe and entered the room.
“She’s qualified all right. You’d better snatch her up before someone else does.”
Maggie’s smile dimmed.
Donald rose and started to extend his hand, then seemed to think better of it. “I know you told me not to come back without an invitation, Scott, but I had to make Margaret see the sense in this. She can’t stay here, with the bank about to…” He reddened beneath Scott’s level stare. “I—I mean, she needs to relocate. And I need a manager for Riverbend. It’s a perfect solution.”
Scott schooled his expression to blandness. “I agree.”
“You do?” Donald smiled broadly. “That’s wonderful! See, Margaret? Scott thinks it’s the right decision, too.”
“Is that what you think, Scott? That my future is at Riverbend? That I should accept the job?” Her mist gray eyes beseeched. Adored. Condemned.
She was willing to sacrifice everything for him. He could do no less for her.
Scott chose his words carefully. “I think you’d be stupid to wait for another offer to come along.”
MARGARET HEARD the distant whine of an engine and held her breath. A surprising number of vehicles visited Riverbend every day. She waited for the sputter and rattle that would announce the ranch truck, then wilted in her tufted leather executive chair. It wasn’t Scott. If he hadn’t come in a week, he wasn’t coming at all. He didn’t want to see her. When would she get that through her stupid head?
She glared around her plush office as if it were a prison cell. She’d accepted this job for lack of the one she really wanted: wife and helpmate to a hardheaded cowboy. Her father’s offer for her to manage River-bend had shocked her, thrilled her, soothed her old wounds. But it hadn’t tempted her. Not in the least. She no longer needed Donald Winston’s approval or respect, because at last she respected herself.
What she did need was Scott.
Telling herself his masculine pride was the cause of his rejection didn’t wash. After all, Grant was every bit as stubborn as his son, yet Ada had convinced him to move in with her after the foreclosure next week.
Margaret fought the sting of tears and admitted the truth. Scott didn’t love her. At least, not enough to share his adversity or to consider her a partner in their relationship.
Suddenly she missed Twister with aching intensity. He would have settled his chin on her shoulder and provided silent, unconditional comfort.
Blinking to clear her blurred vision, she tried to concentrate on the detailed medical charts spread out on the desk. She was interviewing new veterinarians this week and wanted to get a handle on the farm’s requirements and history.
From what she’d learned, Liz and Dr. Morley had taken excellent care of the eighty-some-odd horses at Riverbend, about a third of which were boarded by long-distance owners. It was this last group of animals the two conspirators had selected for their scam. Claiming minor injuries or illnesses that never actually occurred, they billed treatments through River-bend.
The recent police investigation had revealed Thomas Morley’s motivation. Oh, he loved racehorses, all right. But not nearly as much as he liked to bet on them at the track. Apparently Liz had exploited his gambling weakness to gain his cooperation.
According to one detective on the case, Dr. Morley was devastated at the destruction of his career, yet relieved the truth was out. Whatever his legal punishment, therapy for his addiction would no doubt be included. Margaret was glad.
The office door opened and a groom’s head popped through. “The feed truck is here, Miss Winston. You want me to show’m where to unload?”
“No, that’s all right…Dan, isn’t it?” She smiled at the groom’s obvious surprise. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He nodded shyly and ducked out of the room.
Margaret stared at the door and sighed. The feed truck. Another shocking deception revealed. For years Riverbend had been paying for deliveries of hay and grain that had never arrived. Not every month—that would’ve been too obvious. But often enough to clothe Liz in the fashionable styles she loved.
Liz’s accomplice, an old flame who worked at a large feed store in San Antonio, had falsified the invoices. It might’ve continued indefinitely if Harold Canning hadn’t confronted Margaret’s father with his suspicions. Margaret was still reeling from the extent of her mentor’s greed and deceit.
Why, Liz? Why?
She’d been paid a generous salary. She’d lived in the guest quarters and used the main house freely when Margaret’s parents weren’t in residence, which was most of the time. So why had she risked destroying the life she’d built?
Shaking her head, Margaret walked to the door and threw it open. Chances were she would never learn the full truth. Liz had holed up in a motel and communicated now only through her lawyer.
Blazing sunlight dispelled some of Margaret’s gloom as she headed for the storage shed. The pickup and trailer parked in the visitors’ lot boasted a newly painted logo: Luling Feed & Hardware. Margaret smiled, knowing she was partially responsible for the pride it revealed.
Funneling Riverbend funds back into the local economy dulled some of her pain
over the loss of Twister and Scott. At least something good had come of her personal tragedy. She motioned the driver toward the storage shed and watched as he carefully backed up to the large metal building where grain and hay were stored.
Pudge Webster opened the truck door and stretched down his stocky legs as if testing the temperature of a swimming pool. He slipped the last few inches and landed heavily, his round face flushing to his dark curly roots.
Margaret walked forward and extended her hand. “Martin, how nice of you to deliver the order in person.” At her use of his given name, his neck grew even pinker against his aqua-and-beige plaid collar.
He wiped his palm on his khaki slacks and grasped her hand. “I wanted to make sure you’re pleased with the first order. And to thank you again for opening an account with us. You won’t be sorry.” His black eyes shone with gratitude.
She patted his plump hand once before releasing it and studying the bales of hay piled high in the trailer bed. “I didn’t expect you to bring the timothy so soon.”
Pudge’s chest expanded, straining the buttons curving over his belly. “Not a musty bale in the lot. Bill Taylor harvested his fields last week. We worked out a deal, and he’s going to put in more timothy acreage. I’ll beat your last supplier’s price, Margaret.”
“Call me Maggie. And I never doubted it for a minute. Any problem with the rest of the list I faxed you?” Pudge had computerized his business after she’d guaranteed him a standing monthly order. He should be able to handle other sizable accounts as a result.
He pulled a printout from his pocket and scanned it briefly. “Everything’s here. You want to check it as I unload?”
“Let me call my maintenance manager. You’ll need help with the bales, anyway.” She entered the dim storage shed and headed for a wall-mounted phone. There were five barns scattered over the property, each with its own phone extension. She dialed quickly.
