The Texas Way

by Jan Freed

  Maggie shook her head, feeling slightly sick.

  “You never knew, did you? Always so quiet. Always so worshipful. At first it was flattering to be adored. But puppies grow up fast, Margaret, and stop being cute. Even then I could’ve forgiven you, if you hadn’t started…” The venomous gleam in Liz’s eyes made Maggie recoil.

  The tack-room walls closed in on her. The door seemed miles away. “Started what? What did I do to make you hate me so?” She inched forward, nearer the doorway.

  “So innocent. So protected. You’ve never gone hungry a day in your life, have you? You’ve never seen the inside of a women’s shelter or flipped hamburgers to buy decent clothes for a date. Daddy paid for everything, didn’t he? Including a world-class trainer to make his little loser into a winner. And all the credit for winning went to you.”

  Liz’s altered face was as horrifying—as fascinating—as Medusa’s. Maggie couldn’t look away even as she edged closer to the door.

  “I was an Olympic Gold medalist, for God’s sake. But the Arabian Times called you the most gifted dressage rider of our day.” Liz stopped, appearing to notice Maggie’s proximity for the first time.

  Maggie backed up a step, her heart hammering painfully. “I always gave you credit, Liz. Those articles talked about you, too.”

  Liz rolled her eyes dismissively. “Token lines. Crumbs, Margaret, when you got the whole cake. I started with nothing and became a respected trainer and manager. But no one wanted to tell my story. No one bothered to learn that I was the brain behind your talent. And I had to smile and keep my mouth shut or lose my job.”

  She tossed her lank hair. Cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. Turned back and froze Maggie in midstep with a cunning smile. “But I found a way to get even, to get what I deserve and make sure I’d never die in a charity ward like my mother. When Matt died, things got even better. You tucked tail and ran just like I told you to. Donald never suspected a thing—until you came back.” Her smile faded into a hostile glare. “Everything started falling apart then.”

  Liz needed professional help. Maggie needed out of the tack room—and preferably miles away from Liz. “Let’s go somewhere and talk about this calmly. Maybe get a bite to eat.”

  Liz braced her hands on opposite sides of the doorframe. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You just had to come back and create a stir with your wonder horse. What was I supposed to do, Margaret? It was happening all over again, and you ignored all my warnings. Daniel Brady thought you were—”

  “Warnings?” The word echoed in Maggie’s head.

  Liz smiled, and Maggie backed up another step. “You were right about the mare I rode to the H & H, dear—she was in heat. And that little Wild West show you put on for Daniel? A BB gun and fifty bucks goes a long way in the hands of a groom making minimum wage.”

  Maggie hugged her stomach and curled over at the next logical thought. Please, no. Please let me be wrong. She lifted her gaze.

  Liz clucked sympathetically, an obscene parody of the woman Maggie had thought she’d known. “So you’ve finally figured it out? Such a waste of fine horseflesh, Margaret, but all your fault. If only you hadn’t been so ambitious, Twister would still be rounding up little dogies today.”

  Maggie squeezed her lids shut and swallowed a bitter surge of bile. Twister, my friend. I’m so sorry. She drew in a shaky breath. “How could you?” she choked out.

  “With a straight pin actually. I must admit he cooperated beautifully, rearing up at just the right angle like that. A true champion to the end, he was.”

  Hot, murderous fury rose from the center of Maggie’s soul and escaped her throat in an animalistic snarl. She opened her eyes, and this time it was Liz who backed up, staggering into the corridor as Maggie lunged forward, her fingers curled into claws.

  The door slammed shut. Maggie’s hands crashed into wood. She yowled in frustration and pain, then pushed with her shoulder. Locked. Stepping back, she threw her full weight against the door. The simple rod-and-pin latch held tight. Damn!

  She spun around and kicked a nearby bag of grain. She’d actually felt sorry at first for Liz. Dropping her head back, Maggie laughed bitterly. She was trapped like a rat while the sick monster who’d killed Twister was getting away. Damn!

  She scanned the tack room and resigned herself to the obvious. Steve was due in thirty minutes. Liz wouldn’t have time to get far.

  The fury drained from Maggie in a weakening rush. She walked to the trunk like an old woman, closed the lid and sat facing the door. Her spirit felt bruised and weary. If she could misjudge Liz so completely, how could she trust her instincts regarding Scott?

  Up until now, despite everything, she’d secretly hoped he would come to his senses and declare his love for her. But perhaps she’d been as naive as ever, seeing emotions in him he simply didn’t feel. Perhaps she should quit issuing challenges and let the poor man alone.

  A mare whinnied. Another answered. Maggie frowned and looked up. Something in their tone stiffened her spine. A muffled bump made her cock her head. Another whinny rang out, this one clearly frightened. Oh, God, what was going on?

  She ran to the door and pounded with her fist. “Steve?” She pounded some more. “Steve, is that you?” she yelled.

  The mares on the east side of the barn were in an uproar now. Their fear spread quickly, until the sound of shrill neighing reverberated throughout the barn. Maggie rammed against the door and rebounded in pain.

  Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened in helpless frustration. What was that other noise? That sound filtering through the terrified cacophony? That…crackle.

  Icy dread chilled her blood and numbed her mind. She closed her eyes in denial. Forced herself to take a deep breath. Registered the smell that confirmed her horrified suspicion.

  Fire!

  THE MARES’ TERROR flipped a switch in Maggie’s brain. Her knees buckled. Gritting her teeth, she ruthlessly shut down her sixth sense. She couldn’t afford distraction. Already smoke oozed beneath the door.

  She whirled and searched the room, looking for something—anything—to use as a battering ram. The fire extinguisher! She jerked the canister from its wall mount. Good heft. Nice solid feel.

  Don’t think about puncturing the metal.

  She rocked it back, then swung it forward to crash against the wood. Rocked it back and swung it forward over and over. The door shook. Then splintered. Then exploded open into the bowels of hell.

  Smoke billowed in, forcing her backward. Coughing, she snatched up a cleaning rag. Tied it bandit-style over her nose. Tucked the fire extinguisher under one arm and faced the open doorway. One…two…three!

  Plunging into the corridor, she turned toward the source of smoke. A stack of baled hay—a bonfire at the end of the aisle. Flames licked up the concrete block wall like a snake’s tongue. Tasting. Searching for flammable materials to devour. Feasting on the wooden ceiling beams her mother had thought quaint. Thank heaven the roof was steel. The mare nearest the fire screamed. Maggie ran forward.

  Oh, God, the straw. She yanked the spring-loaded latch chain and opened the door. The bedding crackled and curled. Oh, God.

  The trapped mare slammed into a wall. Staggered. Slammed into another and miraculously lurched through the doorway. The smell of charred hair and flesh made Maggie gag. She slapped the trembling hindquarters and hoped the mare would find her way out.

  Don’t think about it. Stop the fire.

  Hoisting up the extinguisher, Maggie triggered a blast of smothering foam over the bedding. The chemical stench fueled her nausea.

  Don’t think about it. Stop the fire.

  Holding the extinguisher like an Uzi, she attacked the baled hay. Then the treated beams. Too high. Damn! They burned slowly, but spit red embers just the same. Three more stalls ignited. She stopped and sent three more crazed mares galloping toward the entrance.

  When the last of the foam sputtered weakly, Maggie had sprayed everything within
reach to the center of the barn. The beam fire had crept forward a few feet. She’d bought some time—not victory.

  Tossing the now-empty canister aside, she fanned her way through the smoke to the main entrance. An ember hit her forearm and sizzled. Her eyes streamed. Her lungs burned. She groped for the wall phone mounted by the double doors and lifted the receiver. No dial tone. Her fingers walked up the long cord and met air. Cut.

  Liz.

  The woman had killed Twister. Maggie had let it happen. But by God, these mares would not die. Not while there was breath left in her body.

  Turning back to the aisle, she set to work grimly, methodically. Most of the mares bolted through the open door. A few wouldn’t budge. She threw a saddle blanket over their eyes and led them out, the foals at their heels. So new to the world, so frightened by its ugliness.

  The smoke was horrible. Painful. It filled her hair, her eyes, her lungs. It filled her brain. Distorted her perception. Formed the shape of a man.

  “Steve?” Was that croak coming from her?

  “M-Miss Winston?” His forearm covered his nose.

  She could just make out his worried eyes. “Break office window…Call 911—” she fought for breath between words “—Come back…help get hor—” Hacking coughs ripped through her lungs. Steve supported her until she stopped.

  “Come out, Miss Winston, and wait for help.”

  “Go!” Maggie shoved him toward the door. She was in no shape to run.

  He looked torn, then determined. “I’ll hurry.”

  She nodded and headed back down the aisle.

  Time stopped. The world narrowed to a smoke-filled corridor and the encroaching enemy. She focused on one step at a time. One stall at a time. Only the horses kept her going. She opened her mind to let them in. Their terror filled her like the smoke. Kept her staggering forward. The mares were mindless with panic; as dangerous as live grenades. A frantic hoof caught Maggie’s ankle. A tossing head clipped her chin. She hobbled toward the twelfth stall tasting equal parts blood and fear.

  A distant beam collapsed, showering sparks and splintered wood. Some burning debris burrowed deep into unprotected straw. One, two stalls flared quickly. The plank-board siding would be next. The front line of the beam fire was gaining on her. Once the embers struck virgin fuel…

  Don’t think about it. Get the mares out.

  She worked frantically, coughing continuously now. The mares grew quieter. The smoke, no doubt. It was killing her, too. Three more stalls to go. The beam fire passed the center mark.

  Glowing debris hit dry straw. Here. There. Instant combustion. Too fast. Too hot. Too close. Oh, God, not now. She hadn’t played favorites. She’d released the mares in order. But Aladdin’s Girl and her foal were in the last stall. And Maggie couldn’t breathe.

  Something wet fell over her head. A blanket. Deliverance from hell.

  “Get out!” Steve shouted in her ear, removing her hand from the stall door. He shoved her aside and took over.

  Maggie moved to the next stall. They could make it working together. Her hands were clumsy, her strength almost gone. She opened the door and sagged against it as a bay mare exploded into the aisle.

  The inferno neared. It sucked the moisture from her blanket and the air from her lungs.

  “We’ve gotta go!” Steve yelled, pulling her arm.

  The newborn filly squealed.

  From somewhere deep inside, Maggie dredged up one more surge of strength and pushed Steve away. She staggered to the last stall and slid the door open.

  Aladdin’s Girl careered past in a blur, the filly close on her heels.

  Crack! Shusssh.

  It was raining fire. She stumbled back and hit concrete. A massive beam blocked the aisle ahead, creating a wall of flame. Her protective blanket was almost dry. Useless. Would the smoke kill her before the fire? She desperately hoped so.

  Oh Scott, Scott. I should’ve forced you to marry me, you…you cowboy.

  She would’ve laughed, but her lungs hurt too much. She would’ve cried, but her tears dried up as fast as they welled. The next beam would fall any second.

  Oh Scott, I wish we’d had a chance.

  A figure burst from the fire, shapeless and huge. Hissing and steaming. It swooped forward and stood facing her, silhouetted against certain death. “Maggie!”

  The ragged shout was muffled by wet wool. With a soundless cry, she fell forward.

  Scott opened his shroud of wet blankets and crushed her against his chest, then stepped back and began wrapping her in the extra blankets he clutched.

  Crack! Shusssh!

  Shoving her against the wall, Scott covered her body with his. She felt him jerk from the impact of falling chunks of wood.

  “No-o-o,” she wailed. Unbearable, to die now when life had grown infinitely precious. Not fair! Not fair! She buried her face in Scott’s chest and raged against the twists of fate bringing her to this point. The blankets barely steamed now. He must be roasting alive. She hated herself for causing his death. For being glad he was here. For succumbing to the terror she’d held at bay since the fire began.

  He pulled away suddenly, dragging the blankets with him. She was alone.

  The shock of it left her gasping. Whimpering. Unable to move or care about the devouring flames between her and safety.

  The blanket settled over her head again, clinging heavily. Scott ducked under and wrapped more wet wool around them. How had he…? The stall water bucket. Of course.

  She huddled close, his solid presence infusing her with relief. And strength. And hope. They might die, but they wouldn’t wait passively to be killed.

  “Get ready to move,” he yelled above the din, adjusting their cocoon to allow a slit of vision. “Okay…now!”

  They ran together toward the wall of fire. Maggie closed the gap in their blankets. Better. Now the monster couldn’t get them. She stumbled. Scott’s powerful arm grasped her waist and lifted her off the ground.

  Blinding light. Blistering heat. Swallowed screams.

  Her feet hit the ground, and Scott whipped off their burning blankets. They clutched each other’s waists and staggered toward the entrance. Almost there. A siren wailed in the distance. They crossed the threshold and lurched into the clear night air.

  José, Billy, and Steve stood watching the blazing barn, their shock illuminated by red-gold light.

  “Dios Mio!” José pointed at the pair with a shaky finger.

  They must have looked a fright.

  Steve’s eyes widened. “Miss Winston!” He ran forward as if to embrace her, but she and Scott tightened their arms around each other at the same time. “Oh, thank God, Miss Winston. I thought…when the beam fell…Oh, God, Miss Winston, I’m sorry I left you.”

  She could tell he’d been crying, and she wanted to comfort him. But the air was too sweet, the moment too poignant for her to share with anyone but Scott. They clung together and dragged in wheezing gulps of air.

  “Give ‘em some room, Steve,” Billy said gently. “The ambulance is here. The fire truck, too. Go get the medics and point them this way.”

  “The horses,” Maggie managed. “Find them. We’ll be okay.”

  The men fidgeted, their expressions worried.

  “Go,” Scott ordered.

  They scattered and loped off.

  Maggie tilted her head back and took in Scott’s soot-blackened face, his singed eyebrows, the holes peppering his shirt where debris had burned through. He’d been willing to die for her. How many women got proof like that?

  She reached up and stroked his rugged cheek. “Don’t expect to order me around when we’re married, cowboy. If I’m doing my share of the work, I want my share of making decisions, my share of solving the problems. Understand?”

  “Was there a proposal slipped in that speech somewhere, Maggie?”

  She tensed. “There was. So…what’s your answer?”

  His slow grin shone white in his grimy face. “Darlin’, I’d b
e plain stupid to say no.”

  EPILOGUE

  Eleven months later

  MAGGIE PROPPED her elbows on the H & H paddock fence and pressed as close as her extended belly allowed. A tiny foot kicked in protest, and she eased back, giving her stomach a loving pat.

  “Sorry, kiddo, I know you’re cramped. Just hang in there two more weeks, and we’ll both have room to breathe.”

  Not that Maggie was complaining. What were swollen ankles and indigestion compared with being Scott’s wife and carrying his child? She’d come too close to dying to take the miracle of her present life for granted.

  She and Scott had married in a civil ceremony the day after the fire, neither of them wanting to waste time on pomp and fanfare. She’d moved back into Scott’s house and continued working as Riverbend Arabian Farm’s general manager.

  The new brood-mare barn was a constant reminder of Liz’s betrayal, but Maggie’s heart was too full of love these days to harbor bitterness. She assumed her former teacher was getting help—and all the attention she craved—from mental-health professionals in the Texas penal system.

  Maggie repropped her elbows and gazed over the paddock fence. After a long day at Riverbend, this was just what she needed.

  The newly weaned five-month-old colt circling Orca was beautifully made and amazingly graceful, despite his long legs. Twist and Shout’s smoky gray coat would lighten over time to a stunning pearl gray. Although it was too soon to know if the foal would equal his sire in speed and heart, he showed every promise of doing so.

  Thank God for Dr. Lawson’s impulsive offer to extract semen from Twister all those months ago. She and Scott had bartered the precious frozen straws to Daniel Brady in exchange for a foal from the Oasis mare of Maggie’s choice. She couldn’t be more pleased with the result.

  Absently caressing her belly, Maggie marveled at the difference in Scott since the fire. He’d finally realized no one could take his pride from him unless he willingly gave it away. Asking Donald Winston for a loan—at current market interest rates—had been Scott’s idea. The five-year business plan he’d shown her father included aggressive improvements he felt would pay for themselves in a short amount of time. Her father had agreed, and Scott had paid off the bank in full and on time.