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The Texas Way
Jan Freed
HOME ON THE RANCH"Jan Freed writes with spice and flair! An exciting new voice in contemporary romance." – bestselling author Susan WiggsThe H&H Cattle Company, near Gonzales, TexasScott Hayes–He's the owner. Scott's a hardworking cattleman who's got a reputation with the ladies. Not that he has any time for womanizing these days. Fact is, Scott's putting in twenty-hour stretches, now that H&H is down to one hired hand. And the word around these parts is that H&H is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.Margaret Winston–When Scott calls her a princess, he doesn't mean it as a compliment! Still, Maggie has a few choice names for Scott, none of them pretty. That's because Maggie knows Scott from the old days and there's bad blood–and a good horse–between them.HOME ON THE RANCH
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u70c083bd-c4f0-5bd0-a618-193385a0c2e5)
Excerpt (#ubffe4c71-be3d-5369-8407-7a16d7e8aaf2)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ud3ffd19c-e474-5f3c-adbc-13603110de7a)
Title Page (#u30bbd3a2-4e62-5c0b-83d7-ada1414951b5)
Dedication (#u4d2f66b6-b4df-542b-96b6-e5c3bc7317e4)
CHAPTER ONE (#u6100e6a3-f395-51a5-9a7c-969b7790e7f2)
CHAPTER TWO (#ubdcc3af6-2bd2-57ba-9a22-2a3405bc13fa)
CHAPTER THREE (#ufd6fb1f7-3983-5c8d-bc2d-d255183c4ed1)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u58ef600b-4cfb-5aaf-8b05-ac7835fd8584)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Easy, handsome. Don’t be afraid. How’d you like to go for a ride?”
Tightening her fist in the stallion’s mane, Margaret gathered her muscles into vault position, then gasped.
Cold metal—round, hollow and unmistakably lethal—pressed into her neck. “Don’t listen to her, Twister,” a deep voice drawled from behind. “Takin’ a ride with Maggie here can kill a guy.”
Blood rushed to her face in a sickening wave of guilt. “You,” she whispered.
“Yeah, me. The owner of the land you’re tresspassin’ on.” The pressure on her neck eased, replaced by the sliding caress of a gun barrel. “All grown up now, are you? Let’s take a look. Turn around, Maggie.”
Schooling her features into a cool mask, she turned. “Don’t call me Maggie.”
“Seems to me I can call you any name I want. And right this minute, ‘Maggie’ is the nicest one that comes to mind.”
Nothing had changed, she realized. He would never forget…or forgive.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_2f0c6cf5-e438-5dc6-89c7-265e8aa2c2c6)
After years of writing advertising copy, Jan Freed decided that if she could make washing machines sound glamorous, creating likable characters should be a breeze. Jan’s second book combines her pride in the indomitable spirit of Texans with her lifelong love of horses. “Cowboys and the Arabian breed share a mythical appeal that makes for great romance—pairing the two was a natural choice.”
Jan lives in Texas (of course!) with her husband and two children. She’d love to hear from readers and invites you to write to her at: P.O. Box 5009-272, Sugarland, Texas, 77487.
The Texas Way
Jan Freed
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Mica Kelch and Marian May, sisters in madness and valued friends. And to Jenny Hiller, blood sister and my truest fan. Thanks for the advice and support, buds!
Special thanks to Sharon and Xavier Moreau, owners of Bloodstock International, Inc., for sharing their knowledge of the Arabian horse industry. Any errors are accidental and entirely my fault.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ade703be-c370-5950-910b-c6af72c46825)
MARGARET CHELSEA WINSTON crouched behind a clump of cacti, peeked over one spiny rim and forgot to breathe.
Moonlight leeched all color from the red clay and yellowed grass. Only light and dark contrasts remained. At the center of this ghostly vista stood a commanding figure, the embodiment of proud male arrogance—a shimmering gray stallion.
Twist of Fate, she’d named him six years ago, hoping she wasn’t overestimating his potential, praying he’d really beaten the genetic odds. He had. His magnificence surpassed her girlish dreams. He was one of the finest Arabians in the world.
Gripped with excitement, she rose and stood tall, giving him time to study her as thoroughly as she had him. Earthy smells nettled her nose. Coyotes yipped in the distance, two, maybe three miles away. Sound carried far in this part of Texas.
He stared back across the stark landscape, his dark gaze asking, Who watches me in the night?
A friend, she answered, not questioning their silent communication. She’d long ago accepted her uncanny rapport with animals as compensation for the skills she lacked.
After learning the stallion still lived in this area, she’d planned on sneaking a glimpse, then slipping away unseen. But nothing had prepared her for the ambition and resentment he awakened—the burning need to reclaim him.
She walked to the fence and slipped between the strands of barbed wire. “Hey, handsome. What’s a fella like you doing in a place like this?”
She kept her voice soothing, knowing he understood her tone if not the words. Ears pricked forward, he blew short and hard through flared nostrils. A fluttering snort would have indicated fear. She smiled.
“Curious, huh? I came to get reacquainted, that’s all.”
Her initial impression had been correct. Strong topline, wide airway, compact proportions. Perfect. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She forced her thoughts to focus, her movements to remain fluid.
Holding his alert gaze, she walked the last few feet and stood nose to muzzle. “Don’t run out on me, okay, handsome? I could use a little company right now. Things’ve been…” Lousy. Miserable.
Normal.
The insidious emotions struck out of nowhere, stinging her eyes and swelling her throat. Damn, damn, damn! So what if she’d never felt more alone in all her twenty-six years? She’d made the right decision, and by God she would prove it. Her new life wouldn’t tolerate weakness. She wouldn’t tolerate weakness in herself, not ever again.
Warm breath blasted her face, jolting her back to the present.
Here is my special smell, his action said. If you trust it, we might be friends.
She stared at the chiseled muzzle only inches away. How many years had passed since she’d been offered simple, innocent friendship? Too many, judging by her fierce desire to hug the stallion’s neck. Suppressing the urge, she responded to his overture in horse language and blew gently into his nostrils.
When he lowered his head, she laughed in delight. “I like you, too.”
She squeezed a portion of silver mane between her thumb and forefinger, then rubbed the strands together. The simulated grooming action of equine teeth demonstrated her friendliness. More so than if she’d stroked him in the usual way.
Working her fingers up and down the mane, she frowned. His thick gray coat, shaggy fetlocks and furry ears hadn’t felt the buzz of clipping shears in months. Trust a cowboy to let an animal of this caliber winter in the open like a second-string range pony. No warm stable for this beauty, oh, no. After all, that wouldn’t be the Texas way of doing things. Lord knew this stallion’s owner hated “pampered creatures.” She ought to know. Memory of the tall rancher’s contempt narrowed her eyes. “He ought to be horsewhipped, pardon the expression.”
Finger-nibbling her way across the stallion’s shoulder and ribs, she noted plenty of lean muscle but no bony protrusions. In all fairness, he appeared to be well fed and in excellent health.
Some experts considered rough terrain ideal training conditions. If true, she’d be that much ahead of the game. What she wouldn’t give to put him through his paces!
Gauging the height of his withers, she glanced up at the full moon, then down at the illuminated ground. Temptation won over caution. She reached up and grasped a handful of mane.
The stallion suddenly tensed, lifted his head and shifted to the right. Margaret sidestepped his clattering hooves.
“Easy, handsome. Don’t be afraid. How’d you like to go for a little ride?” Tightening her fist, she gathered her muscles into vault position and gasped.
Cold metal—round, hollow and unmistakably lethal—pressed into her neck.
“Don’t listen to her, Twister,” a deep voice drawled from behind. “Takin’ a ride with Maggie here can kill a guy.”
Blood rushed to her face in a sickening wave of guilt. She dropped her forehead against the stallion’s hide, inhaling the pungent scent of warm animal and dried sweat. The gun followed her movement.
“You,” she whispered.
“Yeah, me. The owner of the land you’re trespas-sin’ on. Next time you try stealin’ a horse, Maggie, don’t park so close to the main gate. That Porsche is a little conspicuous.”
“I wasn’t stealing…Twister, is that what you called him? I only wanted to see what he could do.”
His mocking laugh set her teeth on edge.
“Maggie, darlin’, the minute your fanny hit his back you’d be on your way to Mars. Beats the hell outta me how you ever got this close.” Honest puzzlement tinged his voice.
Her head jerked up. “Don’t call me Maggie.”
The pressure against her neck increased. “Well now, seems to me I can call you any name I want. And right this minute, Maggie is the nicest one that comes to mind.”
Nothing had changed. He would never forget—-or forgive. She released the stallion’s mane and straightened her shoulders.
“Put the gun down, please. I’m not going to do anything foolish.”
The pressure eased, replaced by the sliding caress of a gun barrel. “All grown up now, are you? Let’s take a look. Turn around.”
Margaret’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her entire future depended on the mercy of this man, as it had once before. She was damned if she’d wimp out this time.
Schooling her features into a cool mask, she slowly turned.
Scott Hayes lifted pistol point to Stetson brim and nudged upward. His eyes gleamed colorless and flat in the moon’s glow, but she knew they were lion gold and insolent as a cat’s. His gaze roved over her body now with the calculated intention of rattling her composure.
But contrary to his sarcasm, she had grown up. So she ignored her erratic pulse and conducted her own slow inspection. He was taller than she remembered, around six foot two perhaps. Or maybe it was just that damned hat he wore. At midnight, for Pete’s sake. In the few times she’d seen him, she’d never laid eyes on his hair—other than the brownish waves breaking over his shirt collar. Maybe he was hiding a bald spot.
She smiled at the malicious thought.
He crossed his arms and cocked one knee, the action drawing attention to his rangy legs, lean hips and impossibly wide shoulders.
“Mind tellin’ me what’s so funny?”
Her smile faded. She looked him in the eye. “Yes. I do mind.”
Surprise flickered across his bold features. She sensed a new awareness in him, a reassessing of her will, and drew strength from having knocked the cocksure look off his face.
He’d filled out in six years, but then, Texas ranching bred muscular men. To add to Scott’s physical workload, H & H Cattle Company was down to one hired hand. Or so she’d heard. Word was the business teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. She hoped to God that was true.
Scott jammed the gunpoint down behind his belt, against the tight denim molding everything it touched. His gun wasn’t loaded, she realized. He wouldn’t risk damaging his precious…jeans.
Cheeks burning, she jerked her gaze up.
His cocky smirk was back, along with a disturbing new gleam in his eyes. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’m gonna think that husband of yours doesn’t know how to keep you hap—” His eyes widened.
She started to turn. Twister’s bared teeth caught her ponytail just as Scott’s strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled. Margaret rebounded in the circle of his arms like a bungee cord.
“Dammit, Maggie! What the hell are you doin’ messin’ with this stud? He’s mean as a javelina hog around everyone but me.”
When his arms pulled her close, a strange sense of safety clouded her brain. Nose, chest, stomach and thigh pressed against Scott Hayes, she groped for concentration.
“Twister eats little girls like you for breakfast. If I hadn’t grabbed you when I did, he woulda torn this pretty blond scalp of yours clean off.”
His touch was so light, at first she didn’t notice. Once she did, every hair follicle stood at attention.
“What were you thinkin’ of, tryin’ to ride that son of a bitch? At night. Bareback, no less.”
Some of Scott’s contempt filtered through Margaret’s fog.
