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“Damned stupid, Maggie. Don’t you have the sense God gave a goose?”
His barbed insult hit bull’s-eye this time. For a moment she quivered under the impact. A lifetime of similar taunts echoed in her mind.
Melissa can read, Margaret, and she’s two years younger than you…I’m afraid Margaret just doesn’t apply herself, Mrs. Winston…That was a very important call, Margaret. Can’t you even write down a simple phone number?…For heaven’s sake Margaret, how could you be so stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid….
“Margaret? Margaret?” Scott gave her a shake.
She blinked twice, looked up and bumped her head against his jaw.
“Ow!” they both yelled. Breaking apart like boxers from a clench, they faced off and took each other’s measure.
Feeling puny by comparison, Margaret glared. Behind her, Twister cropped grass. She jerked a thumb at the horse.
“Does that look like a violent animal to you? For your information, Twister was trying to groom me, not bite me. He was showing his trust. If you hadn’t interfered, everything would have been fine.” She arched an eyebrow. “Of course, breaking up relationships is what you do best, isn’t it?”
Lit by moonlight, his dusky complexion darkened in embarrassment. Or anger. She didn’t care which. That she’d struck a nerve at all filled her with triumph.
He tugged down his hat brim and shrugged. “I protect what needs protecting. Call it what you want.”
“I call it betrayal,” she said, abandoning all pretense of talking about the present. “I’ve spent every day since the car accident paying for my mistake, Scott. But you betrayed me. Worse, you betrayed your best friend. And my father rewarded you for it. He had no right—” She stopped, hating the quaver in her voice.
Donald Winston’s action didn’t bear thinking about. She’d concentrate on one betrayal at a time. “It’s taken six years, Scott, but you’re finally going to pay me what’s due.”
His mouth thinned. “And what’s that?”
She took a deep breath. “Twister.”
He ripped off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Like hell!”
Twister’s head swept up. His tail lifted high. He exploded from a complete standstill to a full-stretch gallop in the time it took her to blink. Mesmerized, she watched him float over the uneven ground toward the far end of the field. She could no more control her elated smile than stop her heart from soaring. Man, could that horse run!
“I want him back, Scott.” Turning, she caught him staring not at Twister, but at her.
“Forget it. Twister belongs to me. I’ve got the papers to prove it.” End of discussion, his expression said.
She lifted her nose. “Papers Daddy transferred to your name without my knowledge. I never would’ve let Riverbend Arabian Farm give up that foal. You knew that when you accepted him. That’s why you accepted him.” Suppressed hurt welled to the surface. Why did she still care?
“Don’t flatter yourself. Only a fool would’ve turned him down. He’s a valuable animal. Special.”
“Oh, right. He’s so valuable you don’t care if he breaks his leg in a gopher hole or cuts himself on barbed wire or throws a shoe and pulls up lame. It could happen out here and you wouldn’t even know it.” Her disdainful gaze swept the rock-strewn pasture. “If this is how you treat ‘special’ animals, I shudder to think about your poor cattle.”
Scott laughed unexpectedly, the moonlight glinting off his straight, white teeth. “Lower your nose, princess. I’ll have you know every one of my Santa Ger-trudis has a pedigree longer than yours. I treat ‘em same’s I do Twister. Feed ‘em. Doctor ‘em when they’re sick. And pretty much let ‘em do what God intended.”
Settling the Stetson low on his forehead, he sobered abruptly. “Pamperin’ my stock would be downright cruel. They’d die come the first summer drought or winter storm.” He squinted at a nearby cactus, at the moon and, finally, at her. “It takes a special breed to survive this land. But it’s got nothin’ to do with bloodlines. You have any idea what I’m sayin’, Maggie?”
His eyes glittered with sudden intensity, as if her answer were somehow important.
She knew what he meant all right. He thought her weak and spoiled and worthless. Trouble was, so had she for too many long, miserable years.
Averting her eyes, she hugged her stomach and focused on Twister, now grazing in the distance. “I understand your hay may not last much longer. And your credit’s maxed out at Luling Feed and Hardware. And you could really use some cash right now.”
She risked a glance at Scott and wished she hadn’t.
“Spit it out,” he said as if he’d like to spit on her.
“I want to make a deal with you for Twister.”
In answer, he turned and headed for the fence line, his boots crunching hard and determined on the ground. “Go home, Maggie,” he called over his shoulder.
Home? She watched his bobbing hat grow smaller and felt alone. So alone. “Hey, wait!”
Even running, it took her several moments to reach his side. “Why won’t you listen?” she managed breathlessly, hop-skipping every other step to keep up. “I’ll treat him like he deserves. He’s being totally wasted out here. H & H Cattle Company doesn’t need him, but I do.”
They’d reached the barbed-wire fence. Resting a forearm on the top strand, Scott tilted up his hat brim. Silvery light flooded his face.
Margaret took a half step back, as if she’d caught a snarling predator in her flashlight beam.
“You need him?” His sardonic stare traveled over her Italian half boots, designer jeans and lambskin jacket. Their gazes clashed and held. “Run out of toys to play with? That lawyer husband of yours spending too much time in court maybe?” His upper lip curled. “Too bad, Maggie. There are lots of other horses. You’ve got lots of money. Find another stallion to need.”
Having tried, judged and convicted her, he resettled his hat, pressed down on the wire and prepared to cross.
Margaret had spent a lifetime following everyone’s wishes but her own. Just this once, for something this important, someone would listen to her. Fury fueled her reflexes. She rushed forward and slapped down his arcing leg.
“Just a minute, buster! Think you’ve got me pegged? Think you know everything? You know nothing. Nothing, do you hear? I spent two years researching bloodlines before selecting Twister’s Polish sire. I agonized waiting for Aladdin’s Girl to be shipped home. I dreamed of her producing the perfect equine athlete, a foundation stud for the most elite line of Arabians in the world. And she did it! I did it. But you—” she grabbed two fistfuls of shirt “—have the supreme gall to deprive breeders of that line. And why?”
She leaned forward until her forehead grazed his hat brim. “Because you think I’m rich. Because you think I’m a bored housewife looking for thrills. Because you hate my guts.”
“Mag—”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Scott Hayes. I have no money. I have no husband. And I hate your guts right back. You’re a selfish, judgmental jerk, and you’ve ruined my life for the last time!” Her chest rose and fell in labored breaths.
“You have no husband?”
She stood close enough to count his eyelashes. Obscenely thick, they couldn’t hide the stunned expression in his eyes. Her anger drained, leaving her feeling oddly at peace. She’d finally stood up for herself.
Realizing her hands still gripped his shirtfront, she relaxed her hold and smoothed the wrinkled cotton with self-conscious, outward swipes. Her fingers landed on rounded biceps, fluttered, then settled in the crook of his arm. The man was made of rock.
In the bright moonlight his throat looked strong, his chin square and stubborn. Fascinated, she stared at the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Her ex-husband, Jim, had shaved faithfully every morning, but more from routine than necessity. Did a heavy beard feel different?
As if sensing her sudden impulse, Scott stepped back out of reach. “Okay, Maggie. We’ll hash this thing out. But we’ll damn well do it on my terms, not when I’m tired and mad and…hungry.” There was a distinctly sensual growl in his voice.
Her gaze flew to his. What had gotten into her responding to his nearness like that? He was Gonzales County’s reigning Lothario, and her enemy to boot.
His expression hardened. “Be at my back door by eight tomorrow. You’re one minute late, we don’t talk. Understand?”
“I understand.”
He nodded, pressed down on the top fence strand and crossed over with practiced ease. She waited for him to turn and offer assistance. He walked on without a backward glance, his broad shoulders disappearing behind a stand of mesquite trees.
She understood all right. Perfectly.
BY SEVEN the next morning, Scott had finished his barn chores and moved on to kitchen duty. Closing the refrigerator door with one hip, he ignored the rattle of jars and bottles inside. He knew exactly how much pressure the old appliance could take before its guts spilled. The Cokes were safe.
He poured Eggbeaters into a bowl, whipped them to a froth and set them aside. Turkey bacon popped and sizzled in the skillet almost like the real thing. Inhaling its dubious scent, he hoped the stuff would tempt his father’s appetite. Grant Hayes’s recent heart surgery had taken off another five pounds. Pounds he couldn’t afford to lose, together with the weight he’d already burned off from pure worry.
Dragging a hand down his jaw, Scott glanced at the clock above the stove. No time to shave. Margaret—Maggie, he corrected with a fleeting grin—would be here soon. He wanted Dad fed and out of the house by then.
His performing the cooking tasks by rote allowed his mind to dwell on the astounding events of last night. He still couldn’t believe it. Margaret Chelsea Winston—model of propriety and good breeding—sneaking into his field like a common horse thief! Last he’d heard, she was married to some hotshot Dallas lawyer and was living the Junior League life. No surprise there. Her sass, though, had clipped him on the chin when he wasn’t looking.
The Margaret he’d known would never have ranted till he actually doubted his own judgment. She would’ve lifted her oh-so-proper nose and given him her patented look. The one that said, “I don’t talk to pond scum.” The one that made him feel uncouth and awkward. The one that made him call her Maggie, knowing she hated the unsophisticated nickname.
Yet last night, for the first time, she’d seemed like a Maggie. Human. Approachable. Her passion for Twister was the genuine article, Scott admitted. Nothing else could explain her foolish attempt to ride the devil. He’d damn near had a heart attack when the stallion had gone for her head!
Forget all that crap about grooming. This was the same horse who’d taken a big enough chunk out of Pete’s butt to make the wrangler sit crooked the rest of his days. And she was such a little thing. Fragile as those porcelain doodads his mother had loved. Nestled against his body, Margaret had barely reached his chin.
Memory seared a path straight to his groin. She might be small, but there was nothing childish about her body. Lord, but she’d felt good in his arms. Really good.
She got under Matt’s skin too, buzzard brain, and look what happened.
Scott shook off his thoughts and stared. Two plates loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and dry toast steamed on the counter. The chipped Formica table was set for two, the juice glasses already filled. This evidence of his total absorption with Maggie scared him more than any mental talking-to could.
She’d dredged up a muck of feelings better left buried. He would listen to what she had to say, then boot her out of his kitchen—and his life.
“Breakfast!” he called, setting the plates on the table and scraping back his chair.
A door squeaked open. Boots clumped down the planked hall. Grant filled the doorway, his graying auburn hair mere inches from the frame. Faded jeans sagged at his waist; a once-tight shirt puckered at his shoulders and stomach. He seemed thinner and older than the last time Scott had paused long enough to look.
Testing the air like a coon hound, Grant cast a cautious look at the table. “Thanks, son. Looks good.”
Liar. Scott forced a quick smile. “Eat up then. I’m tired of looking fat compared to you. Bad for my ego.”
Grinning, Grant strode to the table and sat down. “The day your ego suffers, I’ll eat a carton of ice cream to celebrate. Seems to me your sister made a similar promise not long ago, something about…flowers, was it?”
Regretting he’d ever told his dad that story, Scott grunted and dug into his eggs. Laura’s exact phrase had vibrated with frustration. Someday a woman is going to bring you to your knees, Scott Hayes. And when she does, I’ll send her a dozen roses.
His mouth twitched at the thought of poor Alec. Laura had cut him off at the kneecaps, but Scott knew his brother-in-law had dropped willingly.
Too soon, Grant put his fork down and made a show of patting his stomach. “What are your plans today?”
Scott eyed his father’s half-filled plate and scowled. “The windmill up on the red hill is jammed. Pete said it looks like a tree branch. Shouldn’t take more than an hour to fix, so I thought I’d ride the north fence line while I’m at it.”
“Good idea. I could start at the county road and meet—”
“Dad.”
Grant tightened his mouth and glared out the small window above the sink. His strong, callused fingers clenched once, then relaxed. When he turned to Scott, his leaf green eyes were calm and resigned.
“If you’re not using the truck, maybe I’ll take a look at the carburetor. The ol’ girl could probably use an oil change, too.”
Scott swallowed hard. Physical weakness demoralized a man of Grant’s former vigor. “Yeah, Dad, that’d be great. If I’m not back by lunch, there’s still some of Ellen’s casserole in the fridge.”
His father’s pained groan made him grin. The vacuous widow’s visits strained even Grant Hayes’s good manners.
The sound of an engine’s purr turned both their heads. Scott’s stomach flip-flopped, a sensation he hadn’t felt since his teens. He pushed back his chair, carried plates to the sink and began rinsing. Through the window, he watched a sleek red Porsche crawl up the graveled drive.
His father’s mildly questioning glance suddenly deepened. “Expecting someone?”
“Margaret Winston. Remember her?” Scott forced a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
“B’lieve the name rings a bell.” Grant’s wry tone said he remembered enough.
A thousand questions hung in the air. That they remained unasked was a measure of their mutual respect.
“She wants to buy Twister,” Scott confessed. Not for a minute had he believed that crock about her having no money. Drying his hands on a dish towel, he turned and met his father’s eyes. “I’m just listening out of courtesy.”
Grant’s expression eased. “Don’t do anything rash.” He rose and clasped Scott’s shoulder. “I’d sell Bandolero before I’d let you give up Twister.”
The prize bull was one of the few ranch assets left with a hefty market value. Scott reached up and squeezed his father’s forearm. “It won’t come to that.”
A car door slammed. Gravel crunched.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Grant said, giving Scott an odd look.
The screen door twanged open. Knuckles rapped on the door.
“Why don’t I get that?” Grant suggested, his green eyes twinkling now.
Scott heard his father introduce himself and exchange pleasantries, then excuse himself to work on the truck. He heard the screen door whack. But he saw only Margaret.
If he’d entertained any doubts about where she belonged, he now knew with certainty it wasn’t in his kitchen.
She stood like a calla lily on the dingy white linoleum. Graceful. Delicate. Lovely in the way of women blessed with classic bone structure, rather than voluptuous curves. Her soft gray sweater and matching slacks complemented eyes the color of smoke, skin fine as bone china, hair glinting gold in the sunbeam streaming through the door.
Last night, he’d thought she must look her best in moonlight. He wished to hell he’d been right.
She squinted at the clock a long moment, then smiled hesitantly. “Right on time…aren’t I?”
He checked the clock. Eight o’clock on the money. Apparently her vanity wouldn’t permit wearing glasses.
He nodded toward the table. “Sit down.”
She glanced at the rickety dinette, and Scott imagined her inner shudder. He hadn’t even swiped it down after the meal. But she pulled out a cracked vinyl chair and sat with nary a blink.
“Thank you.” She waved a graceful hand at the opposite chair. “Please, you sit down, too.”
As usual, the more graciously she behaved, the ruder he felt. He might as well act the part.
Plucking his Stetson off the refrigerator, Scott jammed it low. He flipped around the chair nearest her and dropped into a straddle. “So talk.”
