The Texas Way

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For seven years he’d worked any job his spare time would allow and saved his earnings. After high school graduation, Mr. Perkin had made noises about being too old to keep farming, and Scott had picked up a loan application from the bank. While his friends dreamed about college, he’d fantasized about his Santa Gertrudis herd drinking from the Guadalupe.

Until someone with more money, more clout and more cojones beat him to it.

Scott pushed off from the truck with a snort and headed for the fence post. He’d do well to forget the past if he hoped to show any degree of civility in the next few months. Stooping over, he jerked his gloves on and attacked his work with a vengeance.

Ten minutes and two fence posts later, he heard the jingle of a bit, the clack of a hoof connecting with rock. He straightened at the sight of Maggie riding Twister slowly up the fence line. The stallion looked foreign but magnificent, with an English saddle and slender woman in jodhpurs on his back.

She stopped about twenty feet away, one hand holding the reins loosely while the other scribbled on paper against the saddle pommel.

Scott walked forward, straining to see. Some sort of drawing, it looked like. Bracing against Twister’s nudge of greeting, Scott watched her quickly fold the paper and slip it into the pocket of her pale blue shirt.

“I thought you weren’t going to ride today,” he said, reaching up to hold the bridle.

Her gaze fluttered over his bare chest and darted away. “The farrier rescheduled for tomorrow. I decided to scope out possible training sites. Twister hasn’t given me a bit of trouble—” she leaned over and rubbed the glossy neck “—have ya, handsome?”

Her sleeveless shirt gaped at the neck. Scott’s breath snagged on a glimpse of milky flesh and scalloped cream lace.

She straightened and stared out over the fence. “I never realized Riverbend was this close to your ranch.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did. It’s beneath a princess to notice the peons.”

Her head snapped around. Twister snorted and sidestepped. She collected the reins and eyed Scott with regal scorn.

“Quit calling me a princess.”

He almost smiled, but shrugged, instead. “It’s what you are.”

“Because my father bought Riverbend out from under your nose?”

His grip tightened on the bridle. How did she know about that?

“I spent some time at the feed store last week. I found out you worked there off and on all through high school. Apparently the whole town knew about your bargain with Mr. Perkin. My father didn’t win any friends around here by offering a deal the old man couldn’t refuse. Still, that has nothing to do with me.”

Like hell. “Donald Winston bought that land for you, for his little princess, so she could win horse shows.”

“So I’m the daughter of a man obsessed with winning.”

“A rich man.”

“Okay, a rich man. I can’t help it if I have wealthy parents. They don’t define me. When have I ever treated you like I was a princess, Scott Hayes?”

She sat there with her nose in the air and her posture church perfect and her eyes frosting the air between them, and Scott felt his control snap. He moved closer and gripped the supple riding boot that epitomized her privileged world.

“Since the first day I met you,” he said, all the confusion and humiliation of that day resurfacing. He wanted to shake her ivory tower till her teeth rattled. “Do you even remember that day, Maggie?”

Her cheeks flushed to match her sunburned nose. She remembered.

“Must’ve been quite a social comedown for you to hang out with the locals, huh?”

“No, I was grateful to be invited. Being new to the area wasn’t easy.”

“Our nasty red dust get your Corvette dirty?”

“You’re not being fair!”

“That’s life in the big country, princess. It ain’t fair and it ain’t easy. You don’t belong here any more than you did ten years ago.”

He’d spotted her right off when he’d walked into Lucy’s Café. Her sophisticated haircut, her expensive clothes, her French-restaurant table manners—hell, everything about her had screamed class. He’d been fascinated—and intimidated.

“My buddies bet me ten bucks I couldn’t get your phone number. I gotta admit, Maggie, you were good.”

She shifted in the saddle and frowned. “Good?”

“I thought I’d been around, knew all the tricks. But you played me like a puppet for thirty minutes before cutting the strings. I didn’t even see it coming.” He’d bought into that shy smile, the pleasure in her dove gray eyes, one hundred percent.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. I think you waited for the exact right minute to put me in my place. Everyone there saw me asking for your phone number. Everyone there knew I didn’t get it.”

He’d held out that pen and napkin for a hundred excruciating years while she’d given him the Snow Princess treatment. Her friends had giggled when he’d snatched his hand back. His own friends had snickered as he joined them in a corner booth. Losing the bet wasn’t the half of his shock.

Mr. Stud had finally been rejected, his friends had told him, by a Dallas blueblood—daughter of the millionaire who’d just bought old man Perkin’s place.

Twister tossed his head and stamped, jolting Scott back to the present. He focused on Maggie’s overly bright eyes, the pressed lips, which trembled nonetheless. She didn’t look cold now. She looked close to tears.

“It wasn’t you. It was me. I’m…” Her swallow was audible. She shook her head and fumbled with the reins.

Scott resented his pang of sympathy. “You’re what, Maggie?”

Her eyes hardened. Her chin came up and out. “I’m a damn good horse trainer, that’s what. That’s all you need to know about me.”

Twister launched forward into a fast trot, wrenching Scott’s hand from her boot. Stunned, he watched horse and rider kick up dust until they melted into the brush.

Absently rubbing his right glove, he stared unmoving at the horizon. The sun beat down hotter than ever, but he scarcely noticed. Something important had happened just now, no doubt about it.

He wished like hell he knew what it was.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_3074b31e-fed6-5071-bccd-8a3b26dcda81)

MARGARET FOUGHT the powerful undertow. Clawed her way toward wakefulness and blessed peace. But the current was invincible. It swept her past the sweetness and plunged her into panic. Into despair…

Into the car.

Cracked rubber tape on the steering wheel pricked her palms. Sweltering heat compressed her lungs. Matt’s voice implored her to slow down, to pull over. A red-white-and-blue beacon flashed in her rearview mirror. Too close. Too fast.

She couldn’t go back. Wouldn’t go back, or she might never have the courage to leave again.

Get away—get away—get away. The refrain pounded in her mind with each heartbeat. She pressed down on the accelerator and clutched the steering wheel tighter, willing her grip to hold the vibrating car together. Her muscles ached. Dizziness blurred her vision. She tried to slow her shallow breaths and only panted faster.

Get away, get away, get away—Boom!

The steering wheel was wrenched from her hands. Matt yelled. The horizon spun around and around andaround. Metal screeched. Pain exploded in her legs and chest. Glass stalactites trembled.

Silence throbbed.

She slowly turned her head. Matt’s flesh and bone fused with jagged metal in a gruesome sculpture of death.

Anguish filled her soul. She threw back her head and screamed at fate, “It should have been me. It should have been me. It should have been me-e-e-e—“

“Maggie!”

She jerked into consciousness with a gasp, her eyes popping open unfocused in the dark. Where…? Her vision cleared. The farmhouse, her second night here. Scott sat on the four-poster bed gripping her shoulders hard. She wondered how many times he’d shaken her.

“You were dreaming, Maggie. It was just a bad dream.”

Just a bad dream. She would’ve laughed if her teeth weren’t chattering like a set of windup toy dentures. Violent trembling seized her body in rhythmic waves. A terrible cold penetrated marrow deep. It would pass. Eventually. Closing her eyes, she waited…and endured.

“Damn,” Scott muttered, pulling her upright and into his arms.

She nearly whimpered with relief. His bare chest was hard beneath her cheek, his heartbeat loud and steady. She wrapped her arms around his waist and shamelessly clung. Maybe he hated her for what she’d done to Matt, maybe her present weakness disgusted him, but it didn’t matter. He felt strong and warm and alive, and she needed the human contact.

He rubbed her spine hesitantly, then more firmly, his callused fingers snagging on her cotton nightgown. “You’re shiverin’ like a spooked colt. Must’ve been a helluva nightmare.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded.

“Wanna talk about it?”

To this man? “No,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Humiliating, but she couldn’t seem to unlock her fingers from the waistband of his jeans.

“You were dreaming about the accident, weren’t you?”

She tensed. His room was right next door.’ “Was I talking out loud?”

“Sounded more like screaming to me.”

She unpeeled her fingers and started to push away, thwarted by the iron band of his arms.

“Relax, princess. No need to get your nose out of joint.”

Somehow that nose was buried against his chest now. He smelled of soap and sleep-roused male, and radiated heat like a healthy animal.

“At least you don’t feel like a damn ice cube anymore,” Scott said, satisfaction deepening his voice.

Not hardly. Grateful he couldn’t see her face, she turned and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

His body shifted toward the window. “Looks like it’s close to dawn. I’d have gotten up soon, anyway.”

“What did I…” Go on, coward, spit it out. “What did I scream?”

He hesitated a fraction too long. “Damned if I know. One thing’s for sure. My money’s on you, instead of Ada, at the next county fair.”

She struggled to make the connection.

“The pig-calling contest,” he explained. “You pack a mean set of lungs for such a little thing.”

His chuckle rumbled pleasantly against her ear. She managed a shaky smile, surprised to realize her trembling had stopped. Dangerous. She was too warm, too content, too willing to stay in his arms indefinitely. This time when she pushed away, he let her go.

She lay back and pulled the quilt to her chin, uncertain how their relationship had changed, sure only that it had.

“I guess I should thank you,” she finally said.

“No need. I didn’t want you to wake Dad.” He sprang up as if released from an unpleasant duty and headed for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t linger to make sure.

Margaret stared at the closed door in bemusement. Normally it took her several hours to recover from the dream. Never in her lifetime would she have expected Scott Hayes to speed the process. She almost wished he hadn’t. His compassion increased his virility by a thousandfold. As her horror had receded, every nerve ending in her body had tingled with awareness.

Funny. She’d never been as physically conscious of Matt, although she’d planned to marry him. He’d been a handsome young veterinary student working the summer at Riverbend when they’d met. She’d craved his unconditional love, so different from her parents’ embarrassed tolerance, but never his touch.

Nor had Jim ever caused this distressing reaction. She’d found him attractive, but that was secondary to the opportunity he’d offered—the chance to start a new life unfettered by guilt or her father’s censure. If truth were told, the physical side of her marriage had been disappointing. All those disconcerting noises, all that sweaty skin…

…that tanned, sweaty skin. An image of Scott as he’d looked the day before mocked her thoughts.

Far from distasteful, Scott’s glistening torso had fascinated her. When he’d reached up and held Twister’s bridle, his biceps had bunched and the corded sinew of his forearms flexed. Leather work gloves only emphasized his hard muscles, the kind earned through strenuous physical labor, not honed and perfected in a gym.

Blinking, Margaret shook off both the vision and her sappy smile. She yawned and stretched. The first blush of dawn tinged the lace curtains. Shadows solidified into an armoire, a scarred dresser and silver-spotted mirror. Margaret fingered the Wedding Ring quilt beneath her chin and admired the workmanship.

Scott was right. Everything on this ranch had been made or purchased to last through generations of hard wear. The sense of permanency charmed her, challenged her to be just as strong, just as capable of earning her keep.

Muffled kitchen sounds told her Scott was starting the first pot of coffee. Grant would be up soon. What could she make for breakfast that would be appetizing, as well as low in fat?

Cereal. That she could handle.

Throwing back the covers, she indulged in one last joint-popping stretch. Anticipation spread like caffeine through her blood, vanquishing fatigue. There was a long, exhausting day ahead of her. She couldn’t wait to get started.

THREE HOURS LATER Margaret’s enthusiasm had faded considerably. “Hold still, darn it!”

Twister swished his tail, jerking the currycomb from her hand—but not from a nasty snarl. He swished again, avoiding her frantic grab. His third, violent swish sent the heavy metal comb rocketing into the back plank wall like a deadly missile.