The Texas Way. Jan Freed
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she might even have the edge on Ellen.
At her truck, Ada dropped the tailgate, grabbed a flimsy chicken-wire cage and pulled. Excited grunts erupted from the black-and-white shoat inside. She’d always had a soft spot for runts. She’d only postponed this one’s inevitable fate, but still, she felt noble.
“Hush, little guy. We’ll get you out of there in a minute,” Ada crooned, dragging the cage to the edge of the tailgate. The eight-week-old pig trembled miserably, his tail tucked as low as the curl would allow. Intent on getting the poor creature settled, Ada tightened her grip on the cage and heaved.
“Let me help,” Grant rumbled unexpectedly in her ear.
Her fingers slackened. The cage hit the ground. Wire crunched, popping the door open. And thirty pounds of squealing, outraged pig dug in his toes and raced wildly for the barn.
After exchanging a stunned look with Grant, Ada took off in hot pursuit.
She focused with dizzying results on the corkscrew tail twirling counterclockwise to anatomy. Ah, good. The rascal was headed straight for the first stall. Easy pickings. She plunged through the stall just behind the pig, waited tensely while he bobbled against three walls and grasped empty air as he squirted between her legs and out the door.
“Get him!” Ada shrieked at Grant, who stood watching with an infuriatingly superior male smirk.
Stumpy legs pumping, the runt streaked into the next stall. Grant leapt into manly action. Ada stumbled into the corridor just in time to see the frenzied pig rounding the stall like a fresh-shelled pea in a bowl. When Grant zigged with hands open, the black-and-white terror zagged straight out through the door.
It was a beautiful moment.
“Get him!” Grant roared, lurching out of the stall with murder in his eyes.
There were advantages to being a runt, Ada discovered during the next ten minutes. Never again would she feel sorry for nature’s pip-squeaks. Runts were faster than their heftier siblings, for one thing. And small enough to wiggle under sawhorses, between stacked well pipe and behind metal storage cabinets.
In a distant part of Ada’s awareness, she registered the sound of an approaching vehicle, then closed out all distractions save the pig eyeing her with myopic defiance four feet away. For some reason, he’d skidded to a stop in another stall. Afraid to move, she spoke in a soft, singsong voice.
“That’s a good piggy, just stay where you are and we’ll stick an apple in your mouth yet, yes we will. If you’re there, Grant, close the stall door now, because our little friend here looks very nervous.”
She watched the pig’s beady eyes follow Grant’s movement toward the door.
“Yoohoo. Oh, Gra-ant?” came a woman’s glass-shattering voice.
Hide bristling, the runt bolted for the stall door. Ada lunged, groaning as a piece of his tail slipped through her fingers. Dusty, sweaty and completely alone, she hung her head.
Outrage brought her chin up. She charged out of the stall and spotted Grant pounding down the corridor, hard on the tiny rump of Turbo Pig. A voluptuous woman in a flowing, ankle-length dress stood silhouetted in the barn entrance, holding a cake aloft.
“My, it’s dark in here. Is that you, Grant? I brought you my famous Molasses Spice Cake everybody raves abou—Eeeeek! Get away! Get away, you nasty thing!” Spinning in a circle, Ellen Gates trapped the thrashing, frantic pig in her swirling skirt.
You should have changed out of your Sunday dress, Ada thought smugly.
“Stand still, Ellen,” Grant ordered. “He won’t hurt you.”
“What won’t hurt me? What won’t hurt me, goddamn it!”
Tsk-tsk, what would the preacher say?
“It’s a pig. A small pig,” Grant explained with a superior male smirk Ada didn’t mind at all.
Just then, the animal in question caught scent of his favorite flavor in the world, the one Ada used to sweeten his sorghum and tempt his runty appetite, and snuffled as high as he could reach beneath Ellen’s skirts.
“Eeeeeyuu!”
The cake hit the ground with a succulent splat. The pig fought his way out of Ellen’s skirts with a squeal of ecstasy and began gobbling scattered molasses shrapnel from the dirt floor. The last of Ada’s hostility toward the little runt faded.
“Do something!” Ellen wailed.
Ada pushed past Grant, grabbed the warm, quivering pig, and repositioned his leathery snout dead center in the cake. “Enjoy yourself, runt. It’s famous.”
SCOTT CAUGHT a loose strand of barbed wire with his hammer claw and pressed the tool back against a worm-eaten mesquite post. He waited for the telltale twang of maximum tension before plucking a staple out of his mouth, lifting a second hammer from his belt and securing the strand with two solid whacks. Only then did he straighten and wipe the sweat from his brow.
Repairing fence alone was tricky work and required all his concentration—which was exactly why he’d declined Pete’s offer to help. If Scott had time to think, he might remember Maggie’s stricken expression earlier today when he’d lectured her about ruining a frying pan. Or her startled awareness when he’d forcibly held her wrist. Neither reaction spoke well of his behavior. But then, she’d always brought out the worst in him.
Frowning, he dropped both hammers and noted the belch of dust on impact. Damn, it was dry for April. Unless a gully-washer hit soon, the approaching summer would dry up his stock tanks. They were dangerously low as it was.
He peeled off his work gloves and walked to the pickup parked in the dubious shade of a young mesquite. This part of the ranch hadn’t been cleared in two years. The profusion of cactus, scrub brush and spindly trees depressed him. Pulling his shirttail free, he wrenched open the snaps in one movement and threw the wadded material into the open window. He’d had big plans for this place once. Now he just got up, worked until he couldn’t see straight, then fell into bed—day after day after day.
Lifting out the thermos of water he always carried, Scott gulped and then backhanded his mouth. If only watering his cattle was so easy. Inevitably, irresistibly, his gaze drifted to the thick stand of oaks and cotton-woods edging the horizon.
The trees sheltered the Guadalupe River, whose far bank sloped up to the foot of a manicured green lawn. His mind provided details of the plantation-style house, massive horse barn and various outbuildings he’d seen only twice in his life.
Riverbend. The embodiment of everything he wanted, yet couldn’t have.
As a kid, he’d listened to his dad talk about buying the riverfront acreage from old man Perkin and improving H & H Cattle Company’s holdings. Then his mom had grown ill. The medical bills stacked up, and the talk stopped.
After she died, they’d all handled it differently. Laura found comfort in excelling at school, Grant relinquished his dream, and Scott grabbed hold of it with both hands. At the ripe old age of twelve, he’d extracted a promise from Andrew Perkin to give Scott first crack at purchasing the prime riverfront land one day.
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