The Texas Way. Jan Freed
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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.