The Texas Way. Jan Freed
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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.”
“I’m prepared to offer you five thousand dollars for Twist of Fate…for Twister. Cash on delivery.”
So much for preliminaries. He stacked his fists on the chair back and planted his chin. “That’s a lot of money for someone who has no money,” he drawled, waiting for her blush to peak before continuing. “But it’s not a fraction of what he’s worth.”
“Not if he was a show-ring champion. But Twister’s never been campaigned. Never sired any proven get.”
“Campaigned? Proven? We’re talking about a stallion, here, not a damn politician. Twister’s got nothin’ to prove as far as I’m concerned.”
“Wasting his potential is criminal! And stupendously selfish. And…and just plain ignorant! You don’t deserve to own him.”
There was that passion again. So unlike the girl he’d known. So intense he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dropped his voice a husky note. “So make me an offer I can’t refuse, Maggie.”
Color splashed her cheeks. “I don’t have any more money, damn you. I don’t have a home. I don’t even own that Porsche out there. The lease expires next week.”
He frowned, feeling a niggle of unease. “Your husband?”
“We’ve been divorced a month.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No settlement money?”
“The prenuptial agreement was airtight. He was a lawyer, after all.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if signing such agreements before pledging to honor and love your life mate was normal. He supposed in her privileged world, that was true.
“There’s always Daddy,” he said, his voice cynical. Donald Winston spared no expense when it came to his precious daughter. And his pockets were very deep.
Her mouth clamped shut. Her color heightened. She drew a cloak of dignity around her narrow shoulders.
“I’ll be damned. The old man cut you off.”
With sudden clarity, Scott remembered just how far her father would go to teach Margaret a lesson. Questions whirled like dust devils in his mind. He snatched at the nearest one.
“What’ll you do now?”
She gave a humorless laugh and stared at her clasped fingers. Scott doubted if those creamy, manicured hands had done more than dial a phone in the past six years. With grudging admiration, he watched her trembling lips firm, her spine stiffen and her chin lift. She met his eyes squarely.
“Give me a job.”
MARGARET FELT her courage falter, smothered beneath Scott’s heavy silence. The electric hum of the ancient refrigerator mingled with the dull roar of blood in her ears. She took a deep breath. Big mistake. Musty house and strange breakfast odors wreaked havoc on her nervous stomach.
“Come again?” Scott finally asked, his amusement insulting.
“If you won’t sell Twister, hire me to train him. I guarantee within six months he’ll pump cash back into H & H Cattle Company. He’ll bring in a bundle standing at stud.”
“It takes years of training to bring a horse up to national competition level. Even I know that. H & H Cattle Company doesn’t have years,” he admitted grimly.
“You’re thinking in terms of show-ring competition. That’s not what I have in mind.” The excitement she’d nurtured for weeks bubbled in her voice.
“Wanna let me in on your secret?”
“Twister has the makings of a champion racehorse.”
“Racehorse?” Scott’s incredulous stare grew pitying. “He’s six years old—over the hill by at least two years. Besides, Thoroughbreds race, not Arabians.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. Arabian racing is well established in Europe and the Middle East. It’s a hot trend in the States now. Not only that, an Arabian’s prime racing years begin at age five.” She paused, savoring his dazed expression. “But that’s not the best part.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “The best part is, breeders are clamoring for a particular type of Arabian. One with a conformation suited to running, rather than class performance. One that is relatively rare right now and therefore brings top stud fees. There’s a huge demand now for an Arabian like Twister.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, she broke into a huge smile. “And we have a lock on the supply!”
“We have a lock on the supply?” Scott lifted one tawny brow to meet his hat band. Rising, he hooked a chair leg with his boot and slung the seat around. “I don’t recall selling you any portion of my racehorse, Maggie.”
She looked up into eyes the color of scotch whiskey—and lost both her smile and her capacity to speak. His lazy, masculine confidence had always twisted her up inside. But she couldn’t let him intimidate her now. She had too much to lose.
As if he read her mind, his mouth quirked upward. He shoved his chair under the table and sauntered toward an aluminum percolator plugged into an outlet near the sink. Helpless to stop herself, she watched the rolling action of his lean hips and tight butt.
Jim hadn’t walked like that. Neither had Matt. The truth was, no other man in her civilized experience had ever moved with quite the same feline grace and male swagger as this tall cowboy.
Opening a painted cabinet door of indeterminate color, he pulled down two mismatched ceramic mugs and looked back over one shoulder.
Caught admiring the broad stretch of his faded blue shirt, Margaret froze. He held her gaze, his own smoldering beneath sooty lashes.
“How do you like your coffee?”
He might have been asking how she liked her sex, so intimate was his tone. Margaret had never hated her fair complexion more.
“I don’t drink coffee, thank you.” Even to her own ears, she sounded priggish.
Shrugging, he filled his mug, turned and propped a negligent hip against the counter. “I think this farce has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
“Farce?”
“This fairy tale about Twister racing. I’ll give you credit for trying. But you of all people should know I can’t give you a job.” He took a leisurely sip of coffee, his eyes watchful behind tendrils