The Texas Way

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

“Easy, handsome. Don’t be afraid. How’d you like to go for a ride?”

Tightening her fist in the stallion’s mane, Margaret gathered her muscles into vault position, then gasped.

Cold metal—round, hollow and unmistakably lethal—pressed into her neck. “Don’t listen to her, Twister,” a deep voice drawled from behind. “Takin’ a ride with Maggie here can kill a guy.”

Blood rushed to her face in a sickening wave of guilt. “You,” she whispered.

“Yeah, me. The owner of the land you’re tresspassin’ on.” The pressure on her neck eased, replaced by the sliding caress of a gun barrel. “All grown up now, are you? Let’s take a look. Turn around, Maggie.”

Schooling her features into a cool mask, she turned. “Don’t call me Maggie.”

“Seems to me I can call you any name I want. And right this minute, ‘Maggie’ is the nicest one that comes to mind.”

Nothing had changed, she realized. He would never forget…or forgive.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After years of writing advertising copy, Jan Freed decided that if she could make washing machines sound glamorous, creating likable characters should be a breeze. Jan’s second book combines her pride in the indomitable spirit of Texans with her lifelong love of horses. “Cowboys and the Arabian breed share a mythical appeal that makes for great romance—pairing the two was a natural choice.”

Jan lives in Texas (of course!) with her husband and two children. She’d love to hear from readers and invites you to write to her at: P.O. Box 5009-272, Sugarland, Texas, 77487.

The Texas Way

Jan Freed

To Mica Kelch and Marian May, sisters in madness and valued friends. And to Jenny Hiller, blood sister and my truest fan. Thanks for the advice and support, buds!

Special thanks to Sharon and Xavier Moreau, owners of Bloodstock International, Inc., for sharing their knowledge of the Arabian horse industry. Any errors are accidental and entirely my fault.

CHAPTER ONE

MARGARET CHELSEA WINSTON crouched behind a clump of cacti, peeked over one spiny rim and forgot to breathe.

Moonlight leeched all color from the red clay and yellowed grass. Only light and dark contrasts remained. At the center of this ghostly vista stood a commanding figure, the embodiment of proud male arrogance—a shimmering gray stallion.

Twist of Fate, she’d named him six years ago, hoping she wasn’t overestimating his potential, praying he’d really beaten the genetic odds. He had. His magnificence surpassed her girlish dreams. He was one of the finest Arabians in the world.

Gripped with excitement, she rose and stood tall, giving him time to study her as thoroughly as she had him. Earthy smells nettled her nose. Coyotes yipped in the distance, two, maybe three miles away. Sound carried far in this part of Texas.

He stared back across the stark landscape, his dark gaze asking, Who watches me in the night?

A friend, she answered, not questioning their silent communication. She’d long ago accepted her uncanny rapport with animals as compensation for the skills she lacked.

After learning the stallion still lived in this area, she’d planned on sneaking a glimpse, then slipping away unseen. But nothing had prepared her for the ambition and resentment he awakened—the burning need to reclaim him.

She walked to the fence and slipped between the strands of barbed wire. “Hey, handsome. What’s a fella like you doing in a place like this?”

She kept her voice soothing, knowing he understood her tone if not the words. Ears pricked forward, he blew short and hard through flared nostrils. A fluttering snort would have indicated fear. She smiled.

“Curious, huh? I came to get reacquainted, that’s all.”

Her initial impression had been correct. Strong topline, wide airway, compact proportions. Perfect. Her mind whirled with possibilities. She forced her thoughts to focus, her movements to remain fluid.

Holding his alert gaze, she walked the last few feet and stood nose to muzzle. “Don’t run out on me, okay, handsome? I could use a little company right now. Things’ve been…” Lousy. Miserable.

Normal.

The insidious emotions struck out of nowhere, stinging her eyes and swelling her throat. Damn, damn, damn! So what if she’d never felt more alone in all her twenty-six years? She’d made the right decision, and by God she would prove it. Her new life wouldn’t tolerate weakness. She wouldn’t tolerate weakness in herself, not ever again.

Warm breath blasted her face, jolting her back to the present.

Here is my special smell, his action said. If you trust it, we might be friends.

She stared at the chiseled muzzle only inches away. How many years had passed since she’d been offered simple, innocent friendship? Too many, judging by her fierce desire to hug the stallion’s neck. Suppressing the urge, she responded to his overture in horse language and blew gently into his nostrils.

When he lowered his head, she laughed in delight. “I like you, too.”

She squeezed a portion of silver mane between her thumb and forefinger, then rubbed the strands together. The simulated grooming action of equine teeth demonstrated her friendliness. More so than if she’d stroked him in the usual way.

Working her fingers up and down the mane, she frowned. His thick gray coat, shaggy fetlocks and furry ears hadn’t felt the buzz of clipping shears in months. Trust a cowboy to let an animal of this caliber winter in the open like a second-string range pony. No warm stable for this beauty, oh, no. After all, that wouldn’t be the Texas way of doing things. Lord knew this stallion’s owner hated “pampered creatures.” She ought to know. Memory of the tall rancher’s contempt narrowed her eyes. “He ought to be horsewhipped, pardon the expression.”

Finger-nibbling her way across the stallion’s shoulder and ribs, she noted plenty of lean muscle but no bony protrusions. In all fairness, he appeared to be well fed and in excellent health.

Some experts considered rough terrain ideal training conditions. If true, she’d be that much ahead of the game. What she wouldn’t give to put him through his paces!

Gauging the height of his withers, she glanced up at the full moon, then down at the illuminated ground. Temptation won over caution. She reached up and grasped a handful of mane.

The stallion suddenly tensed, lifted his head and shifted to the right. Margaret sidestepped his clattering hooves.

“Easy, handsome. Don’t be afraid. How’d you like to go for a little ride?” Tightening her fist, she gathered her muscles into vault position and gasped.

Cold metal—round, hollow and unmistakably lethal—pressed into her neck.

“Don’t listen to her, Twister,” a deep voice drawled from behind. “Takin’ a ride with Maggie here can kill a guy.”

Blood rushed to her face in a sickening wave of guilt. She dropped her forehead against the stallion’s hide, inhaling the pungent scent of warm animal and dried sweat. The gun followed her movement.

“You,” she whispered.

“Yeah, me. The owner of the land you’re trespas-sin’ on. Next time you try stealin’ a horse, Maggie, don’t park so close to the main gate. That Porsche is a little conspicuous.”

“I wasn’t stealing…Twister, is that what you called him? I only wanted to see what he could do.”

His mocking laugh set her teeth on edge.

“Maggie, darlin’, the minute your fanny hit his back you’d be on your way to Mars. Beats the hell outta me how you ever got this close.” Honest puzzlement tinged his voice.

Her head jerked up. “Don’t call me Maggie.”

The pressure against her neck increased. “Well now, seems to me I can call you any name I want. And right this minute, Maggie is the nicest one that comes to mind.”

Nothing had changed. He would never forget—-or forgive. She released the stallion’s mane and straightened her shoulders.

“Put the gun down, please. I’m not going to do anything foolish.”

The pressure eased, replaced by the sliding caress of a gun barrel. “All grown up now, are you? Let’s take a look. Turn around.”

Margaret’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her entire future depended on the mercy of this man, as it had once before. She was damned if she’d wimp out this time.

Schooling her features into a cool mask, she slowly turned.

Scott Hayes lifted pistol point to Stetson brim and nudged upward. His eyes gleamed colorless and flat in the moon’s glow, but she knew they were lion gold and insolent as a cat’s. His gaze roved over her body now with the calculated intention of rattling her composure.

But contrary to his sarcasm, she had grown up. So she ignored her erratic pulse and conducted her own slow inspection. He was taller than she remembered, around six foot two perhaps. Or maybe it was just that damned hat he wore. At midnight, for Pete’s sake. In the few times she’d seen him, she’d never laid eyes on his hair—other than the brownish waves breaking over his shirt collar. Maybe he was hiding a bald spot.

She smiled at the malicious thought.

He crossed his arms and cocked one knee, the action drawing attention to his rangy legs, lean hips and impossibly wide shoulders.

“Mind tellin’ me what’s so funny?”

Her smile faded. She looked him in the eye. “Yes. I do mind.”

Surprise flickered across his bold features. She sensed a new awareness in him, a reassessing of her will, and drew strength from having knocked the cocksure look off his face.

He’d filled out in six years, but then, Texas ranching bred muscular men. To add to Scott’s physical workload, H & H Cattle Company was down to one hired hand. Or so she’d heard. Word was the business teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. She hoped to God that was true.

Scott jammed the gunpoint down behind his belt, against the tight denim molding everything it touched. His gun wasn’t loaded, she realized. He wouldn’t risk damaging his precious…jeans.

Cheeks burning, she jerked her gaze up.

His cocky smirk was back, along with a disturbing new gleam in his eyes. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’m gonna think that husband of yours doesn’t know how to keep you hap—” His eyes widened.

She started to turn. Twister’s bared teeth caught her ponytail just as Scott’s strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled. Margaret rebounded in the circle of his arms like a bungee cord.

“Dammit, Maggie! What the hell are you doin’ messin’ with this stud? He’s mean as a javelina hog around everyone but me.”

When his arms pulled her close, a strange sense of safety clouded her brain. Nose, chest, stomach and thigh pressed against Scott Hayes, she groped for concentration.

“Twister eats little girls like you for breakfast. If I hadn’t grabbed you when I did, he woulda torn this pretty blond scalp of yours clean off.”

His touch was so light, at first she didn’t notice. Once she did, every hair follicle stood at attention.

“What were you thinkin’ of, tryin’ to ride that son of a bitch? At night. Bareback, no less.”

Some of Scott’s contempt filtered through Margaret’s fog.

“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.