Jan Freed - The Texas Way

Scott had assured her that after the surgery his father was fine, that there was no reason for her to visit the hospital or drop off a casserole when Grant came home. Yet Ellen Gates had done both. Every congregation member sitting within five pews of the new widow heard how she’d read scripture by Grant’s bed—no doubt wishing she was in it, the hypocrite—and taken him her famous Chicken Delight the next week. Baiting the trap for a husband, that’s what she was doing.

A series of grunts from the back of Ada’s pickup gave her pause. It was true Ellen had boobs the size of Canada. But Ada had fifty times more brains. Surely that gave the widow only a moderate edge.

She was halfway up the porch steps when Grant opened the door.

“Ada, what a nice surprise.”

Hand pressed to pounding heart, she allowed herself one devouring look. He was so thin! Yet the rakish smile and lively green eyes were as irresistible as ever.

“Hello, Grant. How’re you feeling?”

His eyes lost some of their sparkle. “Oh, good as an old man with one foot in the grave can feel.”

She arched a brow. “Glad I came by in time. Dead men are so boring.”

When he chuckled, her pleasure pulsed bone deep.

“Come on in out of the sun, Ada. I think I can manage a little conversation before the funeral.”

“You’re sure I’m not intruding? Looks like you’ve already got company.” She glanced pointedly at the Porsche.

“That’ll take some explaining. Come in.”

She climbed the remaining steps while he held open the door. His fingertips branded the small of her back as she swept into the oak-planked parlor. He made her feel protected and utterly feminine when she didn’t need the first and certainly wasn’t the second.

And that, she supposed, was why she’d loved Grant Hayes most of her adult life.

He settled her on the camelback sofa and squeezed into the room’s only chair, a wooden rocker far too delicate for his large frame.

“The car belongs to Margaret Winston. You remember, Donald Winston’s daughter?”

“I’m not likely to forget.”

No single family in the county had provided as much juicy gossip as the Winstons. People still wondered what really happened the day young Matt Collins died. One thing was clear—a body never mentioned Margaret’s name around Scott unless she wanted her head snapped off. And Ada was rather fond of hers.

“I thought Margaret lived in Dallas now. What brings her here?” she asked, listening enthralled to Grant’s account of the past three days. When he finished, she slowly shook her head.

“If that doesn’t beat all. To hear Doc Chalmers tell it, Twister was spawned from the bowels of hell. Do you really think a little thing like Margaret can handle that devil?”

“She saddled him up not twenty minutes ago and took off on their first ride. Damnedest thing I ever saw. You’d have thought he was a Shetland pony at the kiddie park. Margaret’ll handle Twister just fine. But handling Scott…now, that’s a whole different ball of wax.”

Did he know his eyes were as green as fresh mint? Did he know how masculine he looked in that dainty chair or what happened to her stomach when he smiled?

“But enough about us, Ada. What brings you away from your sows during spring farrowing? Can’t be my charming company.”

Of course he didn’t know. She was plain, practical Ada Butler, raiser of hogs and peaches, not men’s pulses. She glanced from his jutting arms and knees to the empty cushion beside her and blinked back the horrifying sting of tears.

“Ada? What is it?” He unfolded from the chair and left it rocking wildly to sit on the sofa. Reaching for her hands, he gave them a squeeze and searched her eyes. “Has something happened at the farm? Do you need help?”

Concern had accomplished what her pitiful charms could not. It would be easy enough to let the tears flow, to find a plausible problem and see where it led. Already prickles of excitement from their joined palms spread up her arms. Heavenly.

She drew a deep breath and pulled her hands away. “Nothing’s wrong, Grant. It’s my silly allergies. They always act up this time of year.”

Avoiding his gaze, she rose and walked to the door, clearing her throat and sniffing for effect. “You’re right, I really can’t stay away from the farm long. But I ran into Scott last week in town, and he mentioned wanting to raise a hog for fall slaughter.” Some day was what he’d said. She opened the door and stood half in, half out.

“Morning Glory’s last litter was a beaut,” she babbled on. “Twelve in all, but the runt barely made it. He’ll bring next to nothing at market and less than that as breeding stock. You’re welcome to take him if you want. He’s in the truck now.”

“Really? One of your prize Hampshires? I don’t know what to say, Ada.”

Neither did she, since he’d moved to peer out the door and driven every coherent thought out of her head. Her spine hugged the doorjamb. Her chest rose and fell an inch from his arm. Oh, to be Ellen Gates now.

He turned and looked down, his evident pleasure shifting to surprise, then keen awareness. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen that expression in a man’s eyes. Never had it thrilled her body and soul like now.

She saw his gaze fasten on her mouth, felt her lips soften in response, watched him frown in confusion and step out onto the front porch. As he stared into space, realization hit. Lord in heaven, he’d almost kissed her!

Her heart soaring, she breezed across the porch, floated down the steps and turned to call up teasingly, “C’mon, old man. Let’s get your pig unloaded.”

Spinning on one serviceable work boot, she was amazed at how naturally her walk had an extra sway when she knew Grant was watching. One thing about working a farm sunup to sundown—it kept her figure trim and supple. From this view, 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.