Jan Freed - The Texas Way

She lay back and pulled the quilt to her chin, uncertain how their relationship had changed, sure only that it had.

“I guess I should thank you,” she finally said.

“No need. I didn’t want you to wake Dad.” He sprang up as if released from an unpleasant duty and headed for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t linger to make sure.

Margaret stared at the closed door in bemusement. Normally it took her several hours to recover from the dream. Never in her lifetime would she have expected Scott Hayes to speed the process. She almost wished he hadn’t. His compassion increased his virility by a thousandfold. As her horror had receded, every nerve ending in her body had tingled with awareness.

Funny. She’d never been as physically conscious of Matt, although she’d planned to marry him. He’d been a handsome young veterinary student working the summer at Riverbend when they’d met. She’d craved his unconditional love, so different from her parents’ embarrassed tolerance, but never his touch.

Nor had Jim ever caused this distressing reaction. She’d found him attractive, but that was secondary to the opportunity he’d offered—the chance to start a new life unfettered by guilt or her father’s censure. If truth were told, the physical side of her marriage had been disappointing. All those disconcerting noises, all that sweaty skin…

…that tanned, sweaty skin. An image of Scott as he’d looked the day before mocked her thoughts.

Far from distasteful, Scott’s glistening torso had fascinated her. When he’d reached up and held Twister’s bridle, his biceps had bunched and the corded sinew of his forearms flexed. Leather work gloves only emphasized his hard muscles, the kind earned through strenuous physical labor, not honed and perfected in a gym.

Blinking, Margaret shook off both the vision and her sappy smile. She yawned and stretched. The first blush of dawn tinged the lace curtains. Shadows solidified into an armoire, a scarred dresser and silver-spotted mirror. Margaret fingered the Wedding Ring quilt beneath her chin and admired the workmanship.

Scott was right. Everything on this ranch had been made or purchased to last through generations of hard wear. The sense of permanency charmed her, challenged her to be just as strong, just as capable of earning her keep.

Muffled kitchen sounds told her Scott was starting the first pot of coffee. Grant would be up soon. What could she make for breakfast that would be appetizing, as well as low in fat?

Cereal. That she could handle.

Throwing back the covers, she indulged in one last joint-popping stretch. Anticipation spread like caffeine through her blood, vanquishing fatigue. There was a long, exhausting day ahead of her. She couldn’t wait to get started.

THREE HOURS LATER Margaret’s enthusiasm had faded considerably. “Hold still, darn it!”

Twister swished his tail, jerking the currycomb from her hand—but not from a nasty snarl. He swished again, avoiding her frantic grab. His third, violent swish sent the heavy metal comb rocketing into the back plank wall like a deadly missile.

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