Jan Freed - The Texas Way

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.