Jan Freed - The Texas Way

He always did.

THE DOUBLE CRACK of iron-shod hooves against wood reverberated throughout the barn.

“Dammit, Pete, I told you to stay back! You know he hates the sight of you.” Scott threw an irritated glance over his shoulder.

“Well, he don’t exactly make the sun shine for me, neither,” the peppery old cowhand grumbled, shuffling to a safer distance.

Scott ignored Pete’s injured feelings and concentrated on the greater problem at hand. What the hell was wrong with Twister?

The stallion danced restlessly on the far side of the twelve-by-twenty-foot stall, his bunched muscles rippling beneath a pearl gray coat. Charcoal velvet nostrils fluttered in distress. His silver tail swished up and down, side to side.

“Come on, boy. Don’t you want to get out and stretch your legs?” Scott moved slowly into the stall and clasped a lead rope to the nylon halter. Thank goodness he’d forgotten to remove the halter last night before returning to the house.

Noting the full feed bin, he frowned. “What’s the matter, Twister? You’re usually a pig. Are you getting sick maybe?”

A coil of dread tightened Scott’s belly. Ranch life had hastened his mother’s death, crushed his younger sister Laura’s spirit, weakened the heart of his once-invincible father. He sent up a silent prayer. Please God, not Twister, too.

Backing out the open door, Scott pulled the rope taut.

Twister planted his forelegs and refused to budge. Eyes rolling, sides heaving, sweat lathering his neck and flanks, he nickered low and deep.

Scott turned toward Pete. “Go up to the house and ask Dad to call Doc Chalmers. Something’s wrong with Twister, but hell if I can figure out what.”

“Car’s comin’ down the road,” Pete observed from the barn doorway. “Fancy thing, just like the girlie drivin’ it.”

Scott drew in a hissing breath. Maggie. Damn. He’d thought it would take her at least a day to pack whatever a princess needed to live among the common folk. He didn’t have time for her royal crap now.

“Just do what I ask and get the Doc out here. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.” Pete pushed off the doorframe and ambled toward the house, his voice drifting back in mumbled snatches. “Too dang mean to be sick…into some loco weed…do this, Pete, do that, Pete…”

Doc Chalmers wouldn’t go into a stall with the fractious stallion for a truckload of money. The veterinarian had made that clear the last time Twister had landed a well-aimed hoof.

Scott dug in his heels and pulled harder on the rope. “Come on out, dammit. You don’t even like being in there.” Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging like hell. He lifted one arm and rubbed his forehead, knocking his hat off in the process. His T-shirt clung damply, his jeans felt hot and scratchy—and he was playing tug-of-war with a friggin’ elephant!

Twister nickered again, but something about the sound was different this time. And suddenly Scott knew. Knew even before the light, fresh scent filled his lungs with spring flowers and his mind with images of sunlit hair.

“What is he afraid of?” the cultured, feminine voice asked from several feet behind.

Scott slackened the rope and watched his proud, beautiful stallion shiver. “He’s not afraid. He’s sick. Doc Chalmers is on the way.”

“He’s terrified,” Margaret insisted, walking up to stand beside Scott in the stall doorway.

In the dim light, her shoulder-length hair glimmered palely—her translucent gray eyes more palely still. She wore a sleeveless yellow dress sprigged with blue cornflowers. A thin blue satin ribbon threaded the puckered scoop neck, drawing his gaze to delicate collarbones and the hint of creamy breasts. The cotton material hung waistless, beltless, yet skimmed her curves more alluringly than spandex.

He felt like a smelly, hairy Neanderthal next to a magical fairy princess.

“Let me see what I can do.” With ethereal grace, she slipped into the stall and moved toward the wild-eyed stallion.

Scott’s heartbeat stalled, sputtered and roared to piston-pumping life. He was afraid to yell, afraid to do anything that might startle eleven hundred pounds of horseflesh into explosive action.

“Hiya, handsome. Remember me? Of course you do.” She reached up, grabbed the halter cheek straps and pulled Twister’s head down. “You wouldn’t forget your new friend.”

Damned if she wasn’t blowing in his nose!

“Now what is it that’s got you so scared? Why don’t we check it out together, okay?” She took the rope from Scott and shooed him back from the doorway.

Dazed, he stumbled backward as she moved forward, her pink toenails flashing bright next to Twister’s tough, yellowed hooves.

God almighty! Sandals in a horse stall. Twister’s horse stall.

“Ready, handsome?” She did something to his mane with her fingers. Amazingly he seemed to calm down a little. “All right then, let’s go.”

Paralyzed, Scott watched the powerful haunches gather, the pricked ears flatten. In two tremendous leaps Twister catapulted through the door, Margaret trotting close behind. Fifteen feet away he wheeled to face the stall and backed up, snorting all the while.

Pete’s skinny form darkened the barn entrance, but Twister ignored his long-standing enemy. Nothing else could have demonstrated his fear so well.

“You okay, Maggie?” Scott choked out.

Her steady gray eyes were inspecting the stall. “Whatever has him spooked is over there. See anything new or unfamiliar?”

Scott scanned the area and rumpled his hair. Nothing looked different to him. Same frayed leather bridle drooping from a rusty nail. Same packed dirt floor covered with matted straw. Same shovel leaning against—

“The hay,” Pete said, moving toward Margaret with surprising hustle.

With the right incentive, those bowed legs of his could sure get up and go, Scott noted wryly.

At the wrangler’s approach, Twister jerked his head back. Margaret laid her small white hand against his arched neck and murmured soothingly. Once again the stallion marginally settled.

Pete’s light blue eyes widened.

“What about the hay, Mr….?” Margaret paused politely.

“Pete. Just call me Pete, miss.”

She flashed a dazzling smile. “Pete, then. And please, call me Margaret.”

Scott rolled his eyes. He was at a goddamn tea party.

“Were you talking about that hay over there, Pete?” She indicated two bales stacked next to the stall doorway.

“That’s right, mi…M-Margaret.” Pete doffed a battered straw hat and ducked his head, revealing a shiny brown bald spot surrounded by crinkled gray hair. “I put it there myself yesterday evenin’.”

“Would you mind very much moving it away from the wall for me?”

“Don’t mind a’tall, not a bit, no.” He hurried to the hay and heaved the top bale down with the strength of a much younger man.

It landed with a heavy thud, missing Scott’s toes by a dust mote. He narrowed his eyes and glared.

Supremely indifferent, Pete stooped over and lifted the second bale. A long black snake slithered between his boots.

Twister squealed and rode his haunches. Pete dropped the bale and cursed. Scott grabbed a shovel and swung it edge-side down at the snake.

The reptile’s body and head separated; the one writhing and flipping, the other yawning pink and grotesque in search of a target.

Pete shuddered. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I hate worse’n a damn snake, even a piddly ol’ bull snake. No wonder Twister went nuts. Want me to get rid of it, boss?” He looked none too thrilled at the prospect

Scott had the shovel, after all. Grimacing, he walked toward the motionless form. “Call Doc Chalmers and see if he’s left yet. I’ll—”