by Jan Freed
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.
She’d dredged up a muck of feelings better left buried. He would listen to what she had to say, then boot her out of his kitchen—and his life.
“Breakfast!” he called, setting the plates on the table and scraping back his chair.
A door squeaked open. Boots clumped down the planked hall. Grant filled the doorway, his graying auburn hair mere inches from the frame. Faded jeans sagged at his waist; a once-tight shirt puckered at his shoulders and stomach. He seemed thinner and older than the last time Scott had paused long enough to look.
Testing the air like a coon hound, Grant cast a cautious look at the table. “Thanks, son. Looks good.”
Liar. Scott forced a quick smile. “Eat up then. I’m tired of looking fat compared to you. Bad for my ego.”
Grinning, Grant strode to the table and sat down. “The day your ego suffers, I’ll eat a carton of ice cream to celebrate. Seems to me your sister made a similar promise not long ago, something about…flowers, was it?”
Regretting he’d ever told his dad that story, Scott grunted and dug into his eggs. Laura’s exact phrase had vibrated with frustration. Someday a woman is going to bring you to your knees, Scott Hayes. And when she does, I’ll send her a dozen roses.
His mouth twitched at the thought of poor Alec. Laura had cut him off at the kneecaps, but Scott knew his brother-in-law had dropped willingly.
Too soon, Grant put his fork down and made a show of patting his stomach. “What are your plans today?”
Scott eyed his father’s half-filled plate and scowled. “The windmill up on the red hill is jammed. Pete said it looks like a tree branch. Shouldn’t take more than an hour to fix, so I thought I’d ride the north fence line while I’m at it.”
“Good idea. I could start at the county road and meet—”
“Dad.”
Grant tightened his mouth and glared out the small window above the sink. His strong, callused fingers clenched once, then relaxed. When he turned to Scott, his leaf green eyes were calm and resigned.
“If you’re not using the truck, maybe I’ll take a look at the carburetor. The ol’ girl could probably use an oil change, too.”
Scott swallowed hard. Physical weakness demoralized a man of Grant’s former vigor. “Yeah, Dad, that’d be great. If I’m not back by lunch, there’s still some of Ellen’s casserole in the fridge.”
His father’s pained groan made him grin. The vacuous widow’s visits strained even Grant Hayes’s good manners.
The sound of an engin
e’s purr turned both their heads. Scott’s stomach flip-flopped, a sensation he hadn’t felt since his teens. He pushed back his chair, carried plates to the sink and began rinsing. Through the window, he watched a sleek red Porsche crawl up the graveled drive.
His father’s mildly questioning glance suddenly deepened. “Expecting someone?”
“Margaret Winston. Remember her?” Scott forced a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
“B’lieve the name rings a bell.” Grant’s wry tone said he remembered enough.
A thousand questions hung in the air. That they remained unasked was a measure of their mutual respect.
“She wants to buy Twister,” Scott confessed. Not for a minute had he believed that crock about her having no money. Drying his hands on a dish towel, he turned and met his father’s eyes. “I’m just listening out of courtesy.”
Grant’s expression eased. “Don’t do anything rash.” He rose and clasped Scott’s shoulder. “I’d sell Bandolero before I’d let you give up Twister.”
The prize bull was one of the few ranch assets left with a hefty market value. Scott reached up and squeezed his father’s forearm. “It won’t come to that.”
A car door slammed. Gravel crunched.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Grant said, giving Scott an odd look.
The screen door twanged open. Knuckles rapped on the door.
“Why don’t I get that?” Grant suggested, his green eyes twinkling now.
Scott heard his father introduce himself and exchange pleasantries, then excuse himself to work on the truck. He heard the screen door whack. But he saw only Margaret.
If he’d entertained any doubts about where she belonged, he now knew with certainty it wasn’t in his kitchen.
She stood like a calla lily on the dingy white linoleum. Graceful. Delicate. Lovely in the way of women blessed with classic bone structure, rather than voluptuous curves. Her soft gray sweater and matching slacks complemented eyes the color of smoke, skin fine as bone china, hair glinting gold in the sunbeam streaming through the door.
Last night, he’d thought she must look her best in moonlight. He wished to hell he’d been right.
She squinted at the clock a long moment, then smiled hesitantly. “Right on time…aren’t I?”
He checked the clock. Eight o’clock on the money. Apparently her vanity wouldn’t permit wearing glasses.
He nodded toward the table. “Sit down.”
She glanced at the rickety dinette, and Scott imagined her inner shudder. He hadn’t even swiped it down after the meal. But she pulled out a cracked vinyl chair and sat with nary a blink.
“Thank you.” She waved a graceful hand at the opposite chair. “Please, you sit down, too.”
As usual, the more graciously she behaved, the ruder he felt. He might as well act the part.
Plucking his Stetson off the refrigerator, Scott jammed it low. He flipped around the chair nearest her and dropped into a straddle. “So talk.”
“I’m prepared to offer you five thousand dollars for Twist of Fate…for Twister. Cash on delivery.”
So much for preliminaries. He stacked his fists on the chair back and planted his chin. “That’s a lot of money for someone who has no money,” he drawled, waiting for her blush to peak before continuing. “But it’s not a fraction of what he’s worth.”
“Not if he was a show-ring champion. But Twister’s never been campaigned. Never sired any proven get.”
“Campaigned? Proven? We’re talking about a stallion, here, not a damn politician. Twister’s got nothin’ to prove as far as I’m concerned.”
“Wasting his potential is criminal! And stupendously selfish. And…and just plain ignorant! You don’t deserve to own him.”
There was that passion again. So unlike the girl he’d known. So intense he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dropped his voice a husky note. “So make me an offer I can’t refuse, Maggie.”
Color splashed her cheeks. “I don’t have any more money, damn you. I don’t have a home. I don’t even own that Porsche out there. The lease expires next week.”
He frowned, feeling a niggle of unease. “Your husband?”
“We’ve been divorced a month.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No settlement money?”
“The prenuptial agreement was airtight. He was a lawyer, after all.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if signing such agreements before pledging to honor and love your life mate was normal. He supposed in her privileged world, that was true.
“There’s always Daddy,” he said, his voice cynical. Donald Winston spared no expense when it came to his precious daughter. And his pockets were very deep.
Her mouth clamped shut. Her color heightened. She drew a cloak of dignity around her narrow shoulders.
“I’ll be damned. The old man cut you off.”
With sudden clarity, Scott remembered just how far her father would go to teach Margaret a lesson. Questions whirled like dust devils in his mind. He snatched at the nearest one.
“What’ll you do now?”
She gave a humorless laugh and stared at her clasped fingers. Scott doubted if those creamy, manicured hands had done more than dial a phone in the past six years. With grudging admiration, he watched her trembling lips firm, her spine stiffen and her chin lift. She met his eyes squarely.
“Give me a job.”
CHAPTER TWO
MARGARET FELT her courage falter, smothered beneath Scott’s heavy silence. The electric hum of the ancient refrigerator mingled with the dull roar of blood in her ears. She took a deep breath. Big mistake. Musty house and strange breakfast odors wreaked havoc on her nervous stomach.
“Come again?” Scott finally asked, his amusement insulting.
“If you won’t sell Twister, hire me to train him. I guarantee within six months he’ll pump cash back into H & H Cattle Company. He’ll bring in a bundle standing at stud.”
“It takes years of training to bring a horse up to national competition level. Even I know that. H & H Cattle Company doesn’t have years,” he admitted grimly.
“You’re thinking in terms of show-ring competition. That’s not what I have in mind.” The excitement she’d nurtured for weeks bubbled in her voice.
“Wanna let me in on your secret?”
“Twister has the makings of a champion racehorse.”
“Racehorse?” Scott’s incredulous stare grew pitying. “He’s six years old—over the hill by at least two years. Besides, Thoroughbreds race, not Arabians.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. Arabian racing is well established in Europe and the Middle East. It’s a hot trend in the States now. Not only that, an Arabian’s prime racing years begin at age five.” She paused, savoring his dazed expression. “But that’s not the best part.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “The best part is, breeders are clamoring for a particular type of Arabian. One with a conformation suited to running, rather than class performance. One that is relatively rare right now and therefore brings top stud fees. There’s a huge demand now for an Arabian like Twister.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, she broke into a huge smile. “And we have a lock on the supply!”
“We have a lock on the supply?” Scott lifted one tawny brow to meet his hat band. Rising, he hooked a chair leg with his boot and slung the seat around. “I don’t recall selling you any portion of my racehorse, Maggie.”
She looked up into eyes the color of scotch whiskey—and lost both her smile and her capacity to speak. His lazy, masculine confidence had always twisted her up inside. But she couldn’t let him intimidate her now. She had too much to lose.
As if he read her mind, his mouth quirked upward. He shoved his chair under the table and sauntered toward an aluminum percolator plugged into an outlet near the sink. Helpless to stop herself, she watched the rolling action of his lean hips and tight butt.
Jim hadn’t walked like that. Neither had Ma
tt. The truth was, no other man in her civilized experience had ever moved with quite the same feline grace and male swagger as this tall cowboy.
Opening a painted cabinet door of indeterminate color, he pulled down two mismatched ceramic mugs and looked back over one shoulder.
Caught admiring the broad stretch of his faded blue shirt, Margaret froze. He held her gaze, his own smoldering beneath sooty lashes.
“How do you like your coffee?”
He might have been asking how she liked her sex, so intimate was his tone. Margaret had never hated her fair complexion more.
“I don’t drink coffee, thank you.” Even to her own ears, she sounded priggish.
Shrugging, he filled his mug, turned and propped a negligent hip against the counter. “I think this farce has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
“Farce?”
“This fairy tale about Twister racing. I’ll give you credit for trying. But you of all people should know I can’t give you a job.” He took a leisurely sip of coffee, his eyes watchful behind tendrils of steam.
She stiffened. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
He lowered the mug. Those eyes were glittering dangerously now. His dark stubbled jaw clenched and unclenched. “Need a refresher course, Maggie? Okay. My hay won’t last, my credit’s maxed out, and I could really use some cash right now—you seemed to grasp the situation clearly enough last night. So what makes you think I can afford to pay you a salary today?”
Her stomach roiling, Margaret picked a nonexistent piece of lint from her cashmere sleeve.
“Run on home to Daddy while you still can, Maggie. You’d be plain stupid not to.”
Margaret’s chin came up. She skipped angry and went straight to livid. “Don’t call me Maggie. And don’t call me stupid.”
She jumped up and stalked to within an arm’s length of his slouching form. “Who said anything about a salary, Einstein? I’m interested in a joint venture. My expertise and seed money in exchange for fifty percent ownership of Twister, plus room and board.”
Scott set his mug down with a snort. “Dream on, princess. Twister is mine and that’s that. Besides, he’s half-wild. What makes you think he’ll even respond to you?”