by Jan Freed
Scott felt his face heat. She was right of course. If she hadn’t tied him in knots he wouldn’t be acting like a total greenhorn. Wishing she’d never slipped into his moonlit field, he turned and headed for an empty stall at the far end of the barn. The makeshift storage room housed bags of feed, salt blocks and his tooled Western stock saddle. He slid the hay from his shoulder and stepped back. Dust and fragments of summer meadow mushroomed up, tickling a violent sneeze out of him.
“Bless you.” Margaret’s gentle laughter wafted from Twister’s stall.
Every masculine instinct he possessed whispered danger.
Margaret Chelsea Winston was nothing but trouble and always had been. Look how she was already ordering him around. It’d taken her all of five minutes to hook her little finger in Pete’s nose ring. And when Scott’d told his father about her scheme to turn Twister into a money machine, Grant had been sick-eningly enthusiastic.
Scott tightened his mouth and brushed off his arms and shoulders. He’d exhausted all options for making the bank-note payment or he never would’ve grabbed at the solution she offered. Honor dictated he try his best to make the plan work. He would tolerate her because he had to.
But damned if he’d play lapdog to the woman who’d killed his best friend.
CHAPTER THREE
MARGARET REACHED for a stick of margarine, paused, and cautiously sniffed the air. Oh, no! Slamming the refrigerator door, she cringed at the ominous clatter of glass and raced to the stove. Acrid smoke billowed from a frying pan.
Coughing, she turned off the burner and stared down at the gooey mess in the pan that had once been a rubber spatula. A second skillet lined with uncooked strips of bacon sat on the adjacent burner. Not good, not good. Cooking meals was part of the agreement she’d made the day before, and now she’d botched Scott’s breakfast. Her ex-husband would have had a field day with this if he knew. Jim’s patronizing still stung.
You can’t even tell left from right, Margaret, and you want a career? Now don’t pout, honey. You already have a job. Just keep being the prettiest hostess any Jacobs and McMillan associate ever had, and I’ll make partner yet.
Grimacing, Margaret carried the ruined pan to the sink and twisted the cold water tap. Hot rubber hissed and foul-smelling steam rose to cloud the window. She slumped against the counter and marveled at human nature.
After three years of enduring similar put-downs from Jim, there was no reason that particular insult should have aroused The Mule in her. But it had. Oh, she’d done her job, such as it was—and filed for divorce the day Jim announced he’d made partner.
Marrying the ambitious lawyer had been a mistake of course. At the time, she’d still felt numb with guilt over Matt’s death and undeserving of happiness. Even knowing that Jim had prized her only for her ornamental value and social connections, she’d grabbed the chance to escape her father’s control. Margaret huffed and straightened from the counter.
Some escape. Her husband’s handling had been no less confining for being velvet-gloved. He’d been truly shocked when she’d called him chauvinistic. And now she was working with a man who made Jim seem practically a feminist.
She had no doubt Scott would be horrified or, worse, pitying, if he knew about her disability. It would be just the excuse he needed to renege on their agreement. Well, she wouldn’t give him the chance! She would succeed on her own, depend on herself and maybe, just maybe, win back her self-respect in the process.
Boot steps and a twanging screen door jerked her thoughts to the present. Her good intentions cowered. Please let it be Grant.
The back door opened. She spun around. Scott stepped inside, whipped off his hat and fanned the air. His brows formed a fierce line.
“What is that godawful smell?”
He glanced at the stove top, then peered over her shoulder at the hardened glob of rubber and defaced metal. His frown deepened.
She hung her head, realized what she was doing and summoned the courage to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. It was…an accident.”
“I can’t afford careless accidents, Maggie.”
“I’ll buy you a new pan.”
“Save your money and time for Twister. We’re twenty miles from town and there’s a full day of work ahead—” he gave her white shorts and sneakers a scornful once-over “—even if you are dressed for tennis at the club. Guess we’ll have to make do with one fryin’ pan from now on.”
Sliding his hat on with a grieved expression, he nodded toward the bacon. “That was for Pete, you know.”
“P-Pete?”
“He lives in a trailer behind the barn. We take turns running into town for supplies, but he hasn’t come up to the house to pick up his stuff yet. Dad and I eat the turkey bacon.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “But since you’ve opened the package, go ahead and cook it. We don’t waste things on this ranch.”
She sidled by his looming form and moved to the stove, wishing he were somewhere else, wishing she were someone else. She couldn’t think with him watching her, couldn’t sort out the confusing letters beneath each knob on the electric stove. Let’s see, she’d turned this one before. Three choices left. Reaching blindly, she turned a control. Coils glowed, but not under the frying pan.
“Gawd,” Scott muttered from behind.
Her face grew scorching. Sensing he’d turned, she frantically twisted knobs until the correct burner lit. The refrigerator door clunked open.
“What the…? Dammit, Maggie, I told you about this door. Half the stuff in here is broken or spilled.” Each word wallowed in disgust. Each clink of glass hitting the trash can punctuated his censure.
Biting her lip and blinking furiously, Margaret tried to concentrate while he cleaned up her mess. Eggs. She’d planned on scrambling some. But those were probably Pete’s, too. How thoughtless to fry bacon for someone who’d just had heart surgery. How negligent to ruin a pan. How stupid to botch a simple task like cooking breakfast.
The shame she’d been holding at bay all morning attacked full force. Her nose lifted, her muscles froze, her sight glazed—the defense mechanisms developed as a child were automatic now. She was only vaguely aware of the bacon sizzling. A popping noise produced a corresponding sting on her arm, but she didn’t flinch.
“Turn down the heat, Maggie! What are you trying to do, burn breakfast and the house? Can’t you even fry a batch of—”
“That’s enough, Scott.”
Gentle hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back from the stove. Grant adjusted the control, reached for her wrist, and slowly uncurled her fist. His work-worn fingers moved up to probe an angry red circle on her pale skin.
“Let’s get some ice on that burn before it blisters.”
She searched his eyes and found only compassion, as if he knew her pain went much deeper than a grease burn. Her senses slowly thawed.
“I’m sorry about the pan, Mr. Hayes, and the bacon. I shouldn’t have been so…careless.” Scott’s accusation was convenient, and much kinder than the truth she had no intention of revealing.
Grant released her arm with a pat. “Call me Grant, remember? That ol’ skillet should’ve been tossed out along with the Nixon administration. And don’t apologize about the bacon. I like my meat on the burned side—just ask Scott. Been eatin’ his cookin’ for years and never complained.”
The older man’s lopsided, teasing grin added lines around his eyes and subtracted years from his face. It was easy to see where Scott’s masculine good looks came from. Heaven help her if the son ever emulated the father’s conscious effort to charm.
“Scott, you get an ice cube on this girl’s arm while I make us all some pancakes.” He led Margaret to the scratched kitchen table, pulled out a chair with courtly grace and waited.
“Really, Mr. Hayes…Grant. I can make pancakes if that’s what you want.”
“Let the princess fix her own breakfast,” Scott said. “I’ll make you some Eggbeaters, Dad.” Hunkered in front of the refrig
erator, Scott threw down his sponge and rose to a standing position.
“Mind your manners, son. And take off that hat. Sit down, Margaret. Please.”
To refuse would be an insult. Carefully avoiding Scott’s eyes, she sat.
Grant rubbed his neck, drawing Margaret’s attention to his frayed sleeve cuff. She frowned. The cost of a single custom-made shirt from her father’s closet could buy a dozen replacements for the one Grant wore.
He dropped his arm and sighed. “If I eat one more bite of Eggbeaters, Scott, you’ll see last night’s dinner again. Only it won’t look near as appetizing this morning.”
“The doctor said—”
“Stirring batter is not going to raise my blood pressure. And one normal breakfast every now and then is not going to clog my arteries. Dr. Hearn was clear about that. You gotta quit treating me like an invalid, son, and trust me to take care of myself.”
The moment stretched, Grant’s obvious frustration gaining Margaret’s sincere sympathy. How many times had she encountered the same lack of trust in her own abilities?
Scott relented first. Setting his hat on the refrigerator, he opened the tiny freezer compartment and cracked loose an ice cube from a dented metal tray. Cube in hand, he stepped aside.
“Make my order a double stack,” he said wryly.
Breaking into a relieved smile, Grant moved forward and began rummaging for ingredients. Scott gave him a look of affectionate exasperation, then slowly turned his head.
Margaret tensed.
Their eyes met.
She felt his contempt like a physical blow. It simmered in his tawny eyes, along with something else, a sexual charisma that was as genetically inherent as his square jaw, as unconscious for him as breathing.
Her gaze faltered and dropped. He wore a white, Western-style shirt like his father’s. But where the material swallowed Grant’s gaunt torso, it strained against Scott’s muscular frame. She focused on a pearl snap button near his tooled leather belt, refusing to look lower, unable to look higher as he walked to stand in front of her.
“Hold out your arm, Maggie.”
He was too close, and he hated her. She tilted her head back. “I can take care of myself. I’m not an invalid any more than your father is.”
One minute he was towering over her, the next he was sitting in a chair with her hand on his thigh, his fingers clamping her wrist.
“Hold still now, this might get a little uncomfortable,” he said soothingly, his glittering eyes and viselike grip hidden from Grant.
Scott raised the dripping ice cube and pressed it against her burn. She yanked her arm and gasped, more stunned at his immovable strength than the shock of cold. Jerk. He knew she couldn’t do anything with his father mixing batter not fifteen feet away. She pressed her bare knees primly together and pretended they weren’t sandwiched between denim-covered muscles.
He looked different without a hat, she realized, staring. Up close, his hair was a thick, swirling mixture of chocolate browns and caramel highlights. It begged a woman’s fingers to plunge right in. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up through sun-tipped lashes and smiled, a lazy curl of lips that did funny things to her stomach. Returning his focus to her burn, he rubbed the ice in small circles.
Her hands flexed, the one on his thigh noting muscles gone suddenly concrete. The ice cube released a fat drip. It rolled down the curve of her skin and joined the spreading wet spot on his jeans.
He gentled his hold on her wrist. “Feel better?”
The skin on her forearm felt frozen, the skin underneath on fire where he massaged her wild pulse with his thumb. She felt flustered, aroused and very, very confused. But better?
“I’ll be fine now, thanks.” She pulled back her arm, freeing her wrist and dislodging the ice. It slithered over her thigh and fell to the floor.
“How many pancakes can you eat, Margaret?” Grant called from the stove.
She tried to answer. She tried to do anything but shiver from the combined impact of frigid ice and a predatory gold stare.
“One,” she managed breathlessly.
“What was that?”
She dragged her gaze to Grant. “One.”
“Lost your appetite, princess?” Scott asked softly, his eyes slitted with knowing amusement.
He was insufferable. He’d been insufferable from the time they’d first met. But she wasn’t a painfully shy teenager anymore. She was her own person, a woman strong enough to stand alone.
She scraped back her chair and stood.
“I changed my mind, Grant, I’ll have a short stack…with bacon.” She sent Scott a scathing look. “Suddenly I could eat a pig.”
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Ada Butler cut the engine of her pickup and resisted the urge to check her face in the rearview mirror. Silly fool. Powder and a dab of lipstick wouldn’t disguise forty-nine years of hard living. Besides, Grant wouldn’t notice if she dyed her salt-and-pepper hair green and danced naked on his bed.
She smoothed her jeans, anyway, and wished briefly she hadn’t changed from her Sunday dress. The minister’d said the blue silk matched her eyes. Then again, it was his Christian duty to say something charitable about everyone—especially aging spinsters.
With a huff of self-disgust, she slid out of the truck and scanned the dirt yard. Her squinted eyes widened on a flashy red Porsche by the barn. Who on earth was here? She spun toward the house and shaded her eyes with one hand.
The yellow clapboards shimmered in the midday sun, every curl of paint glaringly exposed. Missing shingles pockmarked the roof. The long front porch sagged in the middle, surely more so than the last time she’d stopped by? Dropping her hand, she frowned and moved toward the house.
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 Col
lins 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.