The Texas Way

by Jan Freed

  Maggie slipped from beneath Liz’s arm and lifted her narrow nose. “I’ve managed stress before. Just check out the trophies in Riverbend’s guest lounge.”

  Liz looked as startled as if her pet kitten had turned into a snarling cougar. Her expression cooled. “You mean the ones next to my Olympic gold medal?” she asked, neatly establishing seniority and rank.

  Scott tightened his mouth as Maggie blushed.

  “I’m sorry, Liz. Daddy was here earlier and I guess I’m still feeling defensive. I appreciate your concern, I really do. But now that I’ve seen Twister, I have to utilize his potential. Just look at him.”

  Scott, too, found himself turning to analyze the horse he’d raised from a foal.

  Although Morley held his reins, Twister gazed into the distance as if the man didn’t exist. His large, dark eyes held a thousand secrets, a knowledge of searing deserts and lush oases. Perpetually flared nostrils quivered, as did the tips of small, inward-curving ears. He stood quietly. Unmoving. Yet the powerful, flowing symmetry of muscle and bone made him a creature of motion, an animal bred to run.

  For the first time, Scott understood why Maggie had called him selfish for using the stallion as a cow pony. Twister’s kingly bearing spoke for itself. He was destined for great things.

  “I’ll take him now, Dr. Morley,” Maggie said, walking toward the vet. “He needs to be cooled down gradually after the workout I gave him.”

  She recaptured the reins and slanted a secret wait’ll-I-tell-you glance at Scott.

  “If he had a hard workout, it sure doesn’t show,” Morley said. “His condition is remarkable actually. I still can’t get over how fit he is.”

  Resettling his hat, Scott spoke for the first time. “What about the Coggins test? Don’t we need the results to run Twister?” Maggie’d told him a horse testing positive for equine infectious anemia wouldn’t be allowed on any racetrack.

  She rewarded his question with a brilliant smile. His heart responded with a surge.

  “As I’d started to tell Margaret earlier, the test was negative. Twister has a clean bill of health to race,” Morley said, his dark eyes sullen.

  “That’s perfect!” Maggie sandwiched Twister’s cheeks between her palms and loudly kissed his muzzle. The stallion lowered his head, nestled the bridge of his nose between her breasts and cocked his rear fetlock in a pose of pure contentment.

  So much for kingly bearing. The poor schmuck was no different from the lowliest smitten male.

  “You always could calm down the troublemakers in the stable.” As Liz briskly approached her student, Twister flung up his head, eyes rolled back, and whinnied long and piercingly. His ears grew flatter the closer Liz came.

  “Liz, stop!” Margaret turned an anxious gaze on the stallion. “What on earth is wrong with you?” When Twister continued his restless, hostile behavior, she cast Liz an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. He gets like this sometimes. I’d better start walking him so he won’t be sore tomorrow. But thanks for coming by. Your support means a lot to me. Dr. Morley, please set up Twister’s next inoculation with Scott. He’ll fill me in.”

  This last was said breathlessly as Twister lived up to his name. She finally gave up and headed in the direction of Pete’s trailer. Scott could hear her scolding the stallion even as she stroked his neck.

  Two pairs of eyes met Scott’s with equal resentment. Morley pulled an appointment book from his pocket, flipped it open and scanned a page.

  “Hmm, I have some time free on Wednesday. Would that work for Margaret?”

  Elbows propped behind him on the ladder, Scott lifted one boot and hooked his heel on the first rung. “Gee, I dunno, Dr. Morley. Our schedule’s kinda tight. Got anything else open?”

  As the handsome vet scowled, Scott decided maybe the day wasn’t a total loss, after all. He was almost starting to have fun.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “HOLD ON,” Scott warned, clutching the steering wheel the way he would a bronc ready to bust out of the chute. The old pickup hit a crater in the road and bucked once, twice. The crown of Scott’s hat mashed into the cab’s torn headliner both times. When the jouncing squeaks subsided to a steady rattle, he glanced at his passenger.

  “You okay?”

  Maggie’s response was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I think I bit my lip.” She ran the moist pink tip of her tongue over her bottom lip in a testing manner.

  Gnashing his teeth, Scott turned back to the two dirt ruts serving as a road. Damn his father’s unfailing courtesy. She’d expressed a casual desire to see the cattle herd up close—one little comment between a bite of oatmeal and sip of juice—and the next thing Scott knew, he was being forced to include her in his morning routine. He never should have agreed.

  She had her agenda. He had his. As long as the two remained separate, he just might come out of their joint venture with his sanity intact. Maybe. If he could ever forget that incredible kiss.

  After two weeks, he still couldn’t shake the memory.

  Her soft mouth, her passionate response—the touch and taste and smell of her had filled him with a wild yearning, a driving need to possess that went beyond mere lust. He’d wanted to replace the haunted look in her eyes with new memories. Memories of him. And nothing short of a killer pig could have torn him away from her.

  Scowling, he wrestled the truck through another deep hole. The cab rolled and pitched. Maggie bounced along the bench seat and jammed against his thigh and shoulder. His elbow pressed into the once felt, never forgotten softness of a female breast.

  “Sorry,” Maggie said a bit breathlessly.

  Scott grunted as she scrambled back to her side of the cab. He would feed the herd as quickly as possible and get the hell back to the house. His usual thorough check of each animal could wait until tomorrow.

  “Is that your herd?” She pointed to the scattered red cows grazing beyond a fence ahead.

  In spite of himself, he felt a spurt of pride, a rising eagerness to show this woman who loved animals some of the finest examples of their breed.

  “Yeah. Hang on while I open the gate.” He braked and shifted to neutral.

  “I’ll get it.”

  She was out of the truck and jogging toward the gate before he could move—if the mesquite-post-and-barbed-wire contraption could be dignified with such a name. Managing the H & H was a matter of prioritizing. Aluminum gates were expensive. The cows wouldn’t notice the inconvenient substitute, but they’d damn sure miss their daily ration of corn, cottonseed meal and hay.

  The unburied gate post tilted toward Margaret, snubbed at the top by a loop of wire attached to the grounded barbed-wire fence. Without straightening the post and pulling it from the bottom, it could be the very devil to open. Maggie studied the thing carefully to see how it worked. After a moment, she pulled against the leaning mesquite to loosen the wire loop. Nothing happened.

  Scott started to get out, then saw her rounded chin jut. His lips twitched and he settled back to watch.

  Bracing her ridiculous red boots, she cupped both palms against the wood and pulled, her snug denim jeans straightening against surprisingly muscular thighs and a tight little bottom.

  Straining, she dug her heels in. The post quivered, but didn’t budge. Relaxing her stance, she blew a few wispy strands of hair from her face.

  Popping the door handle, Scott slid out. The look she threw him broke his stride.

  He raised his palms high. “Don’t shoot. I’m here to help.”

  But she was already at it again, her jaw set, her eyes flint gray. He was torn between admiration and puzzlement. Damn, the woman was stubborn! In one swift move, he straightened the post, positioned himself behind Maggie and placed his palms above hers on the wood. Her delicate spine and curvy backside flowed into his hollows and planes like hot wax into a mold. Her peach-scented hair tickled his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut at the sweet torture, then pulled back with his arms. The wire snub loosened as his body did the
opposite. His hard-on could have dug postholes.

  Stumbling back, he hoped to God she hadn’t noticed. “Hold it open while I drive through,” he ordered gruffly.

  Escaping to the truck, he climbed inside and cursed under his breath. Why, of all the women in the world, did this one ignite his blood without even trying?

  He roared through the gap and hopped out of the truck as she was dragging the unwieldy gate back into position. Grasping her shoulders, he set her firmly aside and completed the procedure while she sputtered.

  “I had it under control, Scott.”

  But I didn’t. “I’ll let you handle it on the way back. C’mon. My girls are hungry.”

  Sure enough, every cow had lifted her head and now ambled toward long, wooden troughs standing in a large dirt clearing. He urged Maggie into the cab and drove over tender grass toward the gathering herd. She cast him a wry glance.

  “Your girls, huh? I thought you didn’t believe in pampering your cattle.”

  He felt his neck heat as she grinned. When she turned to stare out the window, he let out a relieved breath.

  “They’re huge,” she said, her tone awed.

  “Gilda, the one in front, is close to 1400 pounds. Liberty Bell, behind her, topped 1600 pounds the last time we weighed her. I guess that’d qualify as big. ‘Course, Bandolero dwarfs these ladies, but he’s in another pasture.”

  Scott stopped the truck, pulled a notebook binder from the glove compartment and flipped it open. Forms, sleeved in clear plastic, held the recorded dates of heat periods, breeding attempts, calving and vaccinations for each animal in the herd. He turned to the page he wanted.

  “Let’s see, Gilda’s due to drop her calf in about two weeks.”

  Maggie scooted closer and peered down a long time, as if concentrating intently. “We have a computer program at Riverbend that compiles and stores similar information. It will even combine different dam and sire pedigrees and predict dominant foal characteristics. I’m sure Liz would let you take a look if you’re interested.”

  Right now, he was far too interested in the dizzying smell of peaches and warm female skin for his peace of mind. Hoping to establish mental distance, he slammed the book shut and harshened his voice.

  “What’s the point? If I could afford a computer, I’d more than likely be able to afford an irrigation system, a new tractor, maybe a bulldozer, grader and harvester. This truck would hit the scrap-metal heap, and I’d get a fully loaded four-by-four Chevy with a winch and, hell, maybe a cellular phone.

  “I’d clear the trash trees and cactus, and fence the pastures with steel posts, instead of worm-eaten mesquite. I’d keep a small remuda of quarter horses for heavy brush roundup, and dirt bikes for general work and riding the fences.” He noted her startled look. “On this terrain, bikes cost and eat less than a well-trained cutting horse, and won’t pull up lame, either.”

  Sometime during his outburst, the vision he’d guarded closely—especially from himself—had emerged from hiding. “The H & H could support two hundred head of cattle, with proper management and adequate funding,” he said stubbornly, bracing himself for her skepticism.

  She laid her fingers over his hand and squeezed. “I know it could, with you in charge. And you’ll prove it, too, just as soon as Twister establishes his reputation as a winner.”

  A warmth ten times more dangerous than lust heated his body. He reacted in self-defense, refusing to return her vote of confidence. “Excuse me if I don’t hold my breath. Right now I’ve got mothers to feed, or I won’t be able to count on their calves to sell.”

  Pulling his hand free, he steeled his heart against her wounded expression and opened his door. Better he be a first-class bastard now than involve them both in a dead-end relationship sure to hurt her later. The idea of exacting revenge for Matt’s death had completely lost its appeal.

  The herd was lowing impatiently, several young calves adding their raucous bawl to the chorus. He dropped the tailgate, tugged on his gloves and hoisted a bale of hay to his shoulder. Heading for one trough, he spoke soothingly.

  “Hold your cud, I’m coming. You can’t be that hungry with all this spring grass popping up.” Thank the Lord for that. He’d be able to save money and cut down on supplemental feed soon.

  He slid the hay into the trough and pulled a pair of clippers from his back pocket. Cattle could pick up parasites from hay left on the ground. He never took chances with these beauties. Snipping the baling wire, he spread the hay evenly and checked the second trough. Several blocks of salt, minerals and systemic insecticides had been licked to varying lumpish shapes, but all were intact. He headed back to the pickup.

  Maggie had slipped out of the cab and was scratching the head of a particular favorite of Scott’s. Lady Love would be bred for the first time next month, sure to produce her weight in gold in quality calves. He watched the beautiful heifer lip something from Maggie’s palm.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

  Feeding grass by hand could be dangerous for someone Maggie’s size. The cows were docile, but big enough to inflict damage with a casual toss of their heads.

  Maggie spun around guiltily. Lady Love shuffled off toward the troughs.

  He crossed his arms and tilted his head. “You wouldn’t be pamperin’ that little lady now, would you, Maggie?”

  Her gaze filled with relief, then devilment. “Why, of course not. That would be cruel come the first summer drought,” she drawled, mimicking the words he’d spoken to a lovely horse thief a lifetime ago.

  He went about the task of adding corn and cottonseed meal to the trough with a silly grin on his face. There, that ought to hold the spoiled brats. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he joined Maggie where she leaned against the front fender.

  “You’ve done a fine job, Scott. They’re glowing with health. Their calves must bring top dollar.”

  He grunted, noting with deep satisfaction the sleek red hides absent of protruding ribs or clinging flies. “They’ll be bought as breeding stock to upgrade the quality of commercial herds all over the country.” He refrained from adding they were the only thing standing between H & H Cattle Company and bankruptcy.

  “I would think Bandolero is in great demand. Do you have a good supply of frozen sperm in storage?” She might have been referring to frozen steaks, so matter-of-fact was her tone.

  “Actually, no. The service is expensive, and I’d have to develop a market, and…no, dammit, I haven’t had time.” It was a lousy excuse, but a valid one. He didn’t have time to be both acting foreman and business administrator for the ranch.

  She gave him a considering look before turning back to the herd. “I’m not familiar with this breed. What country originally developed it?”

  Scott relaxed and slanted her a grin. “Texas.”

  She seemed startled, then delighted. “Really?”

  “Yep. The King Ranch experimented for ten years with a cross between Brahmans and shorthorns before producing the founding bull. Santa Gertrudis was the first breed of beef cattle developed in America.”

  “I’m impressed. So where is the famous Bandolero your dad—”

  “Shh!” Scott cut her off and listened carefully, dread tightening his belly. Another wheezing cough confirmed his suspicion.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Ignoring her question, he searched the cows crowding around the trough. Lady Love stood with feet splayed and tongue stretched out, coughing incessantly now. A steady stream of slobber dripped from her mouth.

  “Oh, God,” Maggie said, obviously spotting the heifer at the same time he did.

  Scott ran toward the distressed animal. The signs were unmistakable. She was choking, but on what? He turned to Maggie, who’d followed him.

  “Something’s stuck in her throat. What did you feed her a minute ago?”

  Her face drained of color, but she met his eyes squarely. “An apple. I fed her an apple.”

  “Son of a bitch!” He
studied the wheezing cow anxiously, hoping she would cough up the lethal object.

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know it could hurt her. Horses love them.”

  Feeling the heifer’s rapidly swelling left flank, he spoke curtly. “Horses can bite off chunks. Cattle don’t have incisors. They practically swallow food whole. It digests in their rumen and comes back up as cud to chew.” Lady Love’s bloat had grown to alarming proportions.

  “What should we do?” Maggie whispered.

  If he’d had a cellular phone, he would’ve called Doc Chalmers. If it’d been bloat without choking, he would’ve drenched the rumen, or first stomach, with peanut oil. As it was, the stomach gases were trapped and building into a lethal situation. Prioritize, he told himself sternly.

  He would deal with the bloat first and then tackle the apple.

  “There’re two knives in my toolbox. Forget the pocket blade and bring me the long, curved one like you clean fish with.”

  Maggie ran off. Lady Love suddenly staggered, but stayed on her feet, praise the gods. He would never have been able to lift her with just Maggie to help him.

  She rushed up and handed him the knife. The herd had stopped feeding and now encircled the unfolding drama as if watching from an operating theater. Scott drew a deep breath and struggled to recall the emergency procedure he’d read about in his Cattleman’s Veterinary Handbook.

  Picturing a circle on the heifer’s left flank, he sighted a spot equidistant from her last rib, the top of her spine and the point of her hip. “Be bold,” the book had said. “You won’t harm the cow and you won’t do any permanent damage.”

  Balancing the knife tip on this imaginary spot, he plunged the blade down to the hilt.

  Maggie gasped.

  Partially withdrawing the blade, he turned it in a full circle, then pulled it out. Gas bubbled from the incision with a slight hiss. The flank slowly sank to normal.

  Now the apple. The poor animal was wild-eyed with suffering. He would have to try to remove it by hand. “Come hold her horns as steady as you can,” he directed Maggie, positioning himself at the heifer’s mouth.