The Texas Way

by Jan Freed

  “Oh, quit fishing. You’re not old.”

  “I’ll be fifty-four soon. Seems like yesterday I was twenty-four.”

  “Your birthday’s coming up?”

  He grimaced. “In six days, more’s the pity.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always thought birthdays should be celebrated. They have a way of bringing people together, if you know what I mean.” She slanted him a conspiratorial glance.

  His mouth curved up with his rising spirits. He really liked this girl. She was smart and sensitive and exactly what Scott needed. He lifted his cup in a mock salute.

  “I do believe I know exactly what you mean. And I’m gettin’ a distinct cravin’ to blow out some candles.”

  ADA STUFFED her jeans into her knee-high rubber boots and checked her watch. Where was Clive, anyway? He’d promised to be back by ten, and it was damn near eleven now. She’d bet Morning Glory’s next litter he was gabbing with Pudge Webster at the cash register, instead of heading back here with the nozzles she needed. And men said women gossiped. Humph!

  Straightening, Ada wondered if people were talking about Grant Hayes’s seeming preference for her over Ellen Gates. As her pleasure swelled, she forced herself to be sensible. So he’d bought her lunch at the diner after she’d helped him at the grocery store. He’d been courteous, that was all.

  Only…he had shown up at the market the following three weeks on her shopping day and repeated the lunch offer. And he had given her that look—the one that’d dried up her mouth and sucked the air right out of her lungs—when he thought she wasn’t watching. Surely that meant their platonic relationship was on the verge of changing.

  Shaking off her distracting thoughts, she headed for a long, low building with a metal roof and concrete walls about waist high. A gap of open space between the roof and walls let air enter and circulate. Inside, a dozen finishing pens with concrete floors and partitions held fifteen to twenty hogs each.

  Her father, a transplanted Midwesterner, had built the pig parlor with the idea of raising as many market hogs as possible with as little human intervention as necessary. The pens had everything. Self-feeder bins. Automatic drinking fountains. Fogging nozzles that sprayed a fine mist of water in hot weather.

  And today promised to be a scorcher.

  Ada glanced toward the farmhouse and frowned. Heat waves shimmered off the pitched roof. The potted impatiens on her porch already drooped. And three of the dag-blame misting nozzles were malfunctioning.

  Where was that Clive?

  He was avoiding cleaning the pens of course. It was a messy, loathsome chore even with the new high-pressure washers she’d installed. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to dawdle, and she couldn’t fire him, either. This was cattle country. No one else in the area would work with hogs, much less for such low wages.

  Entering the building, she ignored the racket of feeder bins slamming, hogs murmuring and the occasional squeal or scuffle breaking out. She’d grown up with the symphony. She was, in fact, a damn good “pigman,” the title bestowed in states that respected her occupation. When her parents had decided to buy a condo in Florida five years ago, she’d cashed in her teacher’s retirement fund, made a down payment on the farm and taken over with their blessing.

  In the lonely hours of the night, she admitted the proximity to H & H Cattle Company influenced her career change. But she didn’t regret her decision. She plain flat liked raising pigs.

  Unreeling a long hose from its wall mount, she surveyed the row of stalls in amusement. Hogs scrambled forward and bunched against the front concrete wall, their snouts thrust upward and every one of them grunting expectantly. They looked like a class of first graders at the teacher’s desk, waiting for suckers to be handed out. She walked beside the pens and doused each group with a spray of water, laughing at their delighted squeals. Having no sweat glands, they craved moisture however they could get it.

  At the end of the line, she sighed and faced facts. “Okay, kiddos, looks like it’s just you and me. Everybody cooperate and I’ll give you a treat later.”

  Herding the porkers into a separate holding pen, she aimed a high-pressure water jet at the leavings fastidiously deposited at the opposite end from the feeders. Hogs were surprisingly clean animals if given the opportunity. Even so, twenty pigs in a ten-by-fifteen foot space could make a serious mess.

  By the last stall, Ada was spattered with droplets of water. The humid air had undoubtedly turned her wavy hair into the Orphan Annie corkscrews she detested. And she’d broken one of the fingernails she’d felt compelled to grow longer during the past few weeks. The sound of Clive’s pickup truck gave her irritation a target.

  Crouched with scraper in hand on the concrete floor, she heard the sound of boot steps and narrowed her eyes. Come to make his excuses, had he? He’d timed his appearance perfectly, the good-for-nothing slug. How convenient to show up when the job was almost finished. Pure devilment seized her.

  Grabbing the hose she’d laid aside, Ada jumped up and aimed a high-pressure stream of water at the tall man standing just inside the entrance. He dropped a paper bag and threw up his hands in self-defense, staggering a bit at the water pummeling his chest.

  Recognition dawned. Ada released the washer-gun trigger and stared in horror at the sight of Grant standing with a bemused expression on his face, water dripping from his chin and puddling at his boots.

  He lowered his hands. “Was it something I said?”

  Ada dropped the hose and rushed forward, kicking over a bucket of disinfectant in her haste. She splashed through the suds and pulled out her shirttail as she went. “Oh m’gosh, Grant—” she dabbed at his face with the damp cotton hem “—I’m so sorry. I thought you were Clive, and I was so angry I didn’t stop to make sure…” She wrung out the cotton and dabbed some more. “And then I couldn’t stop the water fast enough, and…I’m so sorry.” Lowering her shirttail, she felt absurdly like crying.

  His eyes twinkled. “It’s okay, Ada. I feel kinda…refreshed.” He stooped to pick up something by his feet. “I stopped by to bring you this. Clive said you needed them.”

  She took the soggy paper bag he handed her and peeked inside. “My nozzles. But how…?”

  “His truck wouldn’t start outside Luling Feed and Hardware. He and Ben were fiddling with the engine when I left. I said I’d tell you what happened when I brought the nozzles.”

  She studied his carefully bland expression with rising hope. The nozzles could’ve waited. Clive could’ve called her from the store and explained what happened. Grant had wanted to see her. Oh, glory be, he’d created a really lame excuse to see her!

  Her gaze roved lovingly over the shirt clinging to his chest, the jeans plastered to his legs. He’d gained weight during the past few weeks. His rangy strength was evident, and she sent up a prayer of thanks that his health was returning. She pressed timid fingertips against his shirt.

  “You’re soaked,” she said stupidly, helpless to stop the circular motion of her hand. The skin beneath the saturated fabric felt firm and surprisingly hot. Wiry chest hair tickled the pads of her fingers. Sometime during her exploration, awareness of his tension penetrated her senses.

  She breathed it first in the musky, humid air. She saw it next under tight, wet denim. She felt it finally in her own body’s softening response, a feminine counterpoint to Grant’s obvious arousal. For her? Dazed, she tilted her head back.

  Under dark lashes, the shifting green and gold of his eyes glittered with desire. For her.

  Happiness expanded in her chest. She gazed into his beautiful eyes with all the love she’d suppressed for years. Let him see how she felt. She was tired of hiding.

  A strangled sound escaped his throat. “You really should be careful how you look at a man, Ada. He might get the wrong idea.”

  “Or the right one, Grant. He might get the right idea at last.”

  His eyes darkened. He reached out and threaded his fingers thr
ough her damp curls, the heels of his palms cupping her ears like warm and gentle conch shells. A roaring surf of blood filled her head.

  “Ada, my friend, my neighbor. What am I gonna do with you?”

  Unable to speak, she told him with her eyes what she ached for him to do.

  His fingers pressed into her scalp. “You’re sure?”

  In answer, she turned her face and kissed his palm.

  Tossing her paper bag aside, Grant clasped her wrist and towed her out into the sunlight. She stumbled along behind his lengthier strides past the farrowing barn, past the water well, past the fenced plot containing five young boars. Heat rushed to her cheeks and other select spots. Grant’s fingers tightened around her wrist.

  He reached her house. She tripped on the second step of the porch. His steel grip prevented her from falling, then he hauled her up the remaining steps. Shouldering through the front door, he pulled her inside.

  Over the years, Grant had been in her home maybe half-a-dozen times. She blinked as he headed unerringly for her bedroom. At the huge four-poster bed, he stopped and released her wrist. They faced each other, their breathing heavy.

  Ada had no idea what to do. Grant watched her from under lowered lids, his eyes glinting emerald fire.

  “I don’t want to embarrass you Ada, but I’ve got to know.” He drew a deep breath. “Do we need protection?”

  Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. She hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously to warrant her seeking birth control. She was still menstruating, as he knew with embarrassing certainty. Oh, dammit all, he was going to stop and she couldn’t bear it.

  “Yes, Grant,” she said, wishing she could lie. “But I’m…not prepared.”

  Nodding grimly, he dug in his pocket, pulled out a foil-wrapped package and tossed it onto the bed. “Good thing I am. I sure as hell can’t wait.”

  The evidence that he’d been hoping for this encounter was a heady aphrodisiac for Ada. Closing the gap between them, Grant backed her against the fluted bedpost and crushed her mouth with his. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him with equal greediness.

  What followed was bold and lush; the passion of two mature adults who realized their mortality and savored their pumping hearts, their fevered blood and their heightened senses. Prolonging the inevitable, they took a shower together, laughing like children until Ada kissed the vivid scar running down the center of his chest and then continued on down past its end. She found herself in bed soon after, receiving his lavish attention.

  Every woman should experience loving like this once in her life, Ada thought while she could still think. Tender, playful and masterly by turns, Grant made her feel beautiful and cherished. Her heart was simply not big enough to contain her swelling emotions.

  When he entered her body at last, she smiled in exultation. When he increased his tempo, she gasped in pleasure. When they climaxed together, she cried quietly with joy.

  Much later Grant gathered her close under the covers and nuzzled her neck. “I almost forgot the main reason I came over today. Margaret’s making a special birthday supper for me on Friday, and I’d like you to be my guest.”

  Ada, who’d thought a person couldn’t get much happier, discovered she’d been wrong. She smiled against his chest. “I don’t know, Grant. I’m not the kind of woman who jumps into a kitchen with just any man.”

  He didn’t laugh. “Are…are you sorry we did this, Ada?”

  She pulled back and cupped his jaw with her hand. “Oh, Grant, I thought we’d never get around to this. Thank goodness I sent Clive for those nozzles.”

  A wicked gleam entered his eyes, sparking the banked embers of her desire. He waggled his brows and rolled to cover her body with his long length.

  “You want a nozzle, ma’am? I’ve got just the one you need.”

  MARGARET INSPECTED the kitchen counter and worried her lower lip. She wanted Grant’s birthday celebration tonight to be perfect, that was the problem. Perfection wasn’t her forte.

  Spice jars, plastic bags filled with vegetables, cans of broth, eggs, flour, beef tenderloin wrapped in butcher’s paper, a carton of buttermilk…The ingredients grew larger before her eyes and tightened her throat with fear.

  Calm down, Margaret. You can do this. Organize your thoughts, take a deep breath…Now take one step at a time.

  The ingredients shrank back to normal size on the counter. Weak with relief, she pushed the long sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows and washed her hands at the sink. Close call there. She’d almost let her ambitious task overwhelm her. Thank heavens her past tutoring had come to the rescue.

  Her gaze strayed to the clock. She had…five hours—yes, that was right, five—to prepare the meal she’d been cornered into cooking. After all, she’d been the one to suggest the celebration a week ago. Appearing delighted with the plan, Grant had given her an affectionate kiss on the cheek and asked if he could invite Ada. Pete was coming, as well. And Scott.

  She paused, her stomach fluttering like a treeful of starlings. Scott couldn’t avoid her tonight. He would have to withstand her company for at least the duration of a meal, which was more than he’d done for nearly two weeks. He’d been getting up before dawn, packing food to take with him, and not returning until late. First the water pump had broken down. Then the herd had needed spraying for insects. And so on and so forth. Ever since she’d almost killed his prize heifer, he hadn’t been able to stand the sight of her.

  The memory depressed her. She’d apologized over and over at the time, had even gone with Doc Chalmers and Scott and watched while they tended Lady Love’s wound. The cow would be fine. Margaret wasn’t so sure about herself. She couldn’t take much more of Scott’s silent treatment.

  Drying her hands, she moved all the ingredients for Burgundy Beef with Parsleyed Fettuccine to the kitchen table. She would bake Grant’s birthday cake first and free up the oven for the entree. In spite of Scott’s feelings, or more likely because of them, she wanted plenty of time to change from her shorts into something dressier for dinner. Something that wouldn’t be so…invisible.

  Opening Grant’s cookbook to a recipe for low-fat carrot cake, Margaret ran her finger beneath the type. “Combine first five ingredients in a medium bowl, stirring well,” she read, then set to work.

  Two cups of flour poofed into the bowl. One teaspoon of baking soda topped the mound. One-half teaspoon of salt—ridiculous measurement, but who was she to question?—sprinkled into the white heap and disappeared. One cup sugar cascaded over the peak. One teaspoon—

  Knock, knock!

  Margaret set down the baking powder and opened the back door.

  “Since when do you have to knock? Come on in.”

  Behind the screen, Pete shook his head, hat in hand. “No thanks. I, um, just wanted you t’know I changed Twister’s beddin’ straw.”

  “Why, thank you, Pete! That was very thoughtful.”

  “No problem. I figured you’d be busy here and all.” He toed the cement step with one boot. His leathery cheeks reddened.

  “Is there something I can get you? Some iced tea maybe?”

  “No, ma’am. But I was kinda wonderin’ what time you want me here for Grant’s shindig.”

  “Oh, didn’t Scott tell you?”

  Pete scowled fiercely. “That boy’s head ain’t been screwed on straight since y—” He stopped, his hands turning the frayed straw brim around and around. “He just ain’t been hisself, that’s all.”

  “Hmm, well, I hope you can join us at six-thirty. Is that too early?”

  “No, ma’am, it surely ain’t. Is there somethin’ you’d like me t’bring?” His light blue eyes were bright with pleasure. Although he insisted on eating most meals in his trailer behind the barn, he obviously welcomed a break in his routine.

  She smiled warmly. “Only your appetite. And make sure it’s a big one.” She gestured behind her to the table loaded with food. “I’ve got enough here to satisfy even Orc
a. I swear every time I see him he’s gained another pound. How much do you feed him, anyway?”

  Pete cackled and backed down two steps. “As much as that killer pig wants. Keeps him from goin’ after my hide.” Putting on his hat, he tipped the brim. “See you tonight, Margaret.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, Pete.”

  And she was. More eager to sit at a rickety kitchen table with two ranchers, a pig farmer and a bow-legged wrangler, in fact, than she’d ever been to dine with Jim’s associates at the country club. She closed the door with a smile and returned to the mixing bowl.

  Now, where was she? Margaret scanned the open cookbook, tension slowly tightening her muscles. Idiot. Why hadn’t she marked off the steps as they were completed? She’d lost her place, of course. The bowl contained a mound of dry, white ingredients, so anything wet or colored was safe to add. But when she turned back to the instructions, words became blurry, chopped pieces. She read each letter aloud separately to bring them back into focus.

  The eggs needed to be divided, a task she’d seen done but had never attempted herself. Half a dozen eggs later, she dumped two questionably pure egg whites into a separate bowl and happened to look down at her chest. Orange yolk smeared the front of her light pink T-shirt. Scrubbing it with a wet rag produced a beautiful, puckered sunset. Groaning, she threw down the rag and checked the clock. More than an hour had passed!

  Suddenly all the time in the world had changed to just enough time—if everything went right. Focus your thoughts, Margaret. Take it step by step.

  She tried. She went back to the recipe and labored through it with increasing panic. The ticking clock became her enemy, mocking her slowness every time she checked. Her organization habits slipped, so that she quit cleaning her mess as she went. By the time she’d poured the batter, the pressure squeezing her chest made it hard to breathe. She set the oven at 350 degrees, slid the cake pan inside and mentally formed a picture of the clock face thirty-five minutes from now. Don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget.