The Texas Way. Jan Freed

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 engine’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,