The Texas Way. Jan Freed

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?”

      It was Margaret’s turn to snort. “He’ll respond.”

      On sure ground at last, she dismissed his skepticism and prowled the room. “I’ll take care of insurance, feed, farrier, veterinary and transportation costs for the first five months. With creative management, five thousand dollars ought to just about cover it. After Twister wins the Armand Hammer Classic in August, we’ll split the bills fifty-fifty.” She slanted him a challenging look. “And, of course, the profits, too.”

      Scott straightened, forcing her to tilt her head back. His thick brows drew together into a daunting V. “What profits are we talking about here? A couple of grand a month in stud fees? That’d be nice, but hardly enough to pay the note due on H & H Cattle Company.” His features hardened. “Frankly, putting up with you isn’t worth it.”

      My life in a nutshell, cowboy. Her throat constricting, she examined one smooth coral fingernail with forced indifference. When she could safely speak again, Margaret met his gaze.

      “The Armand Hammer Classic offers a fifty-thousand-dollar purse. Top racing sires command stud fees of up to five thousand dollars a mare. By conservative estimates, Twister could earn over a half-million dollars a year for the next ten years. Would that be worth putting up with me?”

      His slack-jawed surprise did wonders for her bruised ego. Thankful she’d done her research, she played her ace. “If you won’t do it for yourself, think of your father. With that kind of working capital, you could hire all the hands you need, make a big dent in his medical bills.”

      Muttering a foul word, he spun around to brace both palms on the lip of the rusted sink and stare out the window. She followed his gaze. For once, fate was on her side.

      Blurred by the dirty glass panes, Grant Hayes stood outside the barn wiping his fingers on a faded red cloth. Pausing, he lifted the rag with trembling fingers to his forehead and blotted twice before continuing his listless cleaning. If she hadn’t heard about his triple-bypass surgery, she would have suspected worse. He looked pale and exhausted.

      Watching Scott’s chin drop and his knuckles whiten, Margaret felt her satisfaction slink away in shame. If anyone understood the sickening helplessness of emotional blackmail, she did. She’d had no right to bring his ailing father into their battle.

      Scott slowly raised his head and spoke without turning. “All right, Maggie, you win. But I swear to God, before we’re through you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

      

      TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, Margaret parked just outside H & H Cattle Company’s gate and listened to the powerful engine idle. This was it. Her chance for independence and the fulfillment of a dream she’d cherished since first becoming enchanted with Arabians as a teenager. Scott’s agreement to a joint-venture partnership yesterday could establish her as a top breeder and trainer, a woman to be respected, instead of ridiculed. A woman who didn’t need a man to survive.

      True, she was dependent on Scott now. But then, he was equally dependent on her. With luck, they’d separate in less than six months in a position to pursue their individual goals and change their lives. Money had that power, she’d learned early in life. Her father made sure she never forgot it.

      Morning sunlight winked off the eighteen-karat-gold initial key ring her parents had presented—along with a flashy silver Corvette—for her sixteenth birthday. A reward, she recalled wryly, for winning four blue ribbons in a class “A” horse show.

      After years of disappointing them with poor grades, botched recitals and social faux pas, she’d been pathetically happy at the proud smiles on their faces. Her riding instructor had mentioned that with a finer horse, Margaret had the potential to become a national champion. Donald Winston’s eyes had gleamed at the prospect.

      Margaret dropped her forehead against the steering wheel and succumbed to bittersweet memories of the Arabian horse farm her father had established adjacent to Scott’s ranch. Riverbend. In many ways, her life had begun—and ended—at the prosperous breeding and training facility.

      She’d spent five summers and many holidays there under the tutelage of Liz Howarth, Riverbend’s manager and a former member of the U.S. Olympic equestrian team. Yet Liz’s lessons had been a joy. Her instructions had been easily understood. Wonder of wonders, her teaching hadn’t been hindered by her student’s dyslexia.

      Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the incalculable frustration and humiliation her impairment had caused throughout her childhood. The exclusive girls’ boarding schools she’d attended had been staffed to train future matrons of society, not detect learning disabilities. She’d often wondered why she advanced to the next grade each year. Later, she’d learned her father was a most generous benefactor of each school she attended.

      Heaven bless Miss Jenkins. The seventh-grade English teacher had possessed the perception and integrity to insist Margaret be tested by a specialist. Donald and Gloria had first denied, then been embarrassed by, their daughter’s problem. But Margaret had received the news with profound gratitude.

      She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t! There was a medical reason for the jumbled mess her mind made of letters and numbers. With specialized tutoring, she could learn to decipher the world in ways she could understand. Her relief had been shattering. Liberating.

      Lifting her forehead from the leather-wrapped wheel, Margaret blinked at the rutted road winding beyond the open gate. She’d almost conquered her debilitating insecurity six years ago, only to be knocked down again with brutal force.

       Matt. Oh, Matt, I’d turn back the clock and start over, if I could.

      But she couldn’t. She could only go forward and live with her guilt as best she could. Funny how life had brought her full circle to the man least likely to help her forget Matt’s death.

      Straightening her shoulders, she shifted gears and drove over the rattling cattle guard, past the sagging aluminum gate propped against a fence post. Scott Hayes was every bit as domineering as her father and ex-husband. Maybe more so. Living with his contempt on a daily basis, striving to earn his respect, would be the toughest challenge she’d ever faced.

      As the Porsche climbed an ungraded road and topped the steep rise, Margaret set her jaw. Scott might call her Maggie, but it wasn’t the first nickname she’d been given. Teachers and schoolmates alike had awarded her another epithet after experiencing her tenacious, dogged…persistence, she preferred to call it.

      Scott would have his own challenge to deal with, Margaret vowed, looking down the hill at a dilapidated barn and house. Her new partner was about to face The Mule.

      IN THE FARMHOUSE BELOW, Grant stared at his bedroom ceiling and watched the fan blades whirl. Pitiful, he thought. There was a time he would’ve already put in four hours of hard labor by ten o’clock, and here he lay weak as a kitten from washing the breakfast dishes. Damn his traitorous heart! Fifty-three wasn’t that