The Texas Way. Jan Freed

then. And please, call me Margaret.”

      Scott rolled his eyes. He was at a goddamn tea party.

      “Were you talking about that hay over there, Pete?” She indicated two bales stacked next to the stall doorway.

      “That’s right, mi…M-Margaret.” Pete doffed a battered straw hat and ducked his head, revealing a shiny brown bald spot surrounded by crinkled gray hair. “I put it there myself yesterday evenin’.”

      “Would you mind very much moving it away from the wall for me?”

      “Don’t mind a’tall, not a bit, no.” He hurried to the hay and heaved the top bale down with the strength of a much younger man.

      It landed with a heavy thud, missing Scott’s toes by a dust mote. He narrowed his eyes and glared.

      Supremely indifferent, Pete stooped over and lifted the second bale. A long black snake slithered between his boots.

      Twister squealed and rode his haunches. Pete dropped the bale and cursed. Scott grabbed a shovel and swung it edge-side down at the snake.

      The reptile’s body and head separated; the one writhing and flipping, the other yawning pink and grotesque in search of a target.

      Pete shuddered. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I hate worse’n a damn snake, even a piddly ol’ bull snake. No wonder Twister went nuts. Want me to get rid of it, boss?” He looked none too thrilled at the prospect

      Scott had the shovel, after all. Grimacing, he walked toward the motionless form. “Call Doc Chalmers and see if he’s left yet. I’ll—”

      “Wait,” Margaret interrupted. “Don’t move the snake yet.”

      Shovel extended, Scott frowned.

      “Twister’s been scared for hours. His territory’s been threatened. He needs to protect it, to vent his fear. Let him kill the snake.”

      Pete glanced down at the severed, triangular head and scratched his neck. “Uh, Margaret? It’s—”

      “Go on and make that phone call, Pete. She knows what she’s doing.” Scott waited for her smug comment. When she flashed him a look of gratitude, he hid his surprise behind a scowl.

      Twister’s whole manner changed as she led him forward. Head high, eyes flashing, ears pricked toward his enemy in the dirt, he screamed a high challenge and rose on hind legs. Down came his front hooves, again and again, his rage elemental and awesome to watch. When finally he stood still, blowing hard and trembling with exhaustion, the snake lay scattered in pulpy bits. Lowering his head, Twister gave the pieces one last contemptuous sniff before turning toward his stall.

      Margaret scratched beneath Twister’s chin. Grunting in ecstasy, he raised his head and stretched his neck like a contented tabby.

      “Good work, handsome. I’ll bet you’re hungry now. How about some nice breakfast and a nap?”

      Somehow the sight of Twister calmly following her into the stall didn’t surprise Scott. Her confident assurance yesterday that Twister would respond to her training didn’t appear boastful now. The woman seemed able to read the stallion’s mind. She’d bewitched him. And much as Scott hated to admit it, he couldn’t blame the poor animal. Her fairy-princess act was pretty potent.

      He reached down, hoisted the nearest bale to his shoulder and staggered blindly toward the stall.

      “No! Don’t ever stack hay outside his stall again or he’ll think there’s a snake there,” Margaret explained.

      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