- -
- 100%
- +
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, he now knew with certainty it wasn’t in his kitchen.
She stood like a calla lily on the dingy white linoleum. Graceful. Delicate. Lovely in the way of women blessed with classic bone structure, rather than voluptuous curves. Her soft gray sweater and matching slacks complemented eyes the color of smoke, skin fine as bone china, hair glinting gold in the sunbeam streaming through the door.
Last night, he’d thought she must look her best in moonlight. He wished to hell he’d been right.
She squinted at the clock a long moment, then smiled hesitantly. “Right on time…aren’t I?”
He checked the clock. Eight o’clock on the money. Apparently her vanity wouldn’t permit wearing glasses.
He nodded toward the table. “Sit down.”
She glanced at the rickety dinette, and Scott imagined her inner shudder. He hadn’t even swiped it down after the meal. But she pulled out a cracked vinyl chair and sat with nary a blink.
“Thank you.” She waved a graceful hand at the opposite chair. “Please, you sit down, too.”
As usual, the more graciously she behaved, the ruder he felt. He might as well act the part.
Plucking his Stetson off the refrigerator, Scott jammed it low. He flipped around the chair nearest her and dropped into a straddle. “So talk.”
“I’m prepared to offer you five thousand dollars for Twist of Fate…for Twister. Cash on delivery.”
So much for preliminaries. He stacked his fists on the chair back and planted his chin. “That’s a lot of money for someone who has no money,” he drawled, waiting for her blush to peak before continuing. “But it’s not a fraction of what he’s worth.”
“Not if he was a show-ring champion. But Twister’s never been campaigned. Never sired any proven get.”
“Campaigned? Proven? We’re talking about a stallion, here, not a damn politician. Twister’s got nothin’ to prove as far as I’m concerned.”
“Wasting his potential is criminal! And stupendously selfish. And…and just plain ignorant! You don’t deserve to own him.”
There was that passion again. So unlike the girl he’d known. So intense he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dropped his voice a husky note. “So make me an offer I can’t refuse, Maggie.”
Color splashed her cheeks. “I don’t have any more money, damn you. I don’t have a home. I don’t even own that Porsche out there. The lease expires next week.”
He frowned, feeling a niggle of unease. “Your husband?”
“We’ve been divorced a month.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No settlement money?”
“The prenuptial agreement was airtight. He was a lawyer, after all.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if signing such agreements before pledging to honor and love your life mate was normal. He supposed in her privileged world, that was true.
“There’s always Daddy,” he said, his voice cynical. Donald Winston spared no expense when it came to his precious daughter. And his pockets were very deep.
Her mouth clamped shut. Her color heightened. She drew a cloak of dignity around her narrow shoulders.
“I’ll be damned. The old man cut you off.”
With sudden clarity, Scott remembered just how far her father would go to teach Margaret a lesson. Questions whirled like dust devils in his mind. He snatched at the nearest one.
“What’ll you do now?”
She gave a humorless laugh and stared at her clasped fingers. Scott doubted if those creamy, manicured hands had done more than dial a phone in the past six years. With grudging admiration, he watched her trembling lips firm, her spine stiffen and her chin lift. She met his eyes squarely.
“Give me a job.”
CHAPTER TWO
MARGARET FELT her courage falter, smothered beneath Scott’s heavy silence. The electric hum of the ancient refrigerator mingled with the dull roar of blood in her ears. She took a deep breath. Big mistake. Musty house and strange breakfast odors wreaked havoc on her nervous stomach.
“Come again?” Scott finally asked, his amusement insulting.
“If you won’t sell Twister, hire me to train him. I guarantee within six months he’ll pump cash back into H & H Cattle Company. He’ll bring in a bundle standing at stud.”
“It takes years of training to bring a horse up to national competition level. Even I know that. H & H Cattle Company doesn’t have years,” he admitted grimly.
“You’re thinking in terms of show-ring competition. That’s not what I have in mind.” The excitement she’d nurtured for weeks bubbled in her voice.
“Wanna let me in on your secret?”
“Twister has the makings of a champion racehorse.”
“Racehorse?” Scott’s incredulous stare grew pitying. “He’s six years old—over the hill by at least two years. Besides, Thoroughbreds race, not Arabians.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. Arabian racing is well established in Europe and the Middle East. It’s a hot trend in the States now. Not only that, an Arabian’s prime racing years begin at age five.” She paused, savoring his dazed expression. “But that’s not the best part.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “The best part is, breeders are clamoring for a particular type of Arabian. One with a conformation suited to running, rather than class performance. One that is relatively rare right now and therefore brings top stud fees. There’s a huge demand now for an Arabian like Twister.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, she broke into a huge smile. “And we have a lock on the supply!”
“We have a lock on the supply?” Scott lifted one tawny brow to meet his hat band. Rising, he hooked a chair leg with his boot and slung the seat around. “I don’t recall selling you any portion of my racehorse, Maggie.”
She looked up into eyes the color of scotch whiskey—and lost both her smile and her capacity to speak. His lazy, masculine confidence had always twisted her up inside. But she couldn’t let him intimidate her now. She had too much to lose.
As if he read her mind, his mouth quirked upward. He shoved his chair under the table and sauntered toward an aluminum percolator plugged into an outlet near the sink. Helpless to stop herself, she watched the rolling action of his lean hips and tight butt.
Jim hadn’t walked like that. Neither had Matt. The truth was, no other man in her civilized experience had ever moved with quite the same feline grace and male swagger as this tall cowboy.
Opening a painted cabinet door of indeterminate color, he pulled down two mismatched ceramic mugs and looked back over one shoulder.
Caught admiring the broad stretch of his faded blue shirt, Margaret froze. He held her gaze, his own smoldering beneath sooty lashes.
“How do you like your coffee?”
He might have been asking how she liked her sex, so intimate was his tone. Margaret had never hated her fair complexion more.
“I don’t drink coffee, thank you.” Even to her own ears, she sounded priggish.
Shrugging, he filled his mug, turned and propped a negligent hip against the counter. “I think this farce has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
“Farce?”
“This fairy tale about Twister racing. I’ll give you credit for trying. But you of all people should know I can’t give you a job.” He took a leisurely sip of coffee, his eyes watchful behind tendrils of steam.
She stiffened. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
He lowered the mug. Those eyes were glittering 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 old. Yet his ticker had given out when Scott needed him most. And now the medical bills, on top of the bank note…
He closed his eyes and willed himself to rest. To heal. The fan motor whirred. The pull chain ticked against the swaying brass casing like a metronome. He fingered the nubby chenille bedspread Patricia had bought their first year of marriage and sighed wistfully.
After eighteen years, he still missed her. She’d been too fine and cultured for a simple rancher like him, but he’d accepted the gift of her love and tried to be worthy. They’d had ambitious plans for H & H Cattle Company once. Then cancer had struck, and his dreams had died with her. His body had gone through the motions of ranch chores. He’d loved his children and kept a roof over their heads. Occasionally he’d slaked his physical needs with an equally lonely widow in Gonzales.
But his heart had remained insulated. He simply hadn’t cared about improving the place or making it profitable. And now Scott was paying the price.
Pain that had nothing to do with his operation made Grant wince. For eighteen years, he’d been sleepwalking through life, his memories of Patricia more real to him than the deteriorating ranch. Damned if he’d asked to wake up, but he didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter these days.
A loud ruckus broke out in the barn. Masculine shouts. Twister’s whinny. Grant listened for a tense moment, then relaxed back against his pillow. No point in getting up really. If there was a problem, Scott would handle it.
He always did.
THE DOUBLE CRACK of iron-shod hooves against wood reverberated throughout the barn.
“Dammit, Pete, I told you to stay back! You know he hates the sight of you.” Scott threw an irritated glance over his shoulder.
“Well, he don’t exactly make the sun shine for me, neither,” the peppery old cowhand grumbled, shuffling to a safer distance.
Scott ignored Pete’s injured feelings and concentrated on the greater problem at hand. What the hell was wrong with Twister?
The stallion danced restlessly on the far side of the twelve-by-twenty-foot stall, his bunched muscles rippling beneath a pearl gray coat. Charcoal velvet nostrils fluttered in distress. His silver tail swished up and down, side to side.
“Come on, boy. Don’t you want to get out and stretch your legs?” Scott moved slowly into the stall and clasped a lead rope to the nylon halter. Thank goodness he’d forgotten to remove the halter last night before returning to the house.
Noting the full feed bin, he frowned. “What’s the matter, Twister? You’re usually a pig. Are you getting sick maybe?”
A coil of dread tightened Scott’s belly. Ranch life had hastened his mother’s death, crushed his younger sister Laura’s spirit, weakened the heart of his once-invincible father. He sent up a silent prayer. Please God, not Twister, too.
Backing out the open door, Scott pulled the rope taut.
Twister planted his forelegs and refused to budge. Eyes rolling, sides heaving, sweat lathering his neck and flanks, he nickered low and deep.
Scott turned toward Pete. “Go up to the house and ask Dad to call Doc Chalmers. Something’s wrong with Twister, but hell if I can figure out what.”
“Car’s comin’ down the road,” Pete observed from the barn doorway. “Fancy thing, just like the girlie drivin’ it.”
Scott drew in a hissing breath. Maggie. Damn. He’d thought it would take her at least a day to pack whatever a princess needed to live among the common folk. He didn’t have time for her royal crap now.
“Just do what I ask and get the Doc out here. Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.” Pete pushed off the doorframe and ambled toward the house, his voice drifting back in mumbled snatches. “Too dang mean to be sick…into some loco weed…do this, Pete, do that, Pete…”
Doc Chalmers wouldn’t go into a stall with the fractious stallion for a truckload of money. The veterinarian had made that clear the last time Twister had landed a well-aimed hoof.
Scott dug in his heels and pulled harder on the rope. “Come on out, dammit. You don’t even like being in there.” Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging like hell. He lifted one arm and rubbed his forehead, knocking his hat off in the process. His T-shirt clung damply, his jeans felt hot and scratchy—and he was playing tug-of-war with a friggin’ elephant!