The Texas Way Page 11

  Holding the muzzle with his left fingers, he cupped his right hand as small as possible and pushed it palm upward into the cow’s mouth. As she thrashed her head from side to side, he forced himself to concentrate on what he had to do. Molar teeth cruelly scraped his arm. The cow’s throat grew smaller and smaller. His hand lodged and stuck.

  “It’s too big,” he told Maggie. “My goddamn hand’s too big to reach far enough.” As he withdrew it from the heifer’s throat, he noticed Lady Love’s coughing had weakened considerably. The thought of losing her sickened him. He bowed his head and willed himself to think.

  “Move!” Maggie ordered, shoving him aside with surprising strength. “Get back there and hold her horns.”

  Grabbing the heifer’s nose, she cupped her hand and pushed it slowly into the slobbery mouth.

  After a stunned moment, Scott grasped the heifer as instructed and spoke quietly to Maggie. “Keep your palm pressed to her top palate and slide between her molars. Push your way to the back of her throat.”

  Maggie’s hand disappeared, then her wrist. She wore the absorbed expression of inward focus. Despite Scott’s grip, the heifer swung her head from left to right. Maggie winced, following the movement as best she could, and continued her hand’s slow advance. When her arm was swallowed past the elbow, her face brightened.

  “I feel something. I think it’s the apple.” She met his eyes, her excitement turning into panic.

  “Okay, that’s real good, Maggie. You’re doing great, darlin’. Now slowly turn your hand and try to get a hold on it.”

  He watched her absorbed concentration return and knew the instant she’d accomplished her objective.

  “I’ve got it in my hand!” Her gaze returned to his for reassurance.

  “Good girl. No, don’t yank it out—you might hurt her. Turn your palm up and press the apple against the roof of her mouth. Now work your hand out slowly. That’s it. Take it easy.”

  He tried his best to keep the heifer’s head still, but once her air passage was cleared, she was wild to get rid of the foreign objects in her mouth. Most cattlemen Scott knew would have given in to natural instinct and hurried past those grinding molars.

  This little slip of a woman gamely held back and followed Scott’s instructions to the letter. At last she pulled the apple free and held it aloft. Perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip. Saliva dripped from her elbow and smeared the front of her T-shirt. Nasty, jagged scrapes marred the creamy skin of her hand and arm.

  “We did it!” she whooped, her smile more beautiful than anything Scott had seen in his life.

  Unable to cope with his roiling emotions, he turned to watch Lady Love. Within a minute she was breathing normally. Another two, and she was nuzzling the trough for remnants of food.

  Scott tried to focus on the immediate situation. He would clean up Maggie’s arm as best he could, then drive back and call Doc Chalmers to take over where they’d left off. It looked as if the heifer would make a full recovery, unchanged by the dramatic rescue.

  If only the same was true for himself. If only he could keep Maggie in the neat little slot that had kept him safe all these years. If only…

  His thoughts whirled, spinning backward to a time he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit in six long years….

  “SO WHAT D’YA SAY? Will you help us, buddy?”

  Scott met the pleading brown eyes across the booth table and clenched his fists. What could he say? Matt had been his best friend since the sixth grade. They’d drunk their first six-pack together and puked it up side by side minutes later. They’d made the football team together and scored a combined total of twenty-two touchdowns by their senior year. They’d shared homework, cars and even dates with the offhand ca-sualness of blood brothers.

  What the goddamn hell could he say?

  “All right, you can borrow my car. Can you find a ride and be here by 9:00 a.m.?”

  Matt grinned lopsidedly and kissed the cheek of the girl at his side. “By noon tomorrow, Miss Margaret Chelsea Winston, you’ll be Mrs. Matthew Rayburn Collins. And there’s nothing your dad can do about it!” He squeezed her narrow shoulders. “I told you Scott would come through for us.”

  For the first time, Scott looked directly at the girl. She was watching him with an odd expression, part wary, part hopeful, as if she wanted to trust him, yet didn’t dare.

  He had to get away. Scooting out of the booth, he dropped tip money onto the table and focused on the spinning quarter—anywhere but her huge, dove gray eyes.

  “I expect a breakfast outta this, Collins,” Scott growled, walking away to the sound of Matt’s good-natured laughter.

  All that night Scott lay awake. Matt was crazy in love, and had been since he’d first met Riverbend’s resident princess.

  Matt had sworn she wasn’t a snob, just shy. There were reasons, but he wanted Margaret to tell Scott herself, when she knew him better. She’d helped Matt in the barn and was interested in his plan to open a veterinary clinic. After he’d proposed, she talked of being his assistant until he could afford to hire help. She and Matt were perfect for each other. If Scott would make the effort to become friends with her, he would see that, Matt insisted.

  Scott did see her Corvette, and wondered if she’d be willing to sell it to pay off student loans. He saw her fancy clothes, and wondered if she had any idea how messy delivering a calf was. He saw her affection for his friend, and wondered if it ever changed to the passion he saw in Matt’s eyes. Matt deserved her passion. He deserved to be happy.

  The couple wanted to borrow Scott’s car tomorrow and drive to San Antonio to get married. No one would recognize them there. Donald had confiscated the keys to Margaret’s Corvette until she showed proper remorse for dating the “shit-kicking son of a grocer.” And as usual, Matt’s truck was out of commission—something about a bad fuel line this time. Scott hadn’t paid much attention.

  Tossing fitfully, he imagined Donald Winston’s reaction to the elopement. Margaret’s father had fired Matt last week. A secret marriage would send Donald over the edge. He would make Matt’s life a living hell.

  Someone had to show some sense, force the couple to slow down and confirm their feelings for each other before taking such a permanent step. Matt was making a terrible mistake. Someone should save him.

  At five in the morning Scott gave up trying to sleep, made coffee and did his barn chores. Breakfast was on the table when his dad and Laura got up. They drove off to the school-bus stop by seven. Scott slumped in the kitchen chair, his eyes gritty, his mind fuzzy. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d be late.

  Rising like an old man, he shuffled to the telephone and dialed the number he’d looked up earlier.

  All the way to Luling he practiced what he’d say. “It was for your own good, buddy.” Or, “She wasn’t the right girl for you. She would’ve made you miserable.” The closer he got to town, the weaker the excuses sounded. In a horrifying moment of clarity, Scott realized they were weak. Not because they weren’t true, but because he had no right to play God with his best friend’s future.

  Entrusted with the most important decision in Matt’s life, Scott had taken steps to change fate, instead of honoring his friend’s request. Bile rose in his throat, followed by a frantic desire to make amends.

  He would tell them what he’d done, then send them off immediately rather than join them for breakfast as he’d planned. His palms grew slick against the steering wheel as he entered the outskirts of town. Lucy’s Café was right up ahead. Please, Lord, don’t let him be too late.

  The parking lot wasn’t crowded. His gaze swept the few cars, and his hands relaxed. Pulling into a front space, he checked the gas gauge and wished he’d filled the tank. The tires needed air, too. Some friend he was. Oh, God, please don’t let him be too late.

  Matt and Margaret pushed through the glass front door, their arms around each other’s waists. The sheer beauty of their youth and brilliant smiles was painful to look at. Scott
killed the engine and moved to get out. In his peripheral vision, a car pulled up in the space beside him. One glance at Margaret’s face was enough to tell him who was driving.

  “No-o-o,” she moaned, echoing Scott’s inner scream.

  As long as Scott lived, he would never forget the look she turned on him then—accusing, wounded, thoroughly betrayed. That look castrated him as effectively as a scalpel. He didn’t have the guts to meet Matt’s eyes.

  Opening the door, Scott climbed out talking. “I can explain everyth—”

  His breath whooshed out as Margaret barreled into his shoulder, knocking him aside. He staggered against the car.

  “Get in!” she shrieked at Matt.

  Matt blinked in the morning sunlight.

  “Move!” When she slid behind the wheel, Matt appeared to wake up from his trance. He ran to the passenger side.

  The adjacent car door crashed open, slamming Matt in the stomach. “Stop right there, you son of a bitch!” Donald Winston planted a tassled loafer on the blacktop and prepared to climb out.

  Matt never gave him the chance. Younger, stronger and fueled by panic, he shoved the door against Donald’s leg, forcing him to pull it inside or be crushed. In seconds, Matt jumped in beside Margaret and slammed his door.

  Scott barely leapt aside in time to avoid the swooping rear bumper. He watched in horror as Margaret sent the car squealing backward, then screeching forward in an instinctive flight from the man Scott had phoned that morning.

  “They won’t get away, dammit! They’re headed for the interstate. One call to Ken Browning’ll take care of that.” Donald slid out of the car and hobbled toward the restaurant.

  “They’re scared now,” Scott called to Donald’s back, his own alarm growing by the minute. “Give them a chance to cool down. A patrol car on their tail might set Margaret off.”

  But he was talking to a closed glass door. Donald had entered the restaurant to phone the sheriff, whose election campaign he’d supported heavily.

  Eventually Scott went inside and slid into the same booth he, Margaret and Matt had occupied the night before.

  Donald sat across the room looking flushed and triumphant.

  Time passed, and the lump of dread in Scott’s stomach grew to nauseating proportions. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. When the sound of sirens wailed in the distance, he wasn’t even surprised. Don-ald rose along with the few customers in the restaurant to look through the windows. He didn’t look smug now, Scott noticed. And then Scott’s senses shut down.

  The ambulance, the sheriff’s report, the ride to the hospital—they were all a distorted blur.

  Later he learned the full story from the deputy sheriff who’d given chase. Instead of slowing down and pulling over when she saw the flashing lights, Margaret had sped up. Only a princess used to driving a Corvette wouldn’t have sensed the rattletrap’s limitations. At eighty miles an hour, the old car had probably started to come apart at the seams. The bald right tire had exploded, spinning the chassis around and around across the highway. A concrete overpass post had stopped its progress.

  Margaret suffered three broken ribs, a fractured tibia and a mild concussion. She hadn’t been able to attend Matt’s funeral.

  Scott had wanted her there, had wanted her to see the tears and the agonizing grief she’d caused. He’d wanted her to bear the crushing guilt, to bear the blame—and he’d succeeded in convincing himself she deserved them.

  Until lately.

  Until she’d come back into his life and blown all his previous perceptions to hell.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SCOTT’S BEDROOM DOOR creaked open right on schedule. In the next room, Grant sighed and looked out the window. Not quite dawn yet. Something had happened four days ago to give his son itchy feet. Something besides Lady Love’s close call with death.

  Throwing back his covers, Grant dressed hastily and rushed to the kitchen. Even so, he almost wasn’t fast enough.

  “Whoa, son, hold up a minute. What’s your hurry?”

  Scott paused with his hand on the back doorknob. A canvas backpack was slung over one shoulder. “The chute-head gate was acting up yesterday. I want to get it workin’ before Pete comes to help with the sprayin’.”

  “Sit down and have a cup of coffee with your ol’ man. It won’t even be light yet for another fifteen minutes.”

  “I really should-”

  “Scott.” Grant used a tone of voice he hadn’t exercised in years. It had the same effect now as it had when Scott and Laura were children.

  Withdrawing his hand from the knob, Scott moved to a chair and slouched down with a sulky scowl. He slipped the backpack to the floor.

  Grant pulled coffee from a cabinet and got the percolator going. He inhaled with appreciation and wished he had a cup ready now to fortify himself. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  He nodded toward the canvas bag. “Plannin’ on another long day?”

  “Not plannin’ on it. Just prepared.”

  Scott had been leaving before dawn and returning after ten at night ever since the morning he’d shown Margaret the herd. Grant had a pretty good idea why, but wanted to hear his son’s explanation. He propped his rear against the counter and crossed his ankles.

  “You missed a good meal last night. Margaret’s a fair hand with roast chicken.” Scratching his jaw, he hid a smile at Scott’s instant wariness.

  “There was a plate wrapped up on the stove when I came in. I figured you left it out for me.”

  “Wasn’t me. Anybody stubborn enough to stay gone all day and half the night deserves to starve. Margaret must think different, though.”

  Scott stretched out a boot and appeared to find the toe fascinating.

  “That’s a fine young woman, Scott, even if her father is lower than a dung beetle.” Grant’s mouth thinned ruefully at his son’s startled glance. “I always thought so, son. I just didn’t have the gumption to do anything about it. By the time Donald Winston bought Perkin’s place, I was so used to lettin’ you fight the battles, I’d forgotten how.”

  “There was nothin’ you could’ve done, Dad. We never could’ve matched Winston’s price.”

  For a minute Grant couldn’t speak for the emotion swelling in his throat. “Maybe not then. But if I’d taken a more active role in runnin’ the ranch after your mother’s death, we might’ve managed to buy the place before Winston came on the scene.” He swallowed thickly. “I should’ve let you grow up a little slower, Scott. I should’ve stayed grown-up a little longer.”

  Shaking his head, Grant turned and busied himself pouring coffee. His maudlin rambling wasn’t helping anyone. When he had himself under control, he carried two steaming mugs to the table.

  Scott straightened in his chair. Grant sat and shoved a mug across the table.

  “What’s done is done, and I can’t give you back those years. But maybe I can keep you from throwin’ away the ones you have left.”

  Scott took a sip and studied the curling steam. “That’s kinda cryptic.”

  “Let me be blunt, then. It’s time you stopped treat-in’ Margaret so poorly.”

  Scott’s golden brown eyes flickered once and grew blank. He’d learned to hide his feelings well. That was fine, Grant thought, as long as he didn’t hide them from himself.

  “I don’t see her enough to treat her poorly.” Scott’s voice revealed the irritation his face didn’t.

  “That’s as good a form of punishment as any. How did you feel after your mother’s funeral when I withdrew from you and Laura?” Grant winced at the flash of pain his son couldn’t conceal. “You were probably hurt. You might even have blamed yourself, damn my soul.”

  Scott’s jaw clenched. His fingers gripped the mug so tightly his joints whitened. “You’re a lousy shrink, Dad. Maggie’s here to do a job, and the more I stay out of her way, the better she likes it.”

  “You’re runnin’ scared, son, and that’s not like you. Slow down and give yourself a chance—�
��

  Scott slammed the mug down on the table, ignoring the slosh of coffee that had to have burned his hand. “I don’t know where the hell this is comin’ from, unless it’s your new love life.”

  Grant blinked and forced his mouth to close.

  “C’mon, Dad, did you think I wouldn’t hear? You’ve had lunch at the diner with her four times. You may as well have run an ad in the Luling Gazette.” He picked up his backpack and thrust to his feet. “Don’t get me wrong. I think Ada’s great. But I’ll thank you to quit analyzin’ my life and drawin’ ridiculous conclusions. It’s a little late for fatherly advice.” Slinging the pack over one shoulder, he flung the door open and didn’t bother to muffle the closing whack of the screen.

  Grant sipped his coffee and sighed. He deserved that last dig. But damn, it hurt. He’d made a fine mess of the whole thing when all he’d wanted was to save his son from making the same mistake he’d made.

  All these years, he’d avoided serious relationships because no woman could measure up to Patricia. Ironically Scott had used her as a standard of what to avoid in a mate. He equated cultured femininity with an inability to survive ranch hardships. His son was as blind to Margaret’s strength as Grant had been to Ada’s womanly grace and fun-loving spirit.

  Grant lowered his mug, aware he was smiling. Ada did that to him. Hell, if the town gossips were watching his courtship, anyway, maybe it was time he gave them something juicy to chew on.

  “May I join you?”

  Startled, Grant twisted to see Margaret hovering in the doorway. “Of course. I could use the company.”

  She moved to the stove and started a pot of water for the tea she drank every morning. “Looks like you’ve already had some. Company,” she clarified, waving a hand at the second coffee mug.

  “I could use some pleasant company.”

  Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That bad, huh?”

  “He makes Orca seem like Porky Pig.” Ah, her eyes weren’t so sad now. She had lovely eyes. “I would’ve taken him over my knee if he didn’t top me by an inch. Where’ve the years gone? I’m tellin’ you, Margaret, enjoy every minute of your youth before you get old like me.”