The Texas Way

Twister nickered again, but something about the sound was different this time. And suddenly Scott knew. Knew even before the light, fresh scent filled his lungs with spring flowers and his mind with images of sunlit hair.

“What is he afraid of?” the cultured, feminine voice asked from several feet behind.

Scott slackened the rope and watched his proud, beautiful stallion shiver. “He’s not afraid. He’s sick. Doc Chalmers is on the way.”

“He’s terrified,” Margaret insisted, walking up to stand beside Scott in the stall doorway.

In the dim light, her shoulder-length hair glimmered palely—her translucent gray eyes more palely still. She wore a sleeveless yellow dress sprigged with blue cornflowers. A thin blue satin ribbon threaded the puckered scoop neck, drawing his gaze to delicate collarbones and the hint of creamy breasts. The cotton material hung waistless, beltless, yet skimmed her curves more alluringly than spandex.

He felt like a smelly, hairy Neanderthal next to a magical fairy princess.

“Let me see what I can do.” With ethereal grace, she slipped into the stall and moved toward the wild-eyed stallion.

Scott’s heartbeat stalled, sputtered and roared to piston-pumping life. He was afraid to yell, afraid to do anything that might startle eleven hundred pounds of horseflesh into explosive action.

“Hiya, handsome. Remember me? Of course you do.” She reached up, grabbed the halter cheek straps and pulled Twister’s head down. “You wouldn’t forget your new friend.”

Damned if she wasn’t blowing in his nose!

“Now what is it that’s got you so scared? Why don’t we check it out together, okay?” She took the rope from Scott and shooed him back from the doorway.

Dazed, he stumbled backward as she moved forward, her pink toenails flashing bright next to Twister’s tough, yellowed hooves.

God almighty! Sandals in a horse stall. Twister’s horse stall.

“Ready, handsome?” She did something to his mane with her fingers. Amazingly he seemed to calm down a little. “All right then, let’s go.”

Paralyzed, Scott watched the powerful haunches gather, the pricked ears flatten. In two tremendous leaps Twister catapulted through the door, Margaret trotting close behind. Fifteen feet away he wheeled to face the stall and backed up, snorting all the while.

Pete’s skinny form darkened the barn entrance, but Twister ignored his long-standing enemy. Nothing else could have demonstrated his fear so well.

“You okay, Maggie?” Scott choked out.

Her steady gray eyes were inspecting the stall. “Whatever has him spooked is over there. See anything new or unfamiliar?”

Scott scanned the area and rumpled his hair. Nothing looked different to him. Same frayed leather bridle drooping from a rusty nail. Same packed dirt floor covered with matted straw. Same shovel leaning against—

“The hay,” Pete said, moving toward Margaret with surprising hustle.

With the right incentive, those bowed legs of his could sure get up and go, Scott noted wryly.

At the wrangler’s approach, Twister jerked his head back. Margaret laid her small white hand against his arched neck and murmured soothingly. Once again the stallion marginally settled.

Pete’s light blue eyes widened.

“What about the hay, Mr….?” Margaret paused politely.

“Pete. Just call me Pete, miss.”

She flashed a dazzling smile. “Pete, 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.