Читать книгу The Texas Way - Jan Freed - Страница 10

MARGARET FOUGHT the powerful undertow. Clawed her way toward wakefulness and blessed peace. But the current was invincible. It swept her past the sweetness and plunged her into panic. Into despair…

Into the car.

Cracked rubber tape on the steering wheel pricked her palms. Sweltering heat compressed her lungs. Matt’s voice implored her to slow down, to pull over. A red-white-and-blue beacon flashed in her rearview mirror. Too close. Too fast.

She couldn’t go back. Wouldn’t go back, or she might never have the courage to leave again.

Get away—get away—get away. The refrain pounded in her mind with each heartbeat. She pressed down on the accelerator and clutched the steering wheel tighter, willing her grip to hold the vibrating car together. Her muscles ached. Dizziness blurred her vision. She tried to slow her shallow breaths and only panted faster.

Get away, get away, get away—Boom!

The steering wheel was wrenched from her hands. Matt yelled. The horizon spun around and around and around. Metal screeched. Pain exploded in her legs and chest. Glass stalactites trembled.

Silence throbbed.

She slowly turned her head. Matt’s flesh and bone fused with jagged metal in a gruesome sculpture of death.

Anguish filled her soul. She threw back her head and screamed at fate, “It should have been me. It should have been me. It should have been me-e-e-e—“

“Maggie!”

She jerked into consciousness with a gasp, her eyes popping open unfocused in the dark. Where…? Her vision cleared. The farmhouse, her second night here. Scott sat on the four-poster bed gripping her shoulders hard. She wondered how many times he’d shaken her.

“You were dreaming, Maggie. It was just a bad dream.”

Just a bad dream. She would’ve laughed if her teeth weren’t chattering like a set of windup toy dentures. Violent trembling seized her body in rhythmic waves. A terrible cold penetrated marrow deep. It would pass. Eventually. Closing her eyes, she waited…and endured.

“Damn,” Scott muttered, pulling her upright and into his arms.

She nearly whimpered with relief. His bare chest was hard beneath her cheek, his heartbeat loud and steady. She wrapped her arms around his waist and shamelessly clung. Maybe he hated her for what she’d done to Matt, maybe her present weakness disgusted him, but it didn’t matter. He felt strong and warm and alive, and she needed the human contact.

He rubbed her spine hesitantly, then more firmly, his callused fingers snagging on her cotton nightgown. “You’re shiverin’ like a spooked colt. Must’ve been a helluva nightmare.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded.

“Wanna talk about it?”

To this man? “No,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Humiliating, but she couldn’t seem to unlock her fingers from the waistband of his jeans.

“You were dreaming about the accident, weren’t you?”

She tensed. His room was right next door.’ “Was I talking out loud?”

“Sounded more like screaming to me.”

She unpeeled her fingers and started to push away, thwarted by the iron band of his arms.

“Relax, princess. No need to get your nose out of joint.”

Somehow that nose was buried against his chest now. He smelled of soap and sleep-roused male, and radiated heat like a healthy animal.

“At least you don’t feel like a damn ice cube anymore,” Scott said, satisfaction deepening his voice.

Not hardly. Grateful he couldn’t see her face, she turned and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

His body shifted toward the window. “Looks like it’s close to dawn. I’d have gotten up soon, anyway.”

“What did I…” Go on, coward, spit it out. “What did I scream?”

He hesitated a fraction too long. “Damned if I know. One thing’s for sure. My money’s on you, instead of Ada, at the next county fair.”

She struggled to make the connection.

“The pig-calling contest,” he explained. “You pack a mean set of lungs for such a little thing.”

His chuckle rumbled pleasantly against her ear. She managed a shaky smile, surprised to realize her trembling had stopped. Dangerous. She was too warm, too content, too willing to stay in his arms indefinitely. This time when she pushed away, he let her go.

She lay back and pulled the quilt to her chin, uncertain how their relationship had changed, sure only that it had.

“I guess I should thank you,” she finally said.

“No need. I didn’t want you to wake Dad.” He sprang up as if released from an unpleasant duty and headed for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t linger to make sure.

Margaret stared at the closed door in bemusement. Normally it took her several hours to recover from the dream. Never in her lifetime would she have expected Scott Hayes to speed the process. She almost wished he hadn’t. His compassion increased his virility by a thousandfold. As her horror had receded, every nerve ending in her body had tingled with awareness.

Funny. She’d never been as physically conscious of Matt, although she’d planned to marry him. He’d been a handsome young veterinary student working the summer at Riverbend when they’d met. She’d craved his unconditional love, so different from her parents’ embarrassed tolerance, but never his touch.

Nor had Jim ever caused this distressing reaction. She’d found him attractive, but that was secondary to the opportunity he’d offered—the chance to start a new life unfettered by guilt or her father’s censure. If truth were told, the physical side of her marriage had been disappointing. All those disconcerting noises, all that sweaty skin…

…that tanned, sweaty skin. An image of Scott as he’d looked the day before mocked her thoughts.

Far from distasteful, Scott’s glistening torso had fascinated her. When he’d reached up and held Twister’s bridle, his biceps had bunched and the corded sinew of his forearms flexed. Leather work gloves only emphasized his hard muscles, the kind earned through strenuous physical labor, not honed and perfected in a gym.

Blinking, Margaret shook off both the vision and her sappy smile. She yawned and stretched. The first blush of dawn tinged the lace curtains. Shadows solidified into an armoire, a scarred dresser and silver-spotted mirror. Margaret fingered the Wedding Ring quilt beneath her chin and admired the workmanship.

Scott was right. Everything on this ranch had been made or purchased to last through generations of hard wear. The sense of permanency charmed her, challenged her to be just as strong, just as capable of earning her keep.

Muffled kitchen sounds told her Scott was starting the first pot of coffee. Grant would be up soon. What could she make for breakfast that would be appetizing, as well as low in fat?

Cereal. That she could handle.

Throwing back the covers, she indulged in one last joint-popping stretch. Anticipation spread like caffeine through her blood, vanquishing fatigue. There was a long, exhausting day ahead of her. She couldn’t wait to get started.

THREE HOURS LATER Margaret’s enthusiasm had faded considerably. “Hold still, darn it!”

Twister swished his tail, jerking the currycomb from her hand—but not from a nasty snarl. He swished again, avoiding her frantic grab. His third, violent swish sent the heavy metal comb rocketing into the back plank wall like a deadly missile.