Never the Twain (2 page)

"Here you are." She pulled up just beyond the gully, silently marveling how his horse was
standing essentially where he'd left it. Its reins were looped across a sagebrush, but not tied in any
way. Good looking horse, too. Broad withers, legs heavier than she was used to seeing, but range
horses needed to be sturdier than those used for pleasure riding. Spotted horses always had appealed
to her, ever since childhood, when Tonto had been one of her heroes.

"Thanks, little lady." His grin, still mocking, showed his use of the diminutive adjective was
deliberate. Two fingers touched his hat brim in a salute Genny had seen in a thousand western
movies. "Next time, walk the road before you tackle it. You'll keep out of a lot of trouble that
way."

He slammed the door and strode to his horse. Genny watched the flex of his buttocks,
outlined by the edges of his leather chaps, and her breath grew shallow and quick.

"Wipe the drool off the chin, Genille," she whispered. "You'll see lots of Levi's and
cowboy boots around here. And most of them will be friendly." Still, his masculine power and grace
spoke to primitive needs within her. This man, this rude, crude cowboy, was as sexy as any man
she'd had ever seen.

Genny popped the clutch and killed the engine. Again. She felt flaming color sweep across
her face as she sensed his eyes upon her. Grimly she ground the starter until the pickup coughed
into life, then carefully eased the clutch pedal out and headed uphill. She wasn't going to give him
the satisfaction of seeing any more of her embarrassment than he already had.

When would she learn? Some men were simply impossible to get along with. She should
have learned that fact long since.

Rock chuckled to himself at the fiery blush on the woman's face as she restarted her
pickup's engine and pulled away. She'd handled the rig just fine while he was in it, relieving him of
his worry that she was headed for trouble on the rough trails out hereabouts.

Not that she had any business out here alone. What had Walters been thinking of, turning
her loose without a keeper? There were too many lonely miles out here where a young, pretty
woman could get into real trouble.

Pretty? Hells fire! She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen! His body remembered
the softness of her breast as his arm brushed against it. Warmed again to the remembered
sweaty-sweet scent of her beside him.

He turned Brandy to head off an escaping cow, forcing his mind away from melting brown
eyes and silken, silvery hair. A woman like her had no place in Owyhee Country. She belonged to
cities, with policemen on every corner, theaters and expensive restaurants, and stores full of fancy
foofaraw.

"Hyah!" He spurred Brandy after the bunch, pushing them uphill in the settling dust from
a red pickup.

Hours later, the cattle were back on his land. Mouth still gritty with the dust of a dry day's
work, Rock headed Brandy back to the trailer.

That damn old brindle. If she didn't give him twin calves as often as not, he'd ship her off
to the sales yard. At least once each summer she led ten or twenty other cows off somewhere and
got lost. He'd been lucky this time; Pat Lehenbauer had seen the brindle cow while she and her
followers were still up by the road. Otherwise, his ranch hands would have probably spent half the
summer trying to find her.

As soon as he thought of the creek bottom meadow where his cattle had been hiding, he
remembered the woman.

Her scent was lodged in his memory. The tangy odor of sagebrush usually dominated the
breeze, but not today. Even Brandy's sweaty horse smell, one he'd known all his life, gave way to the
remembered aroma of a desirable woman.

Rock had just given Brandy a slap to move him into the trailer when he heard the thrum of
an engine. An expanding tail of dust followed it toward him. Another rockhound, he supposed, not
particularly interested.

Wait a minute. That red pickup looks familiar.

He caught a glimpse of silver hair and a pink plaid shirt he'd seen earlier. He waved.

The pickup slowed, stopped. Reversed, and turned into the pulloff behind him.

"I was hoping I would see you again. I wanted to thank you properly." Kissable lips
widened in a two hundred watt smile. "And to apologize for my awful manners this morning."

"I was a little short myself," he admitted, wondering why he was giving her the time of day.
The sooner he discouraged her, the sooner she'd leave him alone.

"You look like you've put in a long, hard day. I've got some sodas on ice. Can I offer you
one?" He was surprised by how much sympathy could show in an ordinary pair of brown eyes.

Ordinary? Not likely. Her eyes were deep enough and inviting enough for him to dive in
and never climb out.

Hold on!
He reined back on his imagination. Self-disgust made his voice hard.
"Nope. I've got some water here. That's all I need."

But his mouth puckered at the thought of icy cold, sweet soda pop instead of warm, flat
water that had been locked up in a hot truck cab all day.

Rock found himself uncharacteristically indecisive. Old memories, old hurts, told him to be
as rough on this fair, fragile woman as he could be. Protect himself from potential heartbreaks and
save her from the indifferent harshness of the desert.

This hothouse flower had no business in Owyhee Country, where she'd wither and die for
lack of human contact and city shops. He had to get rid of her before she wormed her way into his
life--and destroyed him the way his pa had been destroyed.

At the same time, he found himself wanting to discover what brought a pretty woman out
into some of the most inhospitable country in the world. Surely she hadn't had any idea of what she
was letting herself in for.

"Aren't you due in Vale pretty quick?" he said, squinting at the sun's angle. He made his
voice harsh and raspy. "Better high-tail it back where you belong, little lady."

He didn't flinch at the hurt in her doe-brown eyes. Not much, anyhow.

A little over an hour later, Genny turned her pickup into the parking lot behind the BLM
District Office. She was late again. Everyone else had returned from the field and gone home.

Not that she cared. She'd never admit it to Dan in a million years, but she'd work for free
just to be able to explore the wide, desolate expanse of southeastern Oregon. This was truly God's
Country.

Peddling her bike the mile and a half across Vale to her apartment, she had to laugh at
herself. Just this morning she had been wondering if she hadn't made a mistake, coming west.

Next time she'd remember Dan's--and the cowboy's--advice.
Walk the road first. Never
commit yourself to an unknown track unless you know there's a turnaround at the end of it.

"Hi, Marmalade," she greeted her roommate as she wrestled the mountain bike through the
door. "And how was your day?"

Marmalade spent the next five minutes complaining of neglect and starvation. Used to the
cat's conversation, Genny sorted through her mail, set Sophie's letter aside, and tossed the bills into
her "to do" basket. She left a trail of dusty work clothes all the way to the bathroom.

Later, smelling less like a draft horse and more like a lady, Genny curled up on the sofa
with Marmalade to read what her aunt had to say.

"All right!" she cried a few minutes later. "Marmalade, she's really coming! She says she'll
stay for at least a week." Genny's joyful bouncing disturbed the cat, who growled, jumped down, and
stalked into the kitchen.

Genny followed. Marmalade was stretching a long paw up to the refrigerator door handle.
"Right, m'dear. It is your dinnertime. Just let me get mine started first."

She lifted one edge of the plastic bowl cover. The contents, a tuna-noodle casserole,
looked and smelled okay. Genny offered a finger full of the bowl's contents to Marmalade, her
official taster. The cat nosed her hand, his growl indicating strong hunger.

"Good enough. I won't have to go to the store until after dinner." Setting aside a portion of
the tuna mixture for the cat, she put the bowl into the microwave. "Wait until I tell you what
happened to me today, Marmalade. I had a real adventure."

"Don't count on startin' on the waterhole soon," Rock told his foreman that evening. "I
met the Vale District's new archaeologist today."

"One of those, huh?" Brad said, hanging tack up.

"I'd say so. Fresh out of school and full of ideals. A person'd think there were artifacts
scattered over the desert like broken glass in a tavern parking lot." With a growl he stripped off his
chaps, hung them over a hook behind the door. "I can just hear it now. 'We have to make sure none
of our priceless historical resources are lost to indiscriminate development, Mr. McConnell,'" he
said, in an affected falsetto. "'Why this little scrap of rock has a tiny fragment of fossilized pine
needle on it, and that makes it more important than your cattle any day.'"

Oh, yes, he knew about what could happen when the young and inexperienced ones got a
good hold on a man's tender parts. He'd seen how they put a stop to the Succor Creek mining
permits, just because some pretty little flowers were particular about where they grew.

Brad chuckled. "I ran into Dan at the cafe, when I was taking those calves in to the sales
yard. He told me about her." There was a suspicious twinkle in his eye. "She's not as young or
inexperienced as you'd think."

Rock snorted. "Maybe not, but I'd give you odds she's just as sincere." He waved Brad out
the door ahead of him. "I'll be goin' down to Jordan Valley tomorrow, so I'll check the pastures.
With the rain last week, they should be holding up pretty good."

"That'll give me time to finish up on the baler," Brad agreed. "Night." He waved as he
turned toward his pickup.

"G'night." Rock headed for the house, wanting his supper. Damn! If he didn't get that
waterhole started this year, they'd have to keep Skeleton Gulch closed off again next summer. He
needed that waterhole, or he might as well give up that portion of his grazing preference. And after
the impression he'd made on the pretty little blonde archaeologist today, she surely wasn't goin' to be
in any hurry to sign off on his permit.

Maybe it was time for him to do some fence mendin'.

* * * *

"Did you have to spring this on me the first thing Monday, Dan? Couldn't you have waited
until after my first cup of coffee?"

Her boss gave her a gentle buffet on the upper arm, one that only bruised her without
knocking her down. Dan Walters was such a big bear of a man that his lightest love tap was the
equivalent of a solid blow from the average man's fist. Genny knew he tried to be gentle with her,
and appreciated the acceptance his occasional taps indicated.

"The chopper'll be here at seven-thirty, so I figured I'd better warn you early."

Genny groaned. "I'd rather drive down and hike in." She had never been in a helicopter,
and didn't particularly want to start today.

"It'd take you all day just to get in to the head of Skeleton Gulch." He leaned one hip
against the counter as Genny filled her heavy stainless vacuum bottle with hot coffee. "Besides,
McConnell's going to show you around today, give you a feel for the country thereabouts. He's
probably as familiar with it as any of us. And he's saving us the cost of a chopper."

"McConnell? The pilot?"

"Yeah. One of the biggest ranchers on the District. He runs about eight hundred head
down around Rockville, on both sides of the state line."

"That's a lot of land." Genny was conscious of a faint twinge of disapproval. Somehow it
seemed immoral for one man to control tens of thousands of acres. She had to remind herself it
sometimes took fifteen or twenty acres to feed one cow here in Malheur County. The two hundred
acres she'd grown up on was unbelievably rich in comparison.

The rhythmic thump-thump of a helicopter became audible. Genny's stomach felt empty,
yet fluttery. "I don't think I'm going to like this," she muttered, following Dan toward the parking lot
door.

Her suspicion was confirmed when the pilot emerged. She knew that arrogant stride.
Those slim hips and long legs had walked through her dreams for the past week.

Levi's and cowboy boots. Since her early teens, when the strange heats of adolescence first
crept over her, Genny had dreamed of meeting a tall, lean man dressed in Levi's and cowboy boots.
A man who dressed that way because it was right for the way he lived and worked. A man who rode
a spotted horse and whose eyes had the narrow squint that showed he gazed far across the bright
desert toward snowy peaks in the distance. He would be a quiet man, with a rumbly voice, who
drawled his words in a strange dialect. "Down the road a piece" would mean fifty or a hundred miles
to him.

Most of all, he would be a man who would understand the inchoate yearnings Genille
Enderby Forsythe sometimes felt. He would show her how to translate them into joyous and
unfettered emotions.

Her emotions had certainly been unfettered enough since last Tuesday. The carefully
hidden part of her--the part that had jumped the traces and led her across the continent to
Oregon--had been in control ever since she met this sexy, infuriating man. And now she was going to spend
an entire day in his company. She wasn't sure she could stand it. He fit her fantasies far too
well.

There was an unmistakable gleam of humor in the slitted blue eyes examining her from
booted toes to the top of her billed cap. Examined her with special attention to secondary sexual
characteristics. Genny's breasts came alive under his gaze; she hoped the loose flannel shirt she wore
against the morning's chill concealed the blossoming of her nipples. Her belly warmed as his eyes
briefly halted between her belt buckle and her knees. Why hadn't she chosen her uniform pants a
size larger, so they didn't reveal her womanly curves quite so explicitly.