Never the Twain (4 page)

"Gulches."

"Pardon me?"

"You said they were called 'gulches,'" she reminded him, wishing she could think of the
male equivalent of "little lady." Somehow "little gentleman" didn't make it. Little he wasn't.

"Gentleman" was still debatable.

"Yeah. Well, anyhow, I guess usin' bones seemed appropriate, seein' as how they all opened
off Skeleton Gulch. Toebone is down near the mouth, where Skeleton opens into the
reservoir."

Genny chuckled. How she loved the picturesque place names they used out here in the
West.

The inhabitants weren't bad, either, she thought, again watching the lanky cowboy lead her
along the trail. Shoulders wide enough to block a normal doorway, and arms whose muscles strained
against the fabric of the western cut shirt he wore. His narrow waist and slim hips fit the hundreds
of descriptions she'd read in western novels--the quintessence of cowboy, and all she had to do was
to reach out a hand and touch him.

The desire she'd read in his eyes all morning told her what would happen if she did just
that.

Genny had begun to think she was fated for spinsterhood, just because she couldn't warm
to the men she'd dated recently. They were nice. Amusing. Comfortable. But none of them had been
particularly exciting.

Rock, the cowboy, went beyond exciting--his effect on her was electrifying.

Nonsense! She was just feeling unbridled lust, made all the more powerful because it had
been several years since she encountered a man who raised her emotional temperature.

"No!"

The word exploded from her with such volume that Rock turned to stare at her.

"Something wrong?"

"No." She did her best to moderate her voice, to slow her pounding heart. "No, I'm doing
fine. Just a bit of wool gathering."

"You sure picked the right place to do it. We raise the best wool in Oregon, right here in
Malheur County."

"I thought you were a cattleman." Thank God for the opportunity to think about
something other than her rebellious emotions. Surely she could keep them talking of sheep until
they reached the helicopter. Once they were in the air again, there wouldn't be the necessity for
conversation.

No, but then she would be strapped into a seat at his side, her arm brushing his and his
voice rumbling intimately in her ears.

"My mother's people were Basque sheepherders. We still run a few sheep on the Rock and
Rye." He finished tying another piece of the bright flagging around a sagebrush growing from the
near-vertical wall and started up the trail once more.

"That's the name of your ranch? The Rock and Rye?" The helicopter came into sight as
they topped a rise. "Where did you find a name like that?"

"My great-granddad named it when he homesteaded back in the 1880s. Great-grandma was
a Rockland before they married, and there's a big meadow of ryegrass where he built his first house."
He lifted her effortlessly onto the step just below the open hatch.

Genny's breath caught in her chest. His touch burned through her twill shirt and light
cotton t-shirt. She scrambled into her seat, carefully avoiding his eyes. When he checked her safety
harness, she shrank away from his hands.

Not because she feared him. Oh, no. She feared herself.

Never had she experienced this longing for a man's touch, his presence. Although the
sexual yearning was powerful, she knew there was another need making itself felt as well. Rockland
McConnell filled a niche in her soul that had been empty all her life. Filled it as if he had been
created as her other half.

"I thought we'd fly down home for lunch."

The words in her ears broke her introspection, but didn't do a thing for her emotions.
Those seemed to be set permanently at high sizzle.

"Fine." She wouldn't look at him. She just knew if she did, all her precariously held control
would crumble and she'd climb all over him.

Rock aimed the 'copter southward. "Jordan Craters down there," he said, gesturing to the
left.

Genny looked. The lava flow sprawled over the land, its total absorption of light making it
seem like a black hole into which all the world could fall.

"There are deep holes in the lava where the grass stays green all summer and where ferns
grow," Rock said as he dipped lower so she could see the harsh surface. "Most of 'em you have to
rappel into."

"I've never done any rock climbing." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she
regretted them.

"You will, darlin'. You will."

His words still resounded in her mind as she washed the dust from her face and hands in
the surprisingly modern and chic powder room in Rock's ranch house an endless, uncomfortable
hour later. The rest of the house was varnished logs and rustic, leather upholstery.

She could have argued when he said he was taking her to his ranch for lunch, instead of
returning to Vale. She'd been embarrassed, but not so much so that she'd lost her voice.

Curiosity had kept her silent. Feeling more and more like Little Red Riding Hood every
minute, she hadn't been able to resist seeing the wolf's lair.

Had he brought her here to seduce her?

Was there any doubt in her mind?

If she was in the mood to be seduced, Rock McConnell would be the first man she
considered.

If.

But she wasn't, and she wouldn't.

Genny retraced her path down the hall to the warm comfort of the dining room. A
gray-haired man was just setting a large cast iron pot on a mat on the great slab of table. His walk was
uneven; one knee seemed to be permanently locked.

Rock walked through the swinging door carrying soup bowls, plates, and silverware.

"This here's Francisco Jesus Manuel Ruiz y Cordiero, the finest cook in the western
hemisphere," he said as he emptied his hands.

Genny left the sanctuary of the doorway and went to the table. The closer she got, the
stronger and more delicious the soup smell became.

"How do you do, Senor...ah..." Darn! She couldn't remember whether he was 'Ruiz' or
'Cordiero.' Standing next to him, she saw he was older than she had surmised, even though his hair
was still thick and wavy.

"Call me Pancho," he said, taking Genny's hand gently between his hard, callused palms. "I
have known no other name for many years, except from this disrespectful one." He gestured. "Sit.
Sit. Do not let the soup cool."

His smile was benevolent and approving. Genny wondered what Rock had told him. She
wondered how often Rock brought women home in his helicopter for lunch.

"I promise you he hasn't poisoned anybody yet," Rock put in, coming through the
swinging door again. This time he was laden with a round loaf of bread and a crock of butter.

"That is not to say I have not been tempted," Pancho said. Laughing, he left them
alone.

Genny took a sip of the soup Rock had served her. "This is delicious!" She buttered a thick
slice of the bread--sheepherder's bread, Rock told her, baked in a Dutch oven.

"Pancho always has some ready to defrost. Navy bean soup. Black bean soup. Pinto
bean..."

"Soup. I get the picture. But how? I mean, we just got here a few minutes ago."

"I radioed ahead." Rock grinned. "And we do have microwave ovens out here in the
boonies, little lady. We're not completely uncivilized."

"Don't call me--"

"Honest to God, Ms. Forsythe, I just can't help myself. You're such a skinny little thing."
His roving eyes seemed to be attracted to the least skinny parts of her. Genny hunched her
shoulders slightly to hide her physical response to his gaze.

He was doing it again. Sounding like an unlettered cowboy, when just a few sentences ago
he spoke with practically no drawl. The longer she was in his company, the more intriguing she
found Rockland McConnell. And the sexier.

"This is a beautiful room. Warm and welcoming."
Change the subject, Genille. It's safer that
way.

"My granddad built this house when my pa was a boy. The old one burned down one
winter and they had to live in a sheep camp 'til the next fall. Pa was five and my aunt Consuela was a
baby."

"A sheep camp?"

"Yeah. It's sort of like a covered wagon, except with a solid top. The Basque sheepherders
used to live in them year 'round. There's still a few here and there. I'll show you one of these days."
His eyes promised he'd show her more than a sheep camp, and very soon.

"Your grandmother lived in a wagon in the winter with a small child and a baby?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, Aunt Connie was born there, I recall. She's pretty proud of
it."

This was getting interesting. To think Rock's parents had lived in a covered wagon. Well,
something like one, anyway. "Tell me more," she said, leaning her chin on one hand. Her parents
had both grown up in houses well over a century old. Yet this rustic structure looked older than
either of those ancestral homes.

"Some other time, darlin'. I want to show you my spread before we go back to work." He
waved her ahead of him toward the open front door.

"Don't call--" No, she wouldn't complain. Anything was better than "little lady".

Rock watched her walk before him, silhouetted against the bright rectangle of the open
door. Loose tendrils of silver framed her head, catching the light, sparkling. The luscious curves of
her hips swayed gently, making his fingers tingle with urgency.

He could imagine the way those curves would feel when he slid the heavy pants and the
lacy scraps beneath down long silky thighs, revealing her pale feminine fluff. She would arch toward
him, aching for...

Hells fire! Rock buried clenched fists in abruptly tight pockets as he stepped into the
sunlight. He hadn't had the hots this bad since he was a randy teenager.

Drawing a deep breath, he thought of wrestling a cow to the ground in a muddy,
well-manured corral.

It worked, eventually. Before she turned around.

"How big is your ranch?"

Her dark green shirt was open at the throat, so he could see the faint beat of a pulse just
under a fine gold chain. He imagined what it would feel like, fluttering under his hungry mouth, and
an instant later reminded himself where they were, who she was. "There's a section and a half here at
the home spread." At her slight frown, he amended, "Nine hundred sixty acres. I keep forgetting the
world isn't square back East."

Her grin was slightly rueful. "I know what a section is, of course. I just haven't completely
adjusted to thinking in numbers so big. Six hundred forty acres would hold several farms where I
grew up."

Rock nodded. "I was in Maine a few years ago. Their potato fields were like kitchen
gardens in comparison to the irrigation circles up by Ontario."

"I know. Those irrigation circles amaze me. Who ever heard of a sprinkler pipe a quarter of
a mile long?" She turned around and looked out across the yard. "You said 'the home ranch.' Have
you other land?"

"Another half section along Jordan Creek. That's all irrigated pasture. Then there's the
Rockville Ranch, over in Malheur County. It's a little over four sections."

"So you actually own more than six square miles of land, just for pasture? How
amazing."

"Only if you come from where there's plenty of rainfall. If it weren't for my BLM grazing
preference, I couldn't afford to pay my property taxes with the few cattle I could run."

"Dan said it takes ten to twenty acres to feed a cow." She looked skeptical.

"That's right, darlin' Now, do you want to see the ranch, or do you want to talk about
cows?"

"I really ought to get back to work...."

"How are you gonna do that when I'm the driver?"

Her eyes went to the 'copter sitting on its pad at the edge of the yard. "With great
difficulty, I guess." She laughed, a melodious sound tickling his ears and his heart. "Okay. Show me
your ranch."

Rock couldn't remember the last time he'd shown the ranch off to a woman. Years ago, he
supposed. Back before he learned how treacherous and grasping they could be. He hadn't even
dated for more than two years. Not since before his pa's death.

Genny's pointing finger reminded him of another woman who'd worn pink polish and had
smelled like tropical flowers. She had no business trying to pretend she could adapt to Owyhee
Country. The only women who survived out here were tough, with no time for paintin' and prettyin'
up. The weak and fragile ones didn't last, like she wouldn't, as soon as she saw how hard life could
be out here.

Why did he have a vision of delicate bitterroot flowers blooming in the desert
pavement?

Genny couldn't put her finger on just when he tightened up. They'd been getting along so
well, laughing and joking together. Then he'd started to withdraw, until finally he was barricaded
behind a wall of angry iciness.

The farther he withdrew, the harder she tried to pull him close.

So she flirted.

God help her, Genille Enderby Forsythe flirted! She batted her big brown eyes and pursed
her pink little mouth. She waggled her bottom at him in a shameless manner. She even contrived to
brush her breasts against his elbow as they walked.

Despite generations of New England restraint bred in her bones, Genny behaved worse
than the most brazen hussy in a nineteenth century dance hall. She removed her shirt, ignoring the
goosebumps as the still chilly May breeze hit her bare arms. Had he noticed the effect that same
breeze had on her nipples, not at all concealed under the light knit tank top?

He had!

His glare grew as hot as it had been cold an instant before. Before she knew it, Genny was
captured in the vise of his arms, wedged between unyielding barn siding and an equally hard
body.

"Teasing bitch."

One hand caught her chin, forcing it up, while the other cupped her bottom in the most
outrageous...the most lascivious...the most...

His mouth slanted over hers and his tongue demanded entrance. Genny met him with
equal desire, pulling him within her mouth until her lips felt bruised against the sharpness of his
teeth. Eyes open, she watched his face darken, shared the contagion of his desire.