Never the Twain (5 page)

He tasted of coffee; he smelled of sagebrush. The two blended and mingled, filling her
mouth and her nostrils with his essence. Probing, sipping, gulping, and seeking, his tongue explored
her mouth while his hands roamed over her body. Fleeting pressures on her buttocks, on the sides
of her breasts, on shoulder blades and spine left a trail of heat that spread inward until her whole
body ignited spontaneously.

"Soft. So soft, like silk," he murmured against her mouth. "I've wanted my hands on you
ever since..."

She ground her hips against his and felt the strength of his arousal against her
hypersensitive belly. His thighs were hard against hers, his chest a wall of muscle and bone crushing
her breasts in welcome, exquisite agony.

Genny tugged at his shirt where it tucked into his Levi's, pulling it free so her hands could
touch his naked back. Not satisfied, she pushed her fingers under the belt sitting low and tight
against his hips, seeking the rounded strength of his buttocks, even as she felt his fingers fumbling at
her bra clasp.

"Let me...." she heard herself say, not sure what she wanted of him, but knowing she
wanted...wanted....

He left her mouth, left it feeling plundered and empty. The roughness of his fingertips
scraped against the tender skin of her belly even as he nipped along her throat. She shivered again,
this time from fires within, the compelling need he was creating. His savage mouth closed over her
nipple, tugging fiercely until her whole being felt pulled into him.

From somewhere, a last vestige of common sense grabbed and held Genny before her
knees could buckle. She stiffened against him, even as she felt a swell of regret that wherever they'd
been heading was not a road she could take. "Stop."

His arms tightened and his mouth continued its insistent suckling.

Feeling like she was being swept along on some unstoppable wave, she gasped, "Rock,
please. Please!"

He ignored her, except to trace a line of fiery kisses up her neck, across her trembling chin.
Again he took her mouth.

Before her wavering shreds of resistance could melt forever, she grabbed his ears and
forced his head back and away, hating the feeling of deprivation her action caused.

Rock growled in his throat. He jerked her back against him, but Genny was determined.
She knew a lot of sneaky tricks from a childhood spent with three older brothers and innumerable
male cousins. She pulled her head away, stuck out her tongue, and blew a loud raspberry right in his
face.

"What the--"

"That's as far as we go, Rock. No more." Her assertiveness training did her more good
than it ever had before. She was able to keep her voice firm, her tone decisive. None of her
emotional wobble showed.
Thank God!

He cursed, in a voice low and dangerous. Genny felt her ears start to burn, but she kept a
pleasant non-expression on her face. Guiltily she waited, for she was all the things he was saying and
more. She had teased, had invited his actions. She had all but thrown herself at his feet, for Pete's
sake!

She felt a little like cursing herself, except she'd never found it to be a satisfying method of
relieving frustration.

Rock picked up his fancy felt hat from where it lay in the dust at their feet. He was quiet
now, but she read anger and residual strain in the tight lines around his mouth.

"Beg your pardon, little...ma'am," he said, his drawl more pronounced than she'd heard it
before. "I surely am sorry for exposing your ears to that kind of strong language."

Genny laid one hand on his arm. "Rock, I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean for that to happen."
She would have given anything, just then, to wipe the anger from his narrow blue eyes.

"The hell you didn't," he said.

"The helicopter was much faster," Genny told Dixie, the bay mare who was carrying her
out of Skeleton Gulch at a slow plod. "Not to mention the pilot being a lot better looking than
either of you."

Dixie swished her tail and flicked one ear. Mort, following on a lead, snorted. To Genny it
seemed as if both the horse and the mule were telling her what a fool she was.

They weren't telling her anything she didn't know. For two weeks she had been wondering
what she could have done differently, that day at the Rock and Rye. She could still feel the chill from
Rock after she pushed him away. He had gone from fiery to absolute zero in a single breath.

And his snarled accusation, that she had deliberately teased, then called a halt to his
embrace, had stung as deeply as had his icy demeanor. She had not been teasing him!

Well, yes, she had. She had been flirting, but never--not in a thousand years--had she ever
expected her sassy flirtation to lead to the raw emotion that had flared between them at Rock's first
kiss. She had expected him to reciprocate, to play along with, perhaps, some sexy repartee. He'd
make a few suggestive remarks, she'd respond. They'd both understand that nothing would come of
it except a kiss or two.

Instead she got the surprise of her life. Rock McConnell played for keeps. He didn't kiss
and cuddle for fun like most of the men she'd dated. When he kissed, it was the first step toward
bed.

Why had she been surprised?

Rock's response had been perfectly consistent with her behavior. That had been no sassy
flirtation and it was high time she admitted as much. She'd given him a come-on as blatant as could
be.

And he'd responded with raw sexual hunger.

Dixie hopped sideways, almost unseating her. The adjacent sagebrush shook, then an
enormous jackrabbit burst from its opposite side. Even while she blushed in unseen chagrin at her
distraction, Genny chuckled. "You old faker," she told the horse. "Don't try to tell me that's the first
jack you've ever seen."

The horse ignored her.

That was all right, because she needed to think about where her duty lay.
Petroglyphs--pictures carved into rock--were common in this region. There were many of them along major
rivers, from Wyoming to Washington. The ones she'd found in Armbone were some of the best
preserved and most sophisticated she'd seen yet. The incised rock surface had been painted, and
traces of the pigments remained, preserved by the dry desert air for hundreds--thousands?--of years.
The Skeleton Gulch petroglyphs were of native mammals, antelope and mule deer, cougar and bear,
carved deeply into the green rock face, high on a wall from which all hand- and footholds had long
since exfoliated.

The excitement she'd felt when she found the first one returned, reminding Genny of
Christmas morning. Old homesteads and tipi rings were interesting, but this was an original
discovery, one she might even get a paper from. At least a note in one of the archaeological
journals.

She wondered if Rock would understand the importance of her discovery. He'd said little
when she described the possible scenarios which might affect his waterhole permit. They'd ranged
from a denial--if valuable archaeological or anthropological resources were found on-site--to an
immediate go-ahead--if no evidence of aboriginal use or fossils were found in Skeleton Gulch.

She hadn't been surprised when he'd expressed a strong preference for the latter.

She knew he'd be relieved to know she'd found no evidence of aboriginal occupation of
Shinbone. There was some indication that its entrance had been blocked by a rockfall for a long
time. She didn't think proving the lack of human artifacts would be difficult. Then all they'd have to
do before she could sign off on his application was check the site for plant and animal fossils. If
Frank and Elaine were still available, Rock should know by September, at the latest.

* * * *

Rock read the letter again, still not believing the words on the official stationery. "Because
of the necessity to conduct further studies, we will be unable to act on your request for a range
improvement permit in Skeleton Gulch at this time. Thorough investigation of the site must take
place prior to our considering any alterations of existing conditions. An Environmental Assessment
may also be required. Your application will be kept on file until such time as a decision can be
made."

"Hellsfire and brimstone!" He tossed the letter back onto his desktop. Although the
signature was Dan Walters', Rock knew the letter had been drafted by a slender hand with bright red
fingernails. He knew he shouldn't expect any special treatment, but
hell!
Couldn't she have
at least given him some hope?

"Trouble, Rock?"

"Yeah, Pancho. Looks like we're not going to get our waterhole in Shinbone this year. The
BLM archaeologist found some Indian paintings in Armbone and she's got to 'investigate' them
before she'll sign off on our application." He snorted in derision before quoting, "'Miocene plant
fossils are common in the Sucker Creek Formation.' You've seen those fossil beds up along Succor
Creek. There's more leaves on rocks in Owyhee Country than there are on trees."

Pancho eased himself into a chair. "How long will their studies take?"

"Months. Maybe years." Rock suspected the knee which had been crushed under a falling
horse was bothering his cook again. Pancho had been one of his Pa's best hands until the accident
broke half the bones in his body and left him with a limp and intermittent pain. Where most men
would have become bitter and railed against the unfairness of life, Pancho had set out to become the
best ranch cook in Owyhee Country. In Rock's opinion, he'd succeeded.

He was also Rock's sounding board and best friend, never mind the difference in their
ages.

"So what do you plan?"

"Damned if I know," Rock growled. "I don't have a lot of choices in that area. That seep
up Shinbone is the only source of water for miles, outside the reservoir."

"Have you spoken with Ms. Forsythe about the time her investigations will take?"

"Huh!" Swinging to his feet, Rock paced the confines of his office. "She probably won't
give me the time of day." Why did that realization sting? He'd been the one to run her off his ranch,
to refuse to listen to her feeble apology.

That fool woman! He knew a come-on when he saw one. She'd been hot to trot until she
found out he wasn't going to be satisfied with a couple of sweet little kisses. Then she'd run as
scared as a cottontail on a coyote's supper menu.

He'd let himself get distracted by her obvious charms--a pretty face and a sexy body--and
forgotten how treacherous all women were. How she must have laughed at his discomfort, when she
brought him to full arousal and left him panting.

He'd liked her! That frosted him. Most women bored him, with their talk of cooking and
kids, or parties and clothes. Genny Forsythe had a head on her shoulders. She could carry on an
intelligent conversation. Finding that the painted fingernails and the bleached hair typified the real
person more than the BLM uniform and well-worn boots was a real disappointment to him.

Maybe it was just as well he'd given in to his urges and showed her what he wanted. He'd
bet his bottom dollar she wouldn't be comin' back for more.

Nope. He knew scared when he saw it.

Still, he couldn't believe how strong he'd come on. Rock prided himself on never losing
control of his emotions, for all he might sometimes seem to have a pretty short fuse on his temper.
That was deliberate, considering. Sweet reason didn't always work with cattlemen. Sometimes a man
just had to show a little backbone, lose his temper and cuss a mite.

Until he met Genny Forsythe, Rock's temper had been more for effect than for real.

"Would it not be worth your while to speak to the young woman, Boss? She struck me as
having good sense and lacking vindictiveness."

Rock knew he was in trouble when Pancho called him "Boss." The semi-honorific was
reserved for making a public impression and for giving him hell. This was one of the latter
occasions.

"Take my word for it, Pancho. That little gal's not going to do me any favors."

"I do not believe you. She has her professional pride. No matter how you offended her,
she will treat you as she would any other rancher where your permit application is concerned."

"How I offended her? What makes you think I offended her?" He'd given her what she
asked for, hadn't he?

Pancho struggled to his feet and limped to the door. Just before he exited Rock's office he
turned back, an unholy grin on his face. "From the whisker burns on her face, Rock. And from the
glaze in her eyes when she came through the kitchen that afternoon." He winked.

"Tarnation! A man's got no privacy around here!" Rock kicked the desk leg, then swore
when he did more damage to his toes than to the desk. He'd forgotten he was still wearing his
moccasins.

* * * *

A pounding at her front door startled Genny. She gave the dustrag a last swirl across the
bedside stand before hurrying to answer. From the sound, whoever had come calling wasn't
particularly patient.

The silhouette she saw through the frosted glass of her door was unmistakable. What the
dickens could her least favorite cowboy want?

As she worked the stubborn dead bolt, she denied the small voice reminding her how that
cowboy had made her feel, the last time she saw him. "He made me angry," she muttered, leaning on
the door and trying again to turn the latch. It remained unmoved. "That's all he made me feel."

"Go around to the back," she called though the window. "This door's stuck."

His hand went to the brim of his hat. Genny found herself wondering why she had
answered the door at all, once she saw who was there. She could have pretended not to be home,
couldn't she?

No, she couldn't, she admitted. Not to Rock. Angry as she was with his unfounded
accusation, she still wanted to see him again, wanted to get to know him better. There was
something elemental about Rock McConnell, something that called to feelings she'd never
experienced, to needs she'd never admitted.