Never the Twain (7 page)

In his deep cogitations, Rock had let Bourbon go where he pleased, so he wasn't surprised
when willow branches brushed his face. Even the horses knew their way to this spring, the source of
sweet drinking water for the whole ranch. The horse lowered his muzzle into the tank.

Rock dismounted and picked up the tin cup hanging from a nail driven into the tree.
Sipping, he pondered his behavior ever since meeting Genny Forsythe.

She'd reminded him of Selma from the very first. Perhaps it was the silvery hair--straight
out of a bottle, he'd figured, although he hadn't yet seen any sign of the dark roots that Selma had
frequently allowed to show, between trips to the beauty salon up in Ontario. The long red fingernails
hadn't helped, either, nor had the little gold studs, three in each ear. He sure couldn't see why any
woman would want to disfigure herself like that, particularly one as pretty as Genny Forsythe. Of
course, all his Basque girl cousins wore earrings, practically from birth, but that was different. It was
cultural, and besides, they only wore one to a side.

Too bad she got under his skin the way she did. He still wanted her, was still determined to
have her. Only trouble was, it wasn't going to be as easy as he'd first figured. He was going to have
to exert himself a bit. Butter her up a little, sugar coat the pill, so to speak.

He'd been raised to be a gentleman. Ma hadn't stood for any slacking. Hats off in the
house, "ma'am" to the ladies and "sir" to the men, real napkins on laps and no elbows on the table.
What's more, he'd always thought of himself as a gentleman, kind to kids and puppies, polite and
deferential to women--unless they asked for something else--and easy to get along with in general.
And yet, from the first moment he'd seen her, Genny Forsythe had roused a savage, uncivilized
beast within him. He wasn't sure why that was, but he was gonna find out.

He took a last long, satisfying swallow before hanging the cup back on its nail. Yep. He
was gonna have to woo Genny, and it promised to be an interesting, possibly even exciting,
experience.

At the end of the chase, when she lay warm and slumberous in his arms, exhausted from
his loving, he would finally be able to forget her and get his life back together.

* * * *

"Ms. Forsythe, Rock McConnell here."

Genny had to force her hand to hold the receiver to her ear, instead of slamming it into its
cradle as her first instinct demanded. He was speaking softly, without the slow, sardonic drawl that
had, so far, always spelled trouble between them.

"Good evening, Mr. McConnell. What can I do for you?"

Pause, and the sound of throat clearing.

She waited.

"I...I, ah..."

"Yes?"

"I called to thank you for finding the people to look over the Shinbone. Pancho said we're
lucky to get 'em here this summer."

"That's right." She wasn't going to be nice, darn it, no matter how his slow, deep voice sent
tingles up from her toes. She'd be coldly professional, to show him she couldn't be pushed
around.

It was a good thing Pancho had answered the phone this morning. She'd been all ready to
give Rock a piece of her mind, along with the news that the Ainsworths were available. That would
not have been professional.

His voice intruded on her thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"

He chuckled.

The tingles climbed up behind her ears, making the hairs tighten at her nape.

"I said I also wanted to apologize for my behavior the other night. I made some
accusations that were way out of line."

Why did he have to do that? She needed to stay angry with him. "Why, thank you, Mr.
McConnell. I must apologize too. I was...um...distraught. I should have kept better control of my
emo...my temper."

Had he muttered, "Damn straight"? Never mind. He was changing the subject.

"Could we get together, maybe have dinner, this weekend?" He cleared his throat. "I'd like
to get to know you better."

She'd just bet he would, given the evidence of his behavior so far. "I'm sorry, Mr.
McConnell...."

"Rock."

No way, buddy! "Mr. McConnell. My aunt is arriving for a visit next week and I'm going to
be very busy until then. After that..." she let her voice trail off on the implication that she might
always be too busy to dine with him.

She didn't imagine his sigh, but whether it was one of frustration or of relief, she wasn't
sure. For some reason, it caught her inter...her pity. It would be a shame to deny him an opportunity
to be truly penitent.

"I was planning to have some people over for wine and cheese next Saturday, however, to
meet Sophie. Would you and your cook--Mr. Ruiz, wasn't it?--would you care to drop in?" She'd
liked Pancho and had a hunch Sophie would too. He was such a wonderful western character.

Rock seemed taken aback. He stammered for a moment before agreeing to bring Pancho.
Genny couldn't help but smile. She knew she'd surprised him, but whether her invitation was the
greater surprise, or her inclusion of his cook, she wasn't sure.

No matter. Sophie would meet someone her own age. Rock would have a last opportunity
to prove he could be civilized. And Genny and Rock would have two referees for their inevitable
fight.

* * * *

"My goodness, but there's a lot of empty space out here!"

Genny feared Sophie's head was going to come unscrewed from her neck, the way it kept
swiveling back and forth, left to right, with an occasional turn over one shoulder or the other, to see
where they'd been. Her aunt had, for once in her life, been rendered speechless, by the desolate
emptiness of Owyhee Country.

Since Sophie's plane had arrived in mid-afternoon, Genny decided to give her the ten-cent
tour on the way to Vale. From the Boise airport, they traveled west, then south along U.S. 95,
toward Jordan Valley. Just across the Oregon line--and close to Rock's home ranch, she realized--she
took the Succor Creek road back north, wanting Sophie to see for herself the kind of landscape
Genny had been trying inadequately to describe in her letters.

"Look!" She slowed and pulled off the narrow dirt road. "Antelope. See them?"

"Oh, my. So they are. How amazing!" Sophie was beaming.

"Not really. They're as common here as deer are at home."

"Of course, Genille, but I've seen deer all my life. The only antelope I've seen before was
in a zoo." She unsnapped her seat belt. "May I get out here? I'd like to take some
photographs."

"Sure, but don't expect the antelope to stick around. They'll disappear as soon as you open
the door." This was the closest Genny had come to the graceful mammals and she was secretly
almost as thrilled as Sophie. They weren't more than two hundred yards from the road.

Sophie got her photos before the antelope spooked and disappeared over the ridge. She
was just getting back into the van when a monstrous cow came into sight, leading several of the
white-faced Herefords which were much more common on this range. Without thinking, Genny
checked their brands and was thrilled to see two R's, back to back.

Again she pointed. "Those cattle belong to one of the guests at your welcome party
tomorrow, Sophie. Rockland McConnell." She pointed back in the direction they had come. "His
ranch is back near where we turned off the highway, but he runs his cattle all around here, on BLM
lands." Even as she spoke, she marveled at how far she had come since her first meeting with Rock.
Not only had she invited him into her home, her nest, but she had also faced range cattle with
equanimity, with only a trace of that unreasoning fear which had overcome her in Succor Creek that
day. She chuckled as she recognized the enormous lead cow as the same brindle longhorn that had
so terrified her. Rock had told her the cow was as tame as a lapdog, but that was something she
wasn't ready to test. Not yet.

Sophie scrambled back into the van when she spied the cattle. "Cattle are bigger out here
than they are in New Hampshire," she commented. Genny detected just a touch of shakiness in her
voice.

Resisting the urge to tease, she contented herself with, "Only some of them. That's one of
the legendary Texas longhorns. Several of the ranchers around here raise them. But most of the
cattle you'll see are normal size." After a quick glance at Sophie's white face, she couldn't resist. "Of
course, there are the Brahmas. They're really huge."

Sophie shuddered delicately, as she did everything.

Genny marveled at how her perceptions had changed over the past six years. At one time,
she, too, would have traveled in a silk dress and stockings, high heels and a hat. Now she rarely
found opportunity to wear skirts, and she hadn't had a pair of nylons on her legs in two months.
Last winter, when she'd gone home for Christmas, her mother had been aghast at her luggage. One
large canvas duffel and a daypack.

She cast an amused glance into the back of the van at Sophie's set of matched luggage,
complete with her initials in gold. A far cry, indeed. Genny's similar set was stored with a friend back
in Ohio, along with two-thirds of her wardrobe. She'd never been the sophisticated Easterner her
aunt was. But she was at home--wholly and completely at home--in the West.

Sophie caught the glance. "I do hope I haven't brought too much. One never knows what
to pack, and I wasn't sure just how people in Vale, Oregon, dressed. I do dread being without the
proper clothing."

"Did you bring jeans?" Genny gave most of her attention to maneuvering the van. This
piece of road, down into the bottom of Succor Creek Canyon, wasn't anywhere near as bad as some
of the off-road tracks she'd driven, but it was still narrow and steep. She always dreaded meeting
another vehicle along here.

"Jeans?" Sophie mouthed the word as if it were an obscenity.

"Jeans, Sophie. You know. Those pants made from blue denim."

Her aunt sniffed. "Of course I know what jeans are, dear, but I hadn't expected to wear
them. They're hardly ladylike."

"Everybody around here does." Genny kept her tone inoffensive, but she was disappointed
to hear a trace of criticism in Sophie's voice. After all, her aunt had been the one who encouraged
her to venture forth from New England, seeking the excitement and adventure that she'd always said
were in store for Genny.

"That's all very well and good, but I shall not." Just then Sophie turned her head and
looked out the passenger window. "Oh! Oh, my!" She leaned toward Genny. "It's so far
down."

"That it is. And we'll be at the bottom soon. Just hang on."

Her aunt suited action to Genny's advice. She grabbed the sissy bar on the
dashboard.

* * * *

"Sophie, this is Rockland McConnell--the one with the ranch south of Succor Creek--and
Francisco Ruiz, his...his employee."

Charming as always, Sophie gave Pancho her hand. Was Genny mistaken, or did he seem
to hold it a trifle longer than necessary, relinquish it reluctantly? And was Sophie blushing?

No. Sophie never blushed. And surely she'd had her hand bowed over before.

"Evenin' Ms. Forsythe." Rock nodded her way, but positively exuded graciousness when
he greeted Sophie. "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Enderby. Welcome to Owyhee Country."
Where was the drawl? He sounded suave, educated, and literate tonight. Who was the real Rock
McConnell?

"Thank you, Mr. McConnell. I must tell you how much I like your Oregon, now that I've
had time to see a bit of it." She pronounced it as Genny had until she learned better, "Or-eh-gone,"
with the accent on "gone."

Rock's chuckle was gentle, indulgent. "That's 'Ory-gun,' ma'am," he said, in his best
cowboy drawl. "We don't talk so fancy out here." He smiled in a way Genny had never seen.
Tenderly, with gentleness and concern. "Your glass is empty. May I get you a refill?"

Sophie handed him her glass, but her eyes were on Pancho, who quickly moved in to
replace Rock. Genny felt her eyebrows rise. Were all the men from the Rock and Rye on the
prowl?

Well, she wasn't going to worry about it. Someone else was at the door, and Sophie could
take care of herself. Genny had heard she could chill ambassadors with a glance, put millionaires in
their place with a well-chosen word.

As hostess, Genny was so busy that she hardly had time to speak to her aunt--who seemed
to be having a wonderful time--let alone Rock. She did notice that he apparently knew every person
in the slowly changing crowd. By midnight, he and Pancho were among the few early arrivals who
were still there, although some of the younger crowd from work were clustered around the
stereo.

Tiredly, Genny started gathering up yet another tray full of glasses, napkins, and used paper
plates. She was trying to cram the debris into an already full wastebasket when she sensed Rock
behind her. It had to be Rock. She wasn't sensitized to anyone else the way she was to him.

She turned, her hands still holding the tray. Turned, and was almost in his arms. He took
the tray and set it on the counter, then pushed glasses and silverware aside, to lift Genny and set her
on the counter, beside the stove.

"You look worn out." His finger traced along her cheek to her earlobe. His touch was
delicate, but it burned.

"I am tired," she admitted. "But I think everyone enjoyed the party. I hope they liked the
wines." The cupboard behind her kept her from leaning back, not that she minded, although she felt
she should.

"They weren't bad, for Eastern wines." He pursed his lips, as if tasting the memory. "I liked
the cranberry and apple best, I think. The others didn't hold a candle to our Oregon and
Washington wines." His hands were resting lightly on her thighs, just above her knees.

Genny tried to concentrate on what she wanted to say. "Is that provincialism, or the
regional Chamber of Commerce speaking?"

He chuckled. "A little bit of both. But I think our pinot noirs and white zinfandels are
some of the best in the world." He pressed against her knees and without thinking she let them part.
"Why are we talking about wine?" His hands went around her waist.