Never the Twain (9 page)

Where was Rock? He'd danced a polka with her, about a hundred years ago, then
disappeared, leaving her at the mercy of a platoon of lithe young men in tight jeans and shiny,
elaborate western boots. Until today Genny had considered square dancing silly--gentle, patterned
prancing of people in ornate, pseudo-western garb. She believed it should be rowdy and rough, as it
was being danced here. Even the Virginia Reel, mainstay of her junior high folk-dancing class, was a
lot different when interpreted by these folks.

"Ready for a rest, little lady?" The voice in her ear and the hand at her back were both
familiar.

"That I am." Genny heard the breathlessness in her voice. She hoped Rock would take it as
the result of her last, exhilarating dance, and not because he had touched her. "Can we find a quiet
corner and sit? Preferably for about a week?"

"I've got a better idea. Let's go for a walk." He guided her among the sets forming for still
another dance. Did these people never tire?

"Fred's great granddad planted a grove of black locusts, back in ought-nine when he
homesteaded this place. They're a real forest now, because nobody's ever wanted to cut them
down."

"If you'll let me stop at the refreshment table first. I need a gallon or two of
lemonade."

She accepted the large plastic cup he handed her gratefully. Sipping, she looked around the
interior of the old barn. "Where's Pancho? I haven't seen him since we got here?"

"He's out at the corrals, watching the bronc bustin'." Rock snorted. "Old fool. I had to put
my foot down or he'd be riding, himself."

"Pancho? But his leg, Rock! How could he ride?"

"He rides okay, when it's not a bronc." Rock shook his head in disgust. "I think he wanted
to impress Miss Enderby. For years Pancho's never seemed to care about the rodeo events. Now all
of a sudden, he's taken with this fool notion that he's as good as these young bucks." He poured
himself another glass of fruit punch. "Crazy old goat. It's a good thing your aunt's in with the other
women, or I'd have to keep him off the broncs by main strength and awkwardness."

Genny looked across at the cluster of older women, just to assure herself that Sophie was
still where she'd been. "Rock, we'd better go to the corrals."

"After, darlin'. I want to show you Malheur County's only hardwood forest first."

"And I think we'd better leave that until later. Sophie's not in the barn."

"Hell and damnation!" Rock grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him. Quickly he cut
through the crowd and out the wide barn door. "I told him he's too old to go pantin' after a woman,
especially a lady like Miss Enderby. Pancho's never been anything but a bronc rider and a ranch
hand."

Genny felt a little guilty, because Rock's words were so similar in content to her own
thoughts of a few hours earlier. Pancho looked to be about sixty; according to Genny's dad, that was
the prime of life. Just try to tell Waldo Forsythe he was an old man. Try, and step aside before you
got mowed down.

She continued to half-run along in Rock's wake. Had he forgotten he was pulling her with
him?

"I'll kill him," Rock was muttering as they neared the corrals. "If he so much as stands next
to a bronc, I'll shoot him. Then I'll fire him."

Genny heard the cheering as they rounded the corner of the new barn.

"Go, man!"

"Hang on, dude!"

"Stick, baby, stick!"

"Go for it, Pancho. You can do it!"

"Ride 'im, cowboy!"

She almost bumped into Rock as he came to an abrupt halt. "Damn it!" he snarled. "The
old fool."

Just then Genny saw Sophie, high above the heads of most of the other spectators. She
was seated on the top rail of the corral fence, between two grizzled old cowboys, their combined
ages easily approaching a couple of centuries. The expression on her face was as intensely excited as
everyone else's.

Rock dropped her arm and started shoving his way through the crowd. Genny followed in
his wake. But before they could get to the fence, a cheer went up. Two cowboys separated before
her and she looked into the pen, to see a second horseman assisting Pancho from a still snorting
sorrel. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Rock climb the fence and drop inside. He looked
murderous.

Even as Genny watched, Sophie--Sophie?--slipped from the top rail where she sat and
landed on the dusty corral floor. She ran, in delicate high-heeled sandals, across to where Pancho
was sliding over the rump of the pickup horse.

Rock won the race by an arm's length. His hand closed around Pancho's shirt front just as
Sophie tried to step between them. The anger coloring Rock's face faded slowly as Sophie clung to
his forearm, speaking earnestly and softly. Pancho stood tall and fearless, not resisting Rock's iron
grip. But Pancho's eyes were on Sophie as he argued, his voice equally inaudible to Genny.

Rock's arm dropped and he spun on the high heel of his fancy boot. Pancho took Sophie's
arm and they walked to the open gate together. Genny's lower jaw felt as if it was falling off. What
had happened to her elegant aunt, who, as far as Genny knew, had never even visited the barnyard
at the Forsythe farm in New Hampshire?

She stared at the retreating couple until she heard Rock growl in her ear. "Let's get out of
here before I get myself in trouble. These idiots are all on Pancho's side. They don't understand that
he could have crippled himself for life."

"I don't understand, either. What was so awful about what he did?"

"Cyclone's one of the roughest broncs in the county, and Pancho hasn't been on a bronc in
a good ten years. He was showin' off, that's all. Trying to get himself killed, all to show a damn
woman what a big man he was!"

Genny pulled him to a stop and looked him in the eye. "That's not always such a bad idea,"
she said. "It beats getting dragged all around the ranch, like so much dead weight."

She held up her wrist, where the bruises from Rock's strong grip were already
showing.

"Oh, God, Genny. I'm sorry." He lifted the injured wrist in a suddenly gentle grasp and
brought it to his mouth.

She felt his lips move over the skin, his tongue lick along the tracery of blue just below her
palm. Shivers coursed along her arm and down her spine.

"Let's go to the woodlot," he said, his voice hoarse. "Everybody else is either dancin' or at
the corrals." His eyes gleamed in a way that was becoming wonderfully familiar to her. "We'll be
alone."

"Rock, I..."

He licked her palm.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," she concluded.

The woodlot was in a low swale about a half-mile behind the house. They had to walk
around the corrals, then across a pasture to reach it. Looking back from the first stile, Genny
commented on the size of Daniels' old barn.

"Old Man Daniels came from Pennsylvania," Rock replied.

"That's why it looks so familiar. All it needs is a hex sign painted on the side, and it would
be just like the barns around Lancaster." She took the hand he held out to her. "It's so much larger
than most of the barns here."

"We don't generally stack our hay inside," he said, "so they don't need to be so big." He
tugged on her hand and she turned to follow him. "Besides, wood was a lot harder come by out here
than it was back east. Not many of the settlers could afford to build big barns, the first few
years."

"No, I don't imagine so. The lumber had to be shipped in, didn't it?"

"Great-grandpop used to tell of how they'd float logs down the Payette River to
Boomerang, then haul the lumber overland. All the timber in the Owyhee Mountains went to the
mines, for shoring, so they had to go up north. Most of his original house was built from imported
timber."

"The one that burned?" Genny found even her long legs too short, when Rock was in a
hurry. She pulled back on his hand. "Slow down, will you? The woods aren't going anywhere."

His grin, as he turned to look her up and down, was hungry. "Just impatient, darlin'," he
said, his voice slightly ragged. "I can't wait to get you alone."

"Alone? With a barn full of your neighbors not far away!" She tried to pull free of him, but
it was as if she wore a steel manacle. "Forget it, Rock!"

His answer was to walk even faster.

She trotted after him, wondering if she was a lamb following a hungry wolf. Wondering if
it wouldn't be much smarter to turn and run the other way, just as fast as her booted feet would
carry her.

He wanted her. She'd never had any doubt about that, since their first encounter. As often
as not, he seemed to dislike her. He definitely confused her, and she wasn't sure she wanted that
kind of disorder in her life.

If she followed wherever he was leading her, she would be committed to making love with
him. If not today, then soon. With an ounce of sense, she would postpone any further intimacy until
they were better acquainted, until she knew that the man she was so unable to resist was the real
Rock McConnell, and not just an image from her past. In all but his tendency to push her around,
Rock so perfectly matched the man of her youthful fantasies, with his distant gaze, his easy drawl,
and his incomparable appearance astride a horse.

Fantasies be darned! She knew, deep in her heart, just how seriously she could be hurt if
she let this--this what?--go any further.

There wasn't a relationship between them. Not yet. They hardly knew each other. Oh, yes,
they had exchanged a few anecdotes about their pasts, but they had never really talked to each other.
They'd already had one serious misunderstanding, without ever having an understanding.

Genny looked at Rock from the corner of her eye. His face was set in that semi-glower that
seemed to be his habitual expression. She supposed it came from constantly narrowing his eyes
against the bright sunlight of the high desert, but it certainly gave him an appearance of suppressed
anger. How much of the man was reflected in his face?

She'd been told, once, that the face you wear at twenty was the one you were given, but the
one you wore at forty was the one you'd earned. Rock was closer to forty than to twenty. How had
he earned anger?

She needed to know.

Genny had never thought of herself particularly as the Pollyanna type, but she considered
herself a mostly happy person. She tried to avoid those unfortunate people who seemed to thrive on
ill will, clutching it to themselves and feeding on it. And infecting others with it.

Something about her kept triggering Rock's anger but she wasn't sure what it was. She
could be setting herself up for a painful experience, unless she turned around right now and walked
back to the party.

Instead, feeling like a helpless chipmunk caught in a snake's hypnotic gaze, she followed
him across the second stile and into the woodlot.

Rock clambered across the second stile, still simmering. God! Pancho could have wracked
himself up for life, pulling a damfool stunt like he had.

All for a woman. A fancy, citified, dolled-up woman with no idea of what the old man had
been risking. An enticing woman, sweet-smelling and tempting, all soft lines and sleek curves, silky
hair and satin skin.

Just like the one he was going to have.

A quick clasp at his wrist and a jerk on his arm brought him to an unbalanced halt.

"Hold it right there, Rock." She sounded bothered, and a little breathless. Good. She was
ready, too.

"Why sure, little lady. I forgot you'd want to get a good look at the place." He pointed.
"Over there's the tree house Fred and I built when we were kids. We had some great times up
there."

"I don't give a hoot about a bunch of spindly trees. I want to know where you think you're
dragging me. And why?"

He pulled her hard against him. "We're here, darlin'. And you know why." It was almost
impossible to contain his impatience. He'd waited so long for this moment. Ever since that day,
down in Succor Creek, when he'd first seen the slender, pink-nailed hands, the silvery hair, the
mouth made for his kisses. He rotated his hips slightly, showing her just how urgently he desired
her, feeling the gentle pressure of her soft belly against his hardness.

"That's what I was afraid of." She pushed ineffectually against his shoulders, leaning back
in his embrace. "What makes you so sure I'm willing to make love with you? Darn it, Rock, I'm tired
of your assumptions. I've had enough of men making my decisions for me. More than
enough!"

Her voice seemed to tremble, and the distress in her eyes was real. Rock might be feeling
as horny as an old bull in the spring, but he was raised a gentleman. He turned her loose, keeping
one hand at her waist without holding her in any way.

"You can't tell me you haven't decided, darlin'. We've known each other for nearly a
month, and lately I thought we were gettin' to be a lot friendlier."

"Friendly!" There was a shrill note in her voice. "Friendly? When we've never been
together for ten minutes without climbing all over each other? When half the time I think you hate
me--the half when you're not trying to get my pants off. You call that being friendly?" Her short
laugh was forced, but he saw and heard her control herself. "Do you realize that you'd never called
me 'Genny' until today?"

"Sure I have." But even as he denied her charge, he wondered if it weren't true.

"Huh-uh." She shook her head vigorously. "You've called me
little lady
and
darlin'
and
Ms. Forsythe.
You've sworn at me and snarled at me and sneered at me."
She stepped back until she was next to the stile. "You've acted as if I were a...a thing, Rock. A thing
for you to paw and kiss and use." She half turned away from him and put one foot on the stile.
"Well, I'm not, and I won't be treated like one, cowboy. So there!" She scrambled over the stile and
headed across the pasture.

"Aw, shit," Rock said, softly. "Genny! Genny, please come back," he called. "Let's talk
about it, please."