Strange how the flight had gotten smoother after the initial half-hour, even though the country they were flying over had become rougher. Or was it strange?
She forced herself to follow his finger, pointing first at the drawing in his hands, then at the steep walls around them.
"We'll have to do an in-depth survey before signing off on your application," she said, after he'd explained his plans. "We're so close to the Cedar Canyon site..." practically next door, according to the map, "...that there could be petroglyphs here, too."
"Never saw any," he said, scowling into the sun. She could imagine how little a man like him cared about the priceless archaeological resources these isolated canyons could hold. Too bad. His cattle were just going to have to wait until her investigation was complete.
Genny looked at the vertical rock walls enclosing the Shinbone, comparing them to those at the site she'd visited last Thursday. "These walls look like the Sucker Creek Formation and there are often fossil plant deposits in it. There are also Miocene vertebrate fossils reported in this area."
She pushed herself to her feet, legs feeling stronger and steadier as soon as she drew away from him. "Do the rocks change as one goes up the canyon?"
"Gulch." He grinned, a fiendishly attractive grin. "This here's a gulch, little lady."
"I told you...." she began, furious at his sudden, patronizing attitude.
"So you did, ma'am. It's just that you do sound peculiar sometimes."
Yes, definitely fiendish. She felt herself bristling. "I sound peculiar? The very idea! I'm not the one talking through my nose and dropping my g's."
"No, ma'am. But you sure do move your r's around funny."
His eyes were on her hips, gleaming with intense interest. The pun in his words broke upon Genny's consciousness. Her face grew hot.
He went on in an innocent tone. "'Idear' and 'peculyah.' Now I never was much for spellin', but I never did learn any words spelled that way."
Genny decided to ignore him. She got enough teasing about her accent at work. Dan, in particular, seemed to take perverse pleasure in mocking her speech.
And Rockland McConnell should talk. One minute he sounded like an educated man; the next he had a drawl so thick you could cut it with a knife. He wasn't your typical cowboy. Of that she was certain.
They did a cursory reconnaissance of the Shinbone, enough so Genny felt familiar enough to come back alone. She hadn't seen any signs of petroglyphs, or other traces of aboriginal use, but they could be here. The Cedar Canyon site was the richest on the District. Had the same prehistoric artists left their legacy in Skeleton Gulch as well?
"Ready to go, then?" He pulled a roll of fluorescent orange flagging tape from his vest pocket. "I'll just mark the trail so you won't get lost when you come back." He led the way back to the main gulch. "That there's the Armbone," he said, pointing downhill at another opening off to the other side. "It's full of rockfall. Pretty treacherous footing. I wouldn't advise you to go exploring in there. Not while you're out here alone."
"What peculiar place names. Do you know why ?" Genny found the trail steeper going out than it had seemed coming in. She did her best to control her breathing so she wouldn't puff. He was showing no signs of strain, despite those impractical high-heeled boots.
Or was it the view from the rear affecting her lungs? Again she could see the flex and jut of strong buttocks under denim so worn and faded it fit like the sheerest pantyhose. He had the most spectacular bottom she'd ever seen on a man!
"They say two human skeletons were found in here back in the 1890s and that's how the gulch got its name. I guess when they were lookin' for names for the side canyons, they..."
"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.
Chapter Three
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."
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"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.
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.
Never the Twain Page 3
