by Jan Hudson
A painful ache of tenderness filled Max’s chest and she turned to face him. Her fingers stroked the frown lines away from his forehead, then trailed along his temple to caress his cheek. “Someday you will.”
She could see the hunger, the longing in his gaze as she looked at him. At first she thought it was his desire to paint. Then she realized it was for her. It was her face, her form she saw mirrored in the depths of Guadalupe green eyes. And her image was filled with the same longing. At that moment water wells were the farthest thing from her mind.
“Angel,” he whispered. “My Angel.”
His lips lowered to hers, first brushing gently, the tip of his tongue played across the slight opening of her mouth. His touch was as soft as the breeze ruffling the sumac, as warm as the sun on her back. Then with a groan, he deepened the kiss, clutched her tighter to his chest, and plunged his tongue between her lips.
Caught up in delicious sensation, Max matched his fervor, whimpering as she ran her hands over his muscled shoulders, threaded her fingers through his thick hair.
One large hand slid up her rib cage and cupped her breast. His thumb slowly stroked her nipple, and when she strained toward his palm, low growls vibrated deep in his throat as his tongue thrust deeper.
Dear heaven, she thought. She was going to die from the longing swelling within her, from the hunger tearing at its leash. It was terrifying. It was wonderful. She held him tight, losing herself in the protective intimacy of his arms as her spirit soared over the hillsides.
Never had anything felt so marvelous, so right.
When at last they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Sam leaned his forehead against hers and said, “Lady, you’re something else.”
She gave a throaty little laugh and blew out a soundless whistle. “Fellow, you’re something else yourself. My toes may never uncurl.”
He threw back his head and gave a lusty laugh of delight. “Angel, we’re going to make a hell of a team.”
She snuggled in the nest of his strong arms, listened to the sound of his heartbeat against her face, and savored the words.
“Are you through for the day?” he asked, his voice low and suggestive.
Through? Lord, thanks to Sam, she’d barely started. When her hormones settled down and her good sense reappeared, Max was disgusted with herself that she’d let things go so far. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what Sam had in mind. And she’d encouraged it. What in the world had she been thinking?
That was the problem. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d simply plastered herself on him like a price tag from a discount store. She’d intended to send Sam home, or somewhere, anywhere, so she could witch this area. What had happened to her good intentions? She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that one either.
Some way she had to convince him to leave. She had to find that water. And soon.
She withdrew from the comfort of his lap and stood. “I’d like to check one or two more things.” She took another deep breath and said, “Sam, go away. I have important work to do here.”
“But, Angel—”
“Sam,” she said firmly, narrowing her eyes and planting her fists on her hips, “go home and watch your sheep or go sign up for painting lessons or go bug what’s-her-name at the art store, but stop bugging me. Please.”
He grinned. “Have I been bugging you?” He reached and pulled her back onto his lap.
She shoved him away and scrambled to her feet.
“Dammit, Sam Garrett, you are without a doubt the most thick-headed male God ever put on this earth.” She looked around for his car. “How did you get here today? Did you plan for me to drive you home again? If you did, get in the truck. The sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can get some work done.”
He stood and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “My car’s parked at the foot of the hill. I didn’t want to drag the bottom out of it on this rough road. Looks like I’m going to have to buy myself something more serviceable if I keep coming up here.”
Deliver me, Max thought, rolling her eyes heavenward. She grabbed the canvas and the easel and said, “Here, let me help you carry your stuff down.”
By the time she reached the foot of the hill, Max was breathing hard, partly from having almost run the entire way, partly from sheer exasperation. Sam, carrying the rest of the things, was close behind her.
When she saw the big Jaguar parked beside the road, something about that maroon pile of money with leather seats sparked a renewed irritation in her and her lip curled. “That yours?”
He nodded and opened the trunk.
“Very fancy. What do you put in the radiator? Perrier?”
He laughed. “Now there’s an idea.” He took the canvas and easel from her and stowed the things away. “Thanks for helping, Angel.” Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on her nose. “I’ll pick you up for dinner about seven.”
She scowled. “I’m not going out to dinner with you.”
“Want me to come back up on the hill and help you some more?”
“But. . . but,” she sputtered, “that’s blackmail.”
He shrugged.
She glared.
“Seven,” he said.
Max muttered all the way back up the hill. Sam Garrett had a way of making her talk to herself. Maybe she was going crazy.
An hour later, she was still muttering as she tramped over the rocky terrain, a fork of the willow branch in each fist. The tip of the limb pointed skyward, mute, mocking. She trudged onward through the rough gravel, more determined than ever to find a vein of water.
The little quiver in her hands was so faint she almost missed it.
Max stopped, her heart pounding. Not a dip, but definitely a quiver. She moved on and the branch stilled. Moving over a few feet, she walked a path parallel to the one she’d just completed. Another quiver.
Excitement began bubbling like a spring deep inside her. But she mustn’t get her hopes up yet. It was just a quiver, a hint of the possibility. It might be the edge of a big vein or it might be nothing of any consequence. She laid down her forked stick on the spot, then retrieved her rock hammer, several spads, and some red plastic ribbons from her tool bag. She hammered a marker into the rock where she’d felt the first quiver, another into the second.
After a few more passes, she had put down three more markers. They formed a meandering path toward the big gray boulder where she and Sam had picnicked.
Moving in a zigzag pattern with the dowsing rod held firmly in her hands, she slowly snaked her way toward the huge outcropping suspended at the edge of the crest. Her boots slipped and slid on the uneven, rock-strewn ground.
The quiver of the branch grew to a shimmy. The shimmy became a shake.
Vibrations from the rod were soon like powerful spasms that shook her arms and shoulders. Slowly the agitated limb began to turn in her hands. Hardly able to contain her mounting excitement, Max fought to keep the tip upright, but the willow bark twisted off in her fists as the branch writhed like something alive and the tip convulsed downward.
She let out a whoop as she dropped the branch and flung her arms in the air. “Hot dog, there’s water here! I knew it. I knew it. I knew it!”
Dowser barked and came running to where she was laughing and dancing around on the edge of the steep incline. Tears mingled with laughter as she jumped up and down, squealing with joy. “Water! I found it! I found it!”
Dowser’s whole rear end was wiggling as he joined in the game, barking and leaping up to lick his mistress’s face. Suddenly, Max was thrown back as the big Doberman made an exuberant lunge, and the loose rock gave way under her foot.
Arms flailing in a desperate attempt to grab something to break her fall, she tumbled down the craggy slope.
Jagged rocks and thorny growth ripped at her clothes and skin as she slid. Frantic, she clutched and clawed, trying to seize a handhold. Her arm hooked around something and she grab
bed it with her left hand. A scream of pain tore from her throat as the sharp spines of a prickly pear cactus sank into the soft fiesh of her palm.
She held on.
For a moment she lay still, face down in the dusty gravel, fighting the nausea flooding over her in waves. When she had battled it down, she looked around her, assessing her predicament. A scrub oak grew from a crevice only inches from her right hand. She reached for it, and when she held a thick branch firmly in her grasp, she let go of the cactus. Looking up, she saw that, even though it had seemed like miles, she’d only fallen a few feet. Dowser stood on the gray boulder whimpering, staring down at her.
“I’m okay, boy. I’m okay.” She hardly recognized the shaky croak that came from her throat. Moving her arms and legs, she decided that nothing was broken. Just scratched and scraped. And her hand was full of cactus spines.
Beyond the stunted oak, the incline was less steep. Using the limbs of the tree, she carefully made her way a few feet across the pitted hillside until she could climb to the top.
Cradling her left hand against her body, she patted Dowser who stood waiting, quivering like a willow branch. She couldn’t scold him; she was quivering just as badly.
After a few deep breaths, she examined her hand. Scraped and swollen, it was full of cactus spines. And it hurt like hell.
She swiped at her dirty, sweaty face with her torn sleeve. Her dowsing was over for the day at least. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to confirm her finding and estimate depth. Knees trembling, she walked over to her toolbag and picked up a ribboned spad. Awkwardly using one hand and her feet, she drove the marker into the final spot.
When she stepped back to watch the red plastic ribbon flutter in the breeze, she managed a feeble smile.
“I found it, Sam,” she whispered. “By damn, I found it.”
Chapter 4
Still riding an adrenaline high over her find. Max headed back to the cottage. Even with her excitement to buoy her, driving was awkward and difficult. Her throbbing hand, full of cactus spines, was practically useless, and something crept into her mind, bringing more discomfort.
Why had her first thoughts been of Sam when she’d marked the vein? She didn’t need to prove anything to him.
Don’t kid yourself, she argued. Sam’s opinion of her mattered. She wanted him to think she was special, needed his approval, ached to see pride in her shining from his eyes. Now that her financial solvency was on the horizon, she allowed herself to consider the possibility of a relationship with him. She liked the idea. He had his faults, of course—stubbornness headed the list—but she had to admit she was enormously attracted to him. She’d never met anyone who affected her quite the way Sam did. Every time they were together he snuggled in a little closer to her heart. He could stir all kinds of emotions with just a smile. But what a smile. It warmed her. And enticed her.
And his touch. Well. . .
When her stomach gave a flutter of anticipation, she realized she was actually looking forward to seeing Sarn tonight. Mentally searching her limited wardrobe for something to wear, something sexy and feminine, another snippet of an elusive tune flitted through her thoughts and she hummed as more words formed in her mind.
Green, green, Guadalupe-green. It’s the color of your eyes.
Sitting on a kitchen stool and leaning over the sink, Max was still humming as she picked the last of the stickers out and poured peroxide over her swollen hand. It had taken nearly an hour to do the job, first using tweezers, then a needle. Dowser had lain at her feet the whole time, looking remorseful and whining each time she unconsciously winced.
“Don’t take it so hard, fellow,” she said, scratching his head as she moved to the refrigerator to get some ice. “I know it was an accident. You were excited, too.”
She opened the freezer compartment and frowned. The space was full of frozen dinners, the expensive kind. Where had those things come from? She could have sworn that it had been empty before. Puzzled, she opened the refrigerator door.
The racks and drawers, which had been almost bare this morning, were laden with food. Jugs of milk and orange juice. Two cartons of eggs. Bacon and chicken and steaks and lamb chops. What looked like a bushel of fresh fruits and vegetables filled every other available spot.
And on the bottom shelf, with a big red bow around it, lay a huge roll of bologna. It must have weighed ten pounds.
At another time and another place, the gesture might have been endearing. Or at least funny. But Max’s sense of humor had deserted her. She knew this was Sam’s doing. And he had hit her most vulnerable spot: her pride. She was heartsick. She was embarrassed.
She was livid!
He might as well have taken out an ad in the newspaper announcing: Poor little Max Strahan can’t make it on her own. It was as if he’d patted her on the head like a child and said, “Let the big man take care of you, honey.”
“Damn you, Sam Garrett! Damn you! I don’t have to take your charity.”
Heedless of her injured hand or Dowser cowering under the kitchen table, she grabbed a plastic garbage bag from the pantry and began to stuff food into it. She didn’t miss a single lamb chop or frozen dinner. Every lettuce leaf and every grape was tossed in. When it was full, she twisted the bag shut and glared at it, trying to decide what to do with it. She considered several alternatives, including hauling it over to Sam’s and dropping it down his chimney, as well as a few anatomically impossible, but devilishly tempting, options.
Then an idea hit her and she glanced at her watch. Sam would be here in less than an hour expecting to take her to dinner. Mr. Garrett would have a surprise waiting.
She dragged the heavy sack to the front porch and left it there. She propped the roll of bologna beside it and pinned a note to the red ribbon telling him exactly what he could do with it.
After flipping on the porch light, turning the lock, and securing the safety bolt, she slumped against the front door. She felt absolutely exhausted. Drained. Her boots seemed like concrete blocks. Every prick in her palm and fingers, every scratch and scrape on her body screamed at her. She looked down at her filthy clothes in disgust and sighed. Pushing herself away from the door, she started for the bathroom, stripping as she went.
A shampoo and a shower washed the grime away. Then Max drew a steaming tub of water, dumped in a box of Epsom salts, and sank into its warmth to soothe her aches. But the bath couldn’t reach the worst ache. It was the one that squeezed her heart and yearned for what might have been.
* * *
Something interrupted the peaceful fog enveloping her. Max started and sat up, splashing tepid water onto the floor. She must have fallen asleep. A loud banging noise was mixed with Dowser’s whining and scratching at the bathroom door. She climbed out of the tub, quickly dried off, and wrapped a towel around her.
“Sam Garrett, no doubt,” she said, giving Dowser a comforting pat on her way to the living room. “Who is it?” she yelled at the front door.
“Who in the hell do you think it is?” a deep voice yelled back. “Let me in!”
“Go away!”
“I’m not going anywhere until you open this door and talk to me.”
“You’re going to have a long wait, Mr. Garrett.”
“Dammit, Max, open the door!” The doorknob rattled and the banging started again.
Max hitched up her towel and glared at the door. “If you don’t stop that and go away, I’m going to call the police.”
The pounding stopped and Max waited, straining her ear against the door, listening. After a few minutes, she relaxed. He must have given up. She tiptoed to the living room window and eased the curtain aside to peer through the slit. His car was still there.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” a voice behind her asked.
She nearly lost her towel when she spun around. Sam stood not five feet away, hands on his hips. Even in the dim lamplight of the room, she could see his jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed.
“How’d you get in here?”
“Through the bedroom window. You really ought to keep it locked, you know. The burglar’s still at large.”
“I like the fresh air, but you can be assured that I’ll lock it just as soon as you leave.” She lifted her chin and tried to look as haughty as possible, given that her only attire was the precarious blue towel she clutched over her breasts.
Sam’s languid gaze traveled the length of her, and she was keenly aware that she was naked under her skimpy covering. She wanted to dash for the nearest closet, but she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing she was uncomfortable.
“I thought we had a date,” he said, affecting a bewildered expression, one of such wide-eyed innocence that she had to stifle the urge to throw a lamp at him.
“That was before Lord Bountiful snuck over here and filled the refrigerator with his largesse. I don’t need your charity. I think my note made it quite clear what you could do with your bologna.”
Uh-oh. He’d done it now, Sam thought. Troubled over what he’d found out about Max’s financial situation, he’d been so pleased with himself when he’d come up with the idea. Hell, he couldn’t let her starve. But he hadn’t counted on her fierce pride. Most women he knew would be delighted to take what he offered, but he was fast discovering that Max was not like most women. He’d miscalculated, and now she was madder than a scalded cat. It would take some tricky maneuvering to get out of this one.
He fought back a smile. She looked so damned cute standing there fighting with that towel, damp hair curling around her freshly-scrubbed face. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from taking her in his arms and loving her until some time next week. Lord, he wanted her.
Careful of every word, he said, “Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would you think I’m offering you charity?” She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. He shrugged and went on, “I thought you might be tired after working on that hill all day, so I figured maybe we could cook dinner here tonight, have a casual evening at home rather than going out.”