"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.
"I...I don't know." She accepted his kiss, a kiss as different from the others as his behavior tonight was from his earlier actions. It enticed without demand, cherished without threat, and thrilled her beyond common sense. His lips were soft as they explored hers, and his tongue made darting little forays into her mouth, barely sipping before retreating. Giving her the taste of him, flavored with wine and fruit. His hands were light on her waist, not holding, but giving her a sense of belonging, for this timeless instant, to him alone.
He murmured something against her mouth. Not understanding, she pulled away. "I beg your pardon?"
"Can we start over?" He lifted pale eyes to hers, light blue eyes glowing with a heretofore unseen warmth. Always before they had been blazing with anger or so cold they froze her very soul. "Can we be friends, instead of enemies?"
Genny searched his face, his eyes, wondering if this was yet another trap. She read sincerity, honesty, and hope. With desire lurking in the background.
That was what frightened her. She knew how mindlessly she reacted to his mere presence. He seemed to suffer from the same malady. Could they ever be friends? Or would the passion they aroused in one another always interfere always with whatever other direction their relationship took?
"We can try," was all she could promise.
"Hmmm?" Rock nuzzled just under her ear, smelling the sweet, floral scent of her.
"Stop it, Rock. I can't think." She twitched under his hands and he felt her pulling away from him.
"Don't think, then. Just feel." He nipped the exquisitely soft skin of her earlobe. "Feel this." He let his lips drift down, along the base of her throat, where a pulse pounded frantically. "And this." He licked the skin above that pulse, tasted sweat and perfume and soap. Tasted woman.
She moved again, pulling back and away. "Rock, how can we be friends, when this always happens?"
"Never like this," he murmured. "Never this good." He sought her mouth again. Kissing Genny Forsythe had been good when they were both angry. Kissing her when they were at peace with one another was infinitely more rewarding.
"Rock!" She moved quickly, scooting sideways on the counter and jumping down before he could catch her. "Stop this, right now. Let's make some coffee, or do the dishes, or...or something...."
"I like this something." He reached for her, but Genny was ready. She handed him a dishtowel.
He stepped back and grabbed a dripping glass. It was the only way he could keep his hands off her. "Kissing you was better. Drying dishes ain't nearly as much fun." Deliberately he leered at her.
"Hmpf." She turned her back to him, seemed to be concentrating solely on something stuck to the relish platter. But the faint blush over her cheekbones belied her concentration. He found himself admiring her glowing skin, wondering if she was as golden under the shirt and pants as she was on her shoulders and slim arms. He intended to find out. One of these days.
He picked up another glass. "I like your aunt. She's a truly gracious lady." He couldn't kiss her, but he could feast his eyes on her. The white slacks fit her pert little bottom like a second skin, with no panty line. Was she wearing anything under them?
His groin tightened at the thought.
He forced his attention upward. Her silvery hair was loose tonight, pulled up and away from her face with two combs at her temples. It cascaded down her back, almost to her waist, like a molten silver waterfall. It rippled and gleamed in the overhead light, tempting his fingers to touch, to comb, to gather.
Rock was beginning to doubt his first impression. Perhaps the pale, gleaming crown was natural, innocent of artifice.
Why did that possible misconception bother him?
"Rock?"
"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry." He stepped aside so she could sweep under his feet. Somehow, while he was engaged in contemplation of her various attributes, Genny had finished washing glasses and had put away the remaining food. Operating on automatic, he'd even managed to dry the glasses and stack them on the kitchen table.
"Let's go for a walk." As long as he could see her, he wasn't going to be able to do anything but want his hands on her. Maybe if they got outside, in the fresh, cool air, they could talk.
"I can't. I'm the hostess, remember?" She leaned the broom behind the refrigerator. "Come on. I've got to get back to my guests."
He followed
, thinking that parties were a royal pain in the ass when a man needed to be alone with a woman.
Most of the remaining crowd was preparing to leave. Several of the young women tried to convince Genny to join them at their favorite watering hole, to top off the evening with dancing, but she refused to leave her aunt alone.
Miss Enderby didn't seem sorry to see anybody go. She was so engrossed in a conversation with Pancho that her farewells were perfunctory. Rock had a hunch her behavior was atypical. She had struck him as a woman to whom manners were of utmost importance.
Had his cook made a conquest? He hoped not. It was bad enough he had fallen tail over teakettle for Genille Forsythe. He was mean and nasty, and no woman was going to lead him a merry chase.
Not unless he wanted her to, that is.
Pancho, on the other hand, was relatively naive. He'd been married, once. Rock couldn't remember Luisa, but he'd heard all his life what a wonderful woman she'd been. Her death, from cancer, in her mid-twenties, had sent Pancho into a tailspin of destructive behavior that had lasted for almost ten years. Rock's Pa had pulled his wife's distant cousin out of the gutter and set him back on his horse, and had ended up with the best damn cowhand in Owyhee Country.
To Rock's knowledge, Pancho hadn't looked at a woman since Luisa's death. He hoped Miss Enderby was as much a lady as she looked. She wasn't so apt to hurt the old man.
"Rock, I have invited Miss Enderby to accompany us to the Daniels' barbecue next Saturday. Perhaps Miss Forsythe would care to attend, as well."
Hoo boy! When Pancho fell into the overly formal speech of his youth, he was gettin' pretty serious. That thought was the only thing keeping Rock from laughing out loud at how thick the older man's accent had become. Pancho's Mexican ancestry usually could only be inferred from his name.
He decided to play along. Cocking an eyebrow at Genny, he asked, "How about it, Miss Forsythe? Care to see how the natives play?"
Before she could answer, Miss Enderby spoke. "Oh, yes, Genille, you must go. Mr. Ruiz tells me that there will be real western square dancing..."
"Not that tame stuff you see in town," Rock interrupted.
"...And an impromptu rodeo, as well as the barbecue."
Rock bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "Ro-day-oh" indeed!
"Well, I don't know..." Genny waffled.
"Come on, little lady. Most everybody in Owyhee Country comes to Daniels' shindigs. It'll be a good chance for you to meet more of the ranchers with grazing rights on your District."
"Well...."
"You did ask me what I wanted to do next weekend, Genille. I choose to go to the barbecue." Miss Enderby's positive tone closed the subject. Genny just nodded, and busied herself with picking up the last of the party debris.
Rock moved to help. His cook and her aunt sure didn't look like they needed any help gettin' acquainted. He and Genny were superfluous, as far as he could tell.
* * * *
"Sophie, why did I let you manipulate me into this?" Genny tried to twist her head around, but her aunt's grasp on her hair prevented it. "Ouch! That's attached to my head, you know!"
"Sit still then. I'm almost finished."
"I don't think I'm going to like this," Genny muttered. "My ordinary French braid was enough."
"You are going to look elegant and glamorous when I am through with you, dear. Now stop complaining." Sophie seemed to be pulling all of Genny's hair up onto the top of her head, then over to one side. Genny wished she had a mirror, but her aunt had refused. "I want you to be surprised," she had insisted.
Genny supposed she shouldn't object. Sophie was always in demand as a hairdresser among the family. It was an ongoing joke that if she ever got tired of being an executive secretary to the president of one of Boston's larger corporations, she could always open her own beauty salon.
Genny fidgeted, but she held her head still. It was that, or be scalped. "Are you positive you want to wear that dress?" she asked, for the fourth or fifth time.
"Of course, dear. It's very comfortable and cool, and not too dressy. I understand barbecues are fairly informal."
Stifling a laugh, Genny said, "You might say that." She was planning on wearing her dress jeans, the new boots she'd bought last week, and a western-tailored shirt. Brenda, at work, had said that many of the women wore such garb to Daniels' annual party. Those who didn't wear square dance costume.
Genny looked again at the boots. Gleaming black, with white inserts and red and blue stitching, they resembled the worn, unadorned boots Rock and the other cattlemen wore daily about as much as a patent-leather dancing pump looked like a steel-toed work boot. She knew she would feel self-conscious all day long.
"There. That should do it." Sophie gave her hair a final sharp tug, and patted the top of her head. A hand mirror appeared in front of Genny. She looked and saw a stranger. The mass of braids and curls atop her head made it look too heavy for her neck, made her neck appear delicate and nodding, like the stem of a dainty flower. Genny turned one way and another. Sophie had woven dozens of tiny braids together into an intricate pattern. The ends of the braids were loose for several inches, and curled. The result was sophisticated, elegant, and oh! so feminine.
"This is going to look peculiar with my outfit," Genny said, eyeing the hairstyle dubiously.
"No, it won't, dear. Trust me." Sophie smiled reassuringly. "Now, I must hurry, or we'll be late. Mr. Ruiz will be here in less than half an hour."
And that was another worry. "Sophie, Pancho Ruiz isn't like the men you're used to," she began, not wanting to meddle, but worried about her aunt. Sophie didn't seem to realize that western men weren't like those she was used to dealing with. They weren't tame.
"I know that dear," Sophie answered through the half-open bathroom door. "That's precisely why I find him interesting."
Genny dropped her robe on the bed and picked up the new jeans. Prewashed, they were soft as a baby's blanket, and faded just enough to make them look well worn. She pulled them on, liking the way they fit. Tight enough to be attractive, yet not so tight she couldn't sit. Padding to the closet, she pulled out her shirt, a red plaid perfectly matching the shade of her new fingernail polish. "But Sophie, he's a cook!"
"Genille! I've never heard you sound like a snob before. Cooking is an honorable profession. Remember Brillat-Savarin, after all!"
Genny slipped into the elaborately decorated shirt, liking the feel of the fine cotton against her skin. She buttoned the front, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her dressing table. Sophie had been right. The hairdo, elaborate as it was, suited her outfit perfectly. "I'm not being a snob, and you know it. I'm just worried. You're used to dealing with businessmen, gentlemen...." As soon as the word was out of her mouth, Genny knew it was wrong.
Sophie peered around the bathroom door. "Now Genille, that is really going too far. You have no reason to believe that Mr. Ruiz is any less the gentleman than any of the men I work with." She disappeared. In seconds, she spoke again, her voice raised over the sound of running water. "And speaking of men one is unused to, Mr. McConnell is not your common sort either. Now there is an old-fashioned, courtly gentleman. So unusual in one so young."
"I guess it all depends on one's definition of a gentleman," Genny said, doing her best not to snort at Sophie's lack of perception. "I've seen another side of him."
"Of course you have. That young man is enormously attracted to you, Genille, but he doesn't quite trust his feelings." Sophie's smile was reassuring. "There! I'm ready to go." She turned on her heel, letting Genny see all sides of her attractive silk print dress. "Am I not suitably attired for a picnic?"
On Boston Common, perhaps, Genny thought, but she only smiled and nodded. Sophie was going to be quite an experience for the ranchers of Owyhee Country. The wide, pale blue straw hat, with its garland of mauve silk roses and trailing chiffon scarf, would certainly cause its share of comment. Genny just hoped no one laughed in her aunt's face.
Chapter Six
"Allemande left with yore left hand. Swing yore pardner and a right-and-left grand..." Someone grabbed Genny's right hand and pulled her forward, then someone else grabbed her left. Giving up, she just let the men in her square toss her where they wanted her. This was all much too complicated for her.
Across and around she went, passed from man to man like a bag of spuds. When she heard, "Bow to yore pardner and that's all boys!" she gasped in relief and nearly collapsed onto the floor. All that kept her upright was pride.
She staggered across to where Sophie was sitting with half a dozen matrons, fitting in as if she'd always been a part of them. Somehow her expensive silk dress failed to look at all incongruous among the jeans and polyester slacks and cotton print dresses worn by her companions.
And the hat! It had been a great hit among the youngest contingent at the party. Genny wondered in what condition it would be, when and if Sophie got it back. First the littlest McCarthy girl had asked to wear it. Sophie had graciously consented. Then one of the almost teenagers had snatched it, declaring it the coolest thing she'd ever seen. Genny had lost track of the hat after that, but Sophie hadn't seemed at all distressed. "Let them enjoy it," she'd said, smiling benignly.
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?"
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