Never the Twain

by Judith B. Glad

  "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 ten
dency 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."

  Her determined stride slowed.

  "Genny, I can explain. Honest. I didn't mean to make you feel like a thing." Rock put all the persuasiveness he owned into his voice. "There's something really great between us, Genny. You can't deny that, can you?"

  "No." He could barely hear her soft reply. "No I can't deny that." She lifted her head and looked back at him, across fifteen feet of pasture and a barbed wire fence.

  "Come back, Genny, and let's talk about it, okay?"

  "Just talk? Do you really believe we can 'just talk'?"

  "I promise to try." At first anyhow, darlin', then we'll do whatever comes. The urgency of his need for her had retreated, but not the strength of it. Deep inside the core of him, he thirsted for Genny Forsythe. For her lips, for her sweet body against his. For her, surrounding him, enveloping him, possessing him.

  He reached up to help her across the stile, but she refused his hand. "There's a bench in a ways, where we can sit and talk." He smiled at her, in what he hoped was reassurance. Smiled and did his best to radiate trustworthiness and friendship. Be damned if he'd show how relieved he was that she came back. When she'd scrambled over that stile, he'd wanted to grab her and never let her go. For a minute there, he'd been afraid that he'd been feeling more than pure horniness. He'd felt bereft, lonely. Deserted.

  Naw. He'd just been feeling disappointment and sexual frustration.

  He took her hand and led her into the woods. Doggone, but it was hard to be a big bad wolf when the lamb followed so willingly. Kinda made a fella feel guilty.

  She didn't trust him much farther than she could throw him. That hungry smile had left his lips, but it still lurked in his eyes. Genny followed, outwardly docile, along the narrow path that wound through the woods. The day she could be within ten feel of Rock McConnell and "just talk" to him would be the day they buried her. Aside from the way he fulfilled her youthful fantasies, he awoke yearnings she hadn't felt before. But even accepting the inevitability of intimacy with him, she was still going to make him strive a little bit, before she surrendered.

  Rock McConnell was way too sure of himself.

  She looked around as she followed him into the woods. It was lovely here. The black locust leaves rustled slightly in the errant breeze, whispering of sun and shadow. Their shade was dense, except where a gap let the bright July sun glare through. Rough, furrowed black bark was marked with faint streaks of green, algae living in the moist shade where it couldn't survive under the merciless sun. Under her feet the grass still held a hint of green, although even here it was starting to wither and turn golden brown, as all unirrigated grass did in this dry country.

  "Through here," Rock said, guiding her along the winding path. He led them through a screen of lilacs, into a clearing in which stood a real, old-fashioned gazebo. Complete with lattice walls and weathervane on the roof, it aroused memories of home. Sometimes New Hampshire seemed awfully far away.

  She swallowed, then reminded herself that she was experiencing excitement and adventure. Strictly by choice.

  Rock brushed twigs and leaf fragments from the wooden bench inside the gazebo. Genny sat where he indicated and found herself crowded as he sprawled beside her.

  "You wanted to do a little visitin'," he said in his get-her-goat draw
l. "So let's visit." Leaning back, he smiled expectantly.

  "Oh, for pity's sake, Rock," she snapped. "You know darned well what I meant. I just didn't want a repeat of the other times we've been together. We say a few words to each other and Wham! We're either fighting like a couple of five-year-olds or we're..." She looked sideways at him, not quite sure how to describe what had taken place between them. It hadn't been love-making. It sure hadn't been a little friendly smooching.

  "Yeah, I know. We're makin' out like a couple of randy kids." He chuckled. "Fun, ain't it?" His callused fingers toyed with tendrils of hair at her nape.

  She shivered.

  "I stayed with Fred's folks one winter, when the weather got real nasty," he said into the slightly uncomfortable silence. "Stayed here about five weeks, 'cause the snow kept driftin' all the roads shut. Only time I ever lived in town, while I was a kid." He was silent for a long moment. "I hated it."

  "In town? What are you talking about? We're a good mile outside Jordan Valley."

  "Yeah, well, it's too close for me. I think that's why I always stayed at the ranch after Pa married Selma, no matter how bad it got." His voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself, rather than to her. And strained, as if the memories were painful. "I could have pulled a mobile home into the place up Jordan Creek here," he gestured to the east, "but it's still too damned close in."

  "I guess it's all a matter of perception," she said, listening in vain for a whisper of any sound but the rustling leaves overhead. There were probably more than a hundred people partying within a half-mile, yet she and Rock seemed as alone as they had been down in Succor Creek.

  More alone, for there were no cattle bawling at them.

  "I guess you don't know what it's like, being alone most of the time," he said, letting his hand drift from her nape to her cheek.

  Genny leaned into his gentle stroking. His hand wore a faint odor of hay and leather. Oh, yes I do, she thought. I know what it's like being a misfit, alone in a big family. She had never felt so much at home, back on the farm, as she had since coming to Oregon. The words remained in her throat, lacking breath to push them farther. It was caught in her chest, victim of Rock's magic touch along her jaw. She arched her head back, wanting his fingers to reach every inch of her neck, hoping they'd find the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat where she craved his touch.