Never the Twain

by Judith B. Glad

"Is that what you think, that the only reason I invited you out to the ranch was for sex?"

  "I know it was. And I don't like being treated like a...just a convenience."

  "Believe me, darlin', you'll never be just a convenience to me. " His leer denied his words, but it was such a caricature that she had to laugh.

  "Be serious. I need to know that there's more than just sex between us, Rock." Genny wanted to bite her tongue. He'd never said word one about commitment, about the future, and she hadn't asked. After the fact was just a tad late to be asking for this kind of reassurance.

  He reached a long arm across the cab and squeezed her leg just above the knee. "There's more, darlin', believe me. I don't know what's causin' the sparks between us, but it goes way beyond 'just sex.'"

  "I hope so." But she wasn't entirely satisfied. There was still a gulf between them that she didn't know how to cross.

  "Rock, I need to know why you went so far away after we...last Sunday."

  "It's nothin' important."

  "Yes, it is. It is to me." She turned sideways in the bucket seat. "Every time I think we're becoming friends, you run away. You go hide, somewhere inside yourself, and you...you sulk."

  "The hell I do!"

  Whoops! She'd picked the wrong word that time. But how else to describe his behavior? "Whatever you want to call it, you get all surly and withdrawn. Is it something I do?"

  He didn't answer. She looked at him, at his strong profile. He appeared relaxed, one arm draped along the window, the other stretched out holding the steering wheel, but the knot at the side of his jaw belied his pose. He was wound like a tight spring, and she didn't know what was causing his tension.

  Darn it! She'd never forgive her family for doing this to her. Every time Rock--or any man she dated, for that matter--tightened up or got angry, she immediately wondered what she'd done wrong. From her earliest memory, she'd learned not to anger the men in the house. She couldn't remember ever seeing her father lose his temper, for no one ever disagreed with him. Nor had they with her grandfather.

  Her family's reaction when she'd received her acceptance from graduate school was a good example of how the Forsythe men wanted to decide everything....

  "Mom! I got it! I got it!" No matter that she was late for her statistics class. She'd called home as soon as she opened the letter.

  "Not so loud, Genille, please. You're breaking my eardrum." Her mother was calm as ever. "What did you get? And why are you phoning in the middle of the day. Don't you know it's much cheaper after--"

  "Mom, listen to me. This is more important than saving a few pennies. I'm going to Harvard for graduate school!"

  "Oh, dear. I was afraid of this. Your father will--"

  "Mom! Listen! They only take the best, and they want me. Me!" She was practically incoherent in her joy, but now she wondered how her father would react when he heard. "I'll come home this weekend," she said. "Don't tell Pop. Let me do it."

  "That would be best," her mother agreed. Genny knew she would do almost anything before she would break the news to Waldo Forsythe that his youngest child and only daughter was still serious about becoming an anthropologist. Mom worked hard at not upsetting her husband.

  Genny almost looked forward to doing so this time.

  "Fool notion," Pop said at dinner on Saturday, when she showed him her acceptance letter. "Your mother was a teacher. All your aunts. Don't know why you have to be so different."

  "Make a lot more sense if you were to study something practical," Avery agreed. Her oldest brother had never understood her curiosity about other peoples, other cultures.

  "Next thing, you'll be wantin' to go off somewhere and dig up old bones," Carlyle, her middle brother, said between bites.

  "That's right," Genny said. "The sooner the better."

  "What if I forbid it?" her father asked, his voice becoming stern.

  Genny bit her lip. She'd never defied her father in her life, although she'd often wanted to. Going to UNH had been the last thing she'd wanted, because it was too close to home. And that had been why Pop had insisted, for he hadn't wanted his daughter so far away he couldn't keep track of her. "There's a teaching assistantship available," she said. "I can live on that."

  "In Boston?" Her mother was clearly disbelieving.

  "If I have to." She took a deep breath, looked her father straight in the eye. "It's what I want to do, Pop."

  "Oh, Genille, perhaps you should do as your father says. He knows what's best for you, after all."

  "No, he doesn't, Mom. You may let him decide how you should live your life, but he's not going to do it for me." Genny felt her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She had never really stood up to Pop before.

  "You won't get any money from me," he said, glowering. "I'll help you if you want to stay on in Durham and get your teaching credentials, but I won't give you a penny for Harvard."

  "You're helping Ev at Cornell," Genny challenged. Her youngest brother was studying veterinary science.

  "He's doin' something worthwhile." Pop stood up, his signal that dinner was over and it was time for them to get back to work. When he and her brothers had left the dining room, Genny glared at the table. Would it have been too much work for them to take their dirty plates to the kitchen? "Mom, don't you ever get tired of cleaning up after men?"

  Margaret began gathering soiled plates and stacking them. "Of course not. Waldo has his work and I have mine. We don't get in each other's way." She smiled at Genny. "If you're set on going down to Harvard, you can probably stay with Sophie. I'm sure she would be happy to have you."

  Grateful for even a small sign of approval, Genny smiled back. "I'll manage on my own, Mom. To show Pop I can, if for no other reason."

  If only Mom had understood her dreams the way Sophie did. How could an intelligent, educated woman like her mother be so...so passive?

  When Genny left home, she swore she'd never again deal with anyone on that level. If she wanted something, she'd ask for it. If she disagreed with someone, she'd say so. And if her conscience dictated she act a certain way, she would, no matter who--man or woman--told her not to.

  Her father and brothers hadn't quite forgiven her yet. She still wouldn't argue with them. The habits of a lifetime aren't broken overnight, after all. She simply smiled sweetly and went ahead with her plans, no matter how often or how forcefully she was advised otherwise.

  But she would argue with Rock and she would disagree with him. And she would never, never let him make her decisions for her.

  Thank heaven for Sophie. She was as successful as any man of Genny's acquaintance. And Cousin Evelyn. She'd doctored half the county, back home, and now her daughter, Caroline, was taking over her practice. If Genny hadn't had a few female role models, she might have turned out as compliant and devious as her mother. Not that Mom didn't have to be, now, but it was her own fault for not standing up to Grandpa and Pop from the beginning.

  Sudden deceleration pulled her out of a dozing introspection. "Why are we stopping?" They were in Homedale.

  "Hot," Rock said, wiping his brow. "We need some soda pop. And I need to check Tequila." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Coke?"

  "Diet Coke, please." She realized she had spent the last thirty-odd miles lost in introspection. Rock must think her pretty poor company.

  Soon he returned, handing her an icy cold can of soda. "Have a good nap?"

  "I wasn't sleeping," she protested. "I was thinking."

  "Pretty relaxing thoughts," was all he said.

  She opened the soda can and took a long swallow. "Ah, that's good." He again sat relaxed in the driver's seat, elbow out the window, right hand draped at the top of the steering wheel. Genny looked at the dashboard. "Rock, why aren't you using the air conditioning? It must be ninety-five." The cold soda made her realize just how hot and sweaty she was.

  "I like the wind," he said. "Does it bother you?"

  She realized that she, too, liked the feel of the dry desert air rufflin
g her hair and drying the perspiration on her brow. How she had changed in two short months. The first hot day, in her BLM pickup, she had wished fervently for air-conditioning. Now she never thought of it as she traveled the back roads on the District, seeking archaeological and historical places. "No," she admitted, "I like it too."

  His smile showed surprise. And approval.

  Chapter Eight

  Rock watched her as she slept. Her eyelids were delicately lavender, her cheeks palely peach. Her silver hair was pulled up and back through the hole of a bright blue billed cap today, a cap with the legend "Live Free or Die" across its front. Wasn't that the slogan of New Hampshire? He thought so.

  It would do for Owyhee Country, as well. For Owyhee Country and Rock McConnell.

  He didn't like towns and he didn't like crowds. Even the rodeo crowd in a little place like Vale had been a little much for his comfort, today. He didn't even like fences, not when they were around him.

  Lately, though, he'd been feeling fenced in. This afternoon, he could almost feel the gate closing for the last time.

  No, damn it! He wasn't gonna let Genny Forsythe, tenderfoot from New Hampshire that she was, catch him in any kind of corral. A romp in the hay. That's what he wanted from her. Another afternoon's pleasure like last Sunday had been. Afterward he'd take her home, and not see her again until the next time he was feeling horny.

  "This is incredible country," she said, as they climbed the Squaw Creek grade. "So rugged and harsh."

  "Not like New England," he agreed.

  "No less beautiful, though. I love the feeling of space, the way I can see a hundred miles." She pointed to the right, where the spine of the Owyhee Mountains was visible through a road cut. "Look at that view! I couldn't see a tenth that far at home, not unless I were to climb a high hill."

  "It's a hard land," he said, wondering if she'd guessed his feelings about her delicacy and was trying to convince him otherwise. "Hard and lonely."

  "That's part of its charm. The emptiness. Oh, Rock, sometimes I felt so penned in, so overwhelmed by people, back in New Hampshire. Sometimes I wanted to be a hermit, just so I could be alone."

  Sure you did, babe, he said to himself. Aloud he said, "You'd get tired of being alone pretty quick."

  Something in his tone must have intimidated her, because she said nothing more, all the way to his ranch. Out of the corner of his eye, he continued to watch her. She was a real tourist, for all that she'd spent a good bit of time in Owyhee Country. Of course, that was in the Vale District, just over the Oregon line. She probably hadn't been over this way except for that day he'd brought her in the 'copter.

  No matter. Idaho and Oregon weren't much different, here in Owyhee Country. A few hundred people, a few thousand jackrabbits, and a few million sagebrush. That's all there was. Them and a lot of open range.

  He'd give her one winter, then she'd be ready to call it quits. One winter, when the wind never quit howling through the canyons and the land turned gray and forbidding. That's what had got to Selma, that and the loneliness.

  Poor Pa. Along about January every year, Selma had started talking Arizona, and Pa had always given in. Given in and given up, Rock figured. They'd go down to Tucson, where Pa had bought the city bitch a fancy condominium and joined the country club. He'd even taken golf lessons, the first winter.

  Golf lessons, for cryin' out loud! His Pa, tall and strong, weathered and lean, chasin' a little white ball over manicured lawns all day long.

  The last time they came home, Pa had looked every single day of his seventy years, and then some. He'd been thin, like it wouldn't take much of a Chinook wind to blow him away, and pale, despite all those days playin' golf. And he'd not seemed to care about the ranch, that summer.

  Selma had tried her best to talk Pa into seeing a doctor, when he started failing, but he wouldn't listen. The old man had been miserable with her, and Rock figured he had made up his mind to get out of his marriage the easiest way he could. And he'd succeeded, dying right after Labor Day two years ago.

  Selma hadn't grieved much. Not after she learned that all Pa had left her was some stocks and bonds. He'd signed the Rock and Rye over to his son the day before he'd married her, proof to Rock that he'd not been quite as smitten as he'd seemed. Lonely more like.

  Rock knew lonely. But he wasn't gonna take Pa's way out of it.

  "I talked to Frank yesterday," she said, startling him. "He and Elaine can give us a month."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Frank and Elaine Ainsworth, remember? The graduate students I told you might be able to help us out in Skeleton Gulch. They'll be here sometime next week."

  He remembered her saying something about some kids coming in to do some digging, but he hadn't paid a lot of attention, since she said it might not help get his application approved any quicker. "Think it'll do any good?"

  "I hope so, Rock, but I can't promise. It all depends on what they find."

  The hell of it was, he almost believed her. She really did sound like she cared about his waterhole.

  Genny helped him take care of Tequila and feed the few mares he had in the barn. She thought he looked a little surprised when she offered, but didn't let that stop her. She missed her horses. Riding Dixie, those two days into and out of Shinbone, had reminded her how just how much she missed her horses. Maybe next year she could find a small acreage to rent and bring them out from home.

  Home? No, Vale was home, now. She felt like she belonged in Owyhee Country, as Rock called it, much more than she had ever belonged in New Hampshire. She had fallen in love with the land and its people. One of its people, in particular, perhaps?

  No, not yet, but she was getting there, in spite of his moody, on-again-off-again charm.

  "Didn't you say Pancho kept the freezer full, Rock?" she said, while he was putting the rest of the sodas into the refrigerator.

  "Yeah. It's through there, in the pantry." He pointed.

  Genny rooted around in the huge upright freezer. Casseroles, soups, and bread filled the upper shelves, while wrapped beef and lamb and pork nearly overflowed the bottom ones. She chose a small casserole labeled "beef stew with beer" and a package of "B-milk biscuits."

  Good. The microwave had a defrost setting. They wouldn't have to wait hours for dinner. She touched start and turned, to find herself in Rock's arms.

  "Hello, darlin'." He rubbed her nose with his.

  Genny forgot about her doubts, about discovering the source of his frequent angry withdrawals. She was where she belonged. Now if he would only realize that this was where he belonged, as well.

  "Oh, my!" Long, sweet moments later she pulled back to look at him. Yes, this was the same man who'd taken her so roughly, so urgently less than a week ago. Today he seemed to think he had all the time in the world, and was going to spend it making love to her.

  "Sounds good to me," she whispered, reaching for another kiss.

  "Hmmmm?" He dipped deep, tasting the crevices and the hollows of her mouth. She tangled her tongue with his, wanting to savor him as deeply as he was her. For a long time, they let their tongues explore, and she felt waves of pleasure building somewhere deep within her. His hands were firm on her waist, and her arms were wrapped around his neck. Chest to chest and belly to belly they stood, straining toward each other, lost in mutual discovery.

  Finally, when Genny's legs were reminding her just how weak his kisses made them, he swung her into his arms. Laughter tumbled from him and his smile was enough to warm the coldest cockles.

  "Dinner can wait," he said, striding down the wide hall. "I can't."

  "Neither can I," she whispered, burying her face in the angle of his jaw. No longer even thinking of resisting temptation, she let her fingers toy with the bandanna around his neck, seeking the knot. Only now, held so close against his chest, could she smell the tangy odor of his sweat, residue of his exertions this morning.

  Sweat, a faint effluvium of horse, and musk. A male odor, uniquely his. She had s
melled it before, lurking under his subtle masculine cologne. Now it was overpowering, filling her nostrils and speaking to a primitive part of her.

  She drew a deep breath and her last veneer of civilization dissolved. No longer toying, she opened his shirt and slipped her hand inside. She scratched lightly, remembering the effect her nails had on him before. She bit at the warm skin of his throat, wanting to suck strongly, wanting to mark him as he had her.

  But before she could do more than touch her lips to him, she found herself on her feet. On her feet and unsupported. Rock had stepped back from her and was waiting, a smile of uncertain longing on his face. It was almost as if he wanted reassurance that her need was as great as his. Could Rock have the same uncertainties as the rest of humanity?

  Oh, no! Not Rock McConnell, supercowboy.

  His hesitance gave Genny courage, where his usual arrogant confidence would have daunted her. If he had played the dominant male, leader-of-the-herd role as he usually did, she probably would have become passive, out of pure habit.

  "Don't move," she told him. "Let me...."

  His eyes flared at her, but he didn't move or speak. He just waited.

  An inch at a time, Genny removed his shirt, sliding it down over both of his powerful arms at the same time, kissing her way from left shoulder to wrist as she revealed the tanned skin.

  She dropped the shirt and ran her hands lightly up his chest, skimming the pectorals, barely touching the hard pebbles of his nipples. Her own ached in response.

  Behind him was a wide bed, covered in dark red corduroy. She pushed lightly on his chest. "I want you to sit down, Rock. There. At the foot of the bed."

  He backed. When the backs of his knees touched the bed, he sat, eyeing her suspiciously. She held back an un-Gennylike giggle. What did he expect she was going to do, tie him down and tickle him all over with peacock feathers?

  Come to think of it, that might be fun. Some other time. When the edge of her hunger for him was blunted. And when she had a ready supply of peacock feathers.

  "What are you grinnin' about?" Yes, that was definitely suspicion in his eyes. But he remained docile under her stroking hands.