"I'm really sorry Uncle Hiram couldn't come," she said, desperate for a harmless topic. One that wouldn't lead to another conversational dead end.
"You know he never travels," Margaret replied. "I doubt he's been south of Rochester since he was a boy." Her tone indicated that there was nothing more to say on the subject of Uncle Hiram.
Now what? Genny concentrated on guiding the van around the broad sweeping curve into Rye Valley. She watched her mother out of the corner of her eye, wondering what her first impression of the ranch would be.
"There it is," she said, as the main house came into view, crouched on top of a knoll, surrounded by cottonwoods. "Sophie and Pancho live in a smaller house, just east of the main ranchhouse and down the hill a bit. It's really comfortable."
"I'm sure it's very nice," her mother agreed, "but isn't this a bit...ah, primitive?" She was staring at the main ranchhouse as if she'd never seen its like.
"It's more modern than our house," Genny protested.
"But it's a log cabin."
"Mother, a log cabin like that probably costs more than a clapboard house the same size," Genny said, wondering what was wrong with a log home. She thought it was charming. Warm. Welcoming. She'd love to live in a house just like it.
"It certainly is different from New Hampshire."
Genny didn't know what to say. How did one answer the obvious?
After parking in her usual place under the first cottonwood, Genny turned to her mother. "Before we go in, there's something I think you should know." Why hadn't she told her family about Rock before now?
Her mother waited, one hand on the door handle.
"I've been seeing a man," Genny faltered. "A rancher."
Her mother looked mildly curious. Nothing else.
"He's a real Westerner. A little rough around the edges."
"I would expect that." Her mother's voice spoke volumes. All of them disapproving.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Genny told herself. "He lives here. His name is Rockland McConnell."
For once her cool and collected mother looked nonplused. "Here? He's related to...to Mr. Ruiz?"
"Yes, he's a distant cousin or something of Pancho's. That's how Sophie met Pancho, you see. Rock has a grazing preference on the District, and I ran into him--" No need to say just how close that was to the truth-- "I met him in Succor Creek Canyon one day. Then he flew me..."
Her mother's eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead.
"Well, one thing led to another, and I invited Rock to the party I gave so Sophie could meet some of my friends. And he brought Pancho."
"Sophie didn't tell me her husband was a...a cowboy." Was there just a trace of hurt in her mother's voice? She and Sophie had never been close, but they were sisters. Was her mother feeling neglected because Sophie had married without talking it over first?
"He's not exactly a cowboy, Mother. Not any more." She guessed there just wasn't an easy way to say it. The other vans had parked and people were starting to get out and look curiously around. "Pancho is Rock's cook."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Genny opened the door and slid out. "This is it, everyone. Welcome to the Rock and Rye." She waved her arm, gesturing at the wide fields in the creek bottom, at the corrals and outbuildings scattered across the knoll, at the sagebrush-covered hills beyond. "This is the real Wild West."
"Don't let her lead you on, folks. We're pretty tame, here in Owyhee Country. There's hardly enough people to whoop it up too much." Rock was walking across the yard, smiling broadly.
She stared. His white dinner jacket had obviously been cut for his wide shoulders. The dark pants boasted a satin stripe down each outseam and his tie had been knotted by an experienced hand. An enormous silver nugget gleamed on the middle finger of his right hand, matching the smaller studs closing his delicately tucked shirt. The only thing singular about his appearance was his footwear. He was shod in highly polished, elaborately embroidered, black cowboy boots.
He was almost as sexy as if he'd been wearing Levi's.
His welcome was gracious and warm. Genny hardly opened her mouth as he took control of the situation, introducing himself, shaking hands all around. Even Aunt Gertrude, the family snob, smiled when he not-quite kissed her hand.
He all but ignored Genny, and she trailed her family into the house.
"Pancho's not a close relative," he was explaining when she finally entered the front room, "but he's just about all the family I have left. Out here family's real important." His smile held just a hint of melancholy, although she would swear there was a fiendish gleam in his eyes. "When people are spread this thin, they learn to depend on each other a lot more. It's a lonely land."
"It seems so empty," Uncle Ferd said. "We drove miles and miles without seeing a house."
"Oh, we're pretty crowded around here, compared to down south. Why there's parts of Owyhee Country where the closest neighbor is fifty miles away." He efficiently shepherded everyone into the dining room.
The table was stretched out to nearly fill the room and was covered with a lace-edged tablecloth big enough to be a tent. At one end were silver coffee and tea pots, surrounded by cups and saucers. At the other, a punchbowl sat amid concentric circles of glass cups. The center was occupied by the enormous wedding cake she'd delivered last night. But last night the house had looked nowhere near this formal, nor had Rock looked anything like this suave, elegant stranger.
"I'm glad you all got here before the rest of the guests. It'll give us a chance to get acquainted." He indicated the laden table. "Coffee, anyone?"
* * * *
By sundown Rock was about ready to chew nails. Big steel ones.
The hell of it was, he liked the Forsythes. Oh, Genny's pa was a tad opinionated, but Rock could handle that. His own pa hadn't exactly been a shrinking violet where his opinions were concerned either.
And Genny's ma was a sweet lady. Not like Sophie, who was as feisty as they came, but quiet and nice, just like a mother ought to be. Rock particularly liked the way she watched over her men, nurturing without smothering. He couldn't see the passivity Genny had complained about. If anyone ever ruled her roost with an iron fist disguised as a velvet glove, it was Margaret Forsythe.
Now if he had his druthers, he'd rather his woman stood up to him and spoke her mind. Selma had been manipulative too, although not as cleverly nor as subtly as Genny's ma was. Rock didn't take kindly to being manipulated, but Margaret wouldn't have put his back up the way Selma had.
Nope, the Forsythes weren't the problem. Genny was.
She just didn't fit out here. She needed people around her, folks to talk to and laugh with. She'd never survive the weeks and months of loneliness, with only him for company.
He'd watched her all day, bein' gracious and sociable with all their guests. She was right at home, while Rock felt crowded in his own house.
He liked people in small doses and on his own terms. Pa's parties hadn't ever got to him the way this one had. He guessed it was because he hadn't been the host back then. All he'd been expected to do was dance with the wallflowers, be polite to all the old ladies, and make sure they never ran out of cold beer.
Today had been different. He felt like he'd been dragged through a knothole backwards. With his boots on.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, answering the same question for the fiftieth time, at least. "The powder room's right down the hall, third door on the left."
Supper had been served almost an hour ago, and now folks were limbering up for dancing. He could hear the Jones Boys tuning up, over on the helipad. From the conversations around him, from the frequent bursts of laughter, everybody seemed to be having a good time.
He was having the worst time of his life.
"No'm, Mrs. Lehenbauer, we haven't seen Selma since she left after Pa's funeral." And I hope we never do.
"Well, boy," Pat's elderly mother told him, tapping his forearm in emphasis, "if your Pa had paid less attention to what w
as under her skirt and more to what was under her hat, he'd never married her. I swan, that woman cared more about her manicure than she did about her husband."
Since Rock agreed, but had vowed no one would ever hear him badmouth his step-mama, he merely smiled. Enigmatically, he hoped. "Have you had a chance to meet Sophie, ma'am?"
"Oh, yes, she came in for coffee when Pancho brought the welder over. What a sweet little thing she is!"
He'd go along with the little; Sophie wasn't much bigger than a minute. Sweet was still open to question. So far she and Pancho seemed happy. Rock was waiting until the new got rubbed off their marriage and the winter winds began.
His smile faded as Mrs. Lehenbauer moved on through the crowd. At least his neighbors were being welcoming to Sophie's relations. He'd been afraid there would be two separate groups here tonight--the Easterners and the Westerners. Instead, one had to listen closely to accents to know who was from New England and who from Owyhee Country. The initial period of uncertainty had lasted all of five minutes or so, until Sophie had introduced one of Genny's cousins--Young Ferd?--to Old Man Daniels, explaining that they had horse racing in common.
Pretty soon the ice was broken and they'd all been talking a mile a minute.
All but him. He'd spent most of the afternoon and evening being a good host, making sure no one sat alone in a corner unless they wanted to. Keeping the punchbowl full, the coffee and tea hot, and the beer cold.
"You look harried." Sophie slipped an arm about his waist. "And bored." She squeezed, and Rock was conscious of a warmth in the cold pit of his belly. A comfortable warmth, without the passion Genny always made him felt.
"You know how it is," he said, attempting a carefree smile. "The host has to work harder than anybody."
"Isn't it the truth? I don't think Genny has slowed down since she got here."
Rock had been following Genny's travels through the crowd, using the silvery glint of her hair as a beacon. "She hasn't lighted more than once or twice, that's for sure."
"I haven't thanked you for this wonderful party," Sophie said. "I never expected anything like this, Rock, and I do appreciate it."
He couldn't resist. "Shucks, ma'am, it warn't nothin'."
She pinched him lightly, just above his belt. "You big fake. Trying to make everybody think you're an unlettered cowboy."
"Why ma'am, I'll have you know cowboys are great readers. What else is there to do in the wintertime, but read and watch cows?" His drawl was exaggerated. "'Course, some of us is lucky enough to have that new-fangled tel-ee-vision, but only if we're close in to town."
"And what's that big dish out in the yard?"
"Why that there's a bird bath. Big birds out here in Owyhee Country." He couldn't keep his face straight any longer. As soon as he cracked a smile, they were both laughing.
"Take Genny out and dance with her," Sophie told him when their guffaws had quieted to occasional giggles. "I'll play hostess for a while."
"But--"
"Do it," she commanded, and Rock suddenly saw the steel under her fluffy, feminine exterior. He'd bet she was a whiz-bang executive secretary. Nobody'd dare cross her. He saluted and began cutting his way through the crowd, in search of Genny.
She was laughing with Angie Ferguson as if they'd known each other all their lives. Rock stood back and listened. Genny was asking about Angie's kids, knowing all the right questions. Showing interest in the answers. He'd seen her do this before, at Daniels'. She could talk to anybody, anytime.
And just look at her. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything so pretty, and he'd been around a good bit, particularly when Pa was a state senator back when he'd been in high school. Although he'd resisted moving to Boise for the legislative season, he had gone up on weekends. And he'd been to quite a few real fancy gatherings. There hadn't been a woman at any of them to match his Genny in style and beauty. Or in sophistication.
He caught a glint of silver as she lifted a punch cup. Her nails were painted to match her hair tonight. "Everyone has a vanity," she'd told him one night. "These are mine." He knew she went in to have them worked on biweekly. She wore some sort of coating on them to strengthen them, and it took constant maintenance.
Selma used to spend half her time in the beauty shop, keeping her hair blonde, her nails crimson. And she'd hated the isolation of the ranch, always after Pa to build them a house in Caldwell or, better yet, Boise.
He couldn't help but wonder how Genny would feel about the ranch after her first long, lonely winter.
Hell! What was he wasting his time worryin' for? She wasn't going to be spending any winters on the Rock and Rye. Just a day or two now and then, when his hunger for her overcame his common sense. Like now.
He stretched an arm out and caught her gesturing hand. When Genny looked up, surprised, he winked. "Care to dance, darlin'?"
"But I can't--"
"That's what I said, but Sophie gave me my orders. C'mon." He tugged. She smiled and followed willingly.
The Jones Boys were in rare form. The music was lively, loud, and fast. He grabbed Genny, twirled her into his arms. It felt good to hold on to her, but he'd rather cuddle. Guiding her to the bandstand, he yelled, "Play a slow one."
Arch nodded without missing a beat.
"Whee!" Genny collapsed against him when the music segued from "Beer Barrel Polka" into "Rhinestone Cowboy." "My legs are about to collapse. Can we sit this one out?"
"Not on your life," he said, releasing her right hand and slipping both arms around her. "We came out here to dance, remember?" He pulled her close, feeling the sweet swell of her breasts against his chest. "God, you feel good!"
She nuzzled his neck. "And you smell good. What is it?"
"Some fancy stuff of Pa's. My stepmother gave it to him for Christmas. I just never got around to throwing it out." And he'd reached for it that morning, thinking that Genny would expect him to be all fancied up to meet her folks. He knew he'd surprised her with the dinner jacket.
"Pretty sexy stuff," she said, nibbling now. "Makes you smell good enough to eat."
Resentment had been simmering within him all day. Resentment at the lack of Genny's attention, at feeling overdressed and uncomfortable in his own home, and especially at the memories of earlier parties, where Pa had been an expansive and relaxed host. Rock could do the pretty with the best of them, but it didn't come natural to him like it had to Pa. Like it did to Genny. He had to work at social interaction, then afterward all he wanted to do was crawl off into a cave and be alone for a week or two.
"If you're hungry, there's still some barbecue left." He pulled back, finding her nibbling irritating, rather than the erotic experience it had been only seconds ago.
Genny looked up at Rock in surprise. One second he'd been holding her almost too close for comfort; the next he was growling at her like a dog whose favorite bone was being threatened. All day she'd been aware of him, greeting guests, smiling his welcome, making everyone feel at home. It had been a side to him she'd never suspected. Although she'd seen occasional instances of him possessing social graces, for the most part Rock McConnell was a cowboy. He shot from the hip, and people always knew where they stood with him.
"Okay," she agreed. "Sounds good to me." She slipped out of his arms and headed for the barbecue table. She had been smelling it all afternoon, but somehow had never found time to come and sample. Instead she'd snatched sweets and salted nuts from the dining table as she rushed past it, involved with one or another of her many hostess duties. Suddenly she was ravenous. "Coming?" She looked back over her shoulder to see Rock standing where she'd left him, his frown back in place.
He finally followed her, parting the dancers before him where she'd had had to weave her way among them.
"Oh, my, this is delicious," Genny said a few minutes later. She'd slipped a sliver of the tender beef into her mouth while waiting for Tad Williams to carve more slices off the enormous hunk of meat on the maple slab.
"Try the beans," Rock
said, dumping a dipper-full into her plate, where they buried the coleslaw and half the bread. "Old family recipe." He accepted two huge slices of meat. Genny quickly pulled her plate away before Tad could give her a similar sized portion.
"All right," she said, once they were seated at one end of the long row of tables. "Let's have it. What's bothering you? You're acting like a spoiled brat."
The glare he leveled on her could have scorched the hide off an elephant. "Why nothin' atall, little lady. I'm doin' just fine."
"Bull puckey! You've been ready to take a swing at someone--anyone--for two weeks. Ever since that day down in Cricket Canyon." Realization dawned. "Ever since I showed you I could take care of myself."
"You're imagining things." He forked up a slice of meat and began chewing it vigorously. His gaze burned at her across the table.
"I don't think so. Something's really bothering you, Rock, and I think it has to do with me, with who I am. What I am." Reaching across the table, she took hold of his left wrist. The tendons shifted under her hand, strong and supple. "Are you still angry because I went down after Mary Beth instead of waiting for you?"
"No!" He slammed down his fork and picked up the spoon. A mouthful of beans followed the meat. "It was a stupid stunt, but I'm not angry."
"Then what are you angry about?"
"Nothin'!" He tossed the spoon beside the almost full plate. "Not a goddam thing. Just drop it, will ya?"
"No, I won't. Everything was fine between us, then suddenly it wasn't. And I want to know why." Never mind that she had given serious thought to cooling their relationship herself. At least she would have told him, explained her reasons. She would never have simply cut him out of her life as he seemed to be trying to do to her.
He shoved the half-full plate away and stood. Leaning over the table, propped on his arms, he loomed over her. "You want to know? You really want to know?"
Never the Twain Page 15