Never the Twain Page 4

  Genny tugged at his shirt where it tucked into his Levi's, pulling it free so her hands could touch his naked back. Not satisfied, she pushed her fingers under the belt sitting low and tight against his hips, seeking the rounded strength of his buttocks, even as she felt his fingers fumbling at her bra clasp.

  "Let me...." she heard herself say, not sure what she wanted of him, but knowing she wanted...wanted....

  He left her mouth, left it feeling plundered and empty. The roughness of his fingertips scraped against the tender skin of her belly even as he nipped along her throat. She shivered again, this time from fires within, the compelling need he was creating. His savage mouth closed over her nipple, tugging fiercely until her whole being felt pulled into him.

  From somewhere, a last vestige of common sense grabbed and held Genny before her knees could buckle. She stiffened against him, even as she felt a swell of regret that wherever they'd been heading was not a road she could take. "Stop."

  His arms tightened and his mouth continued its insistent suckling.

  Feeling like she was being swept along on some unstoppable wave, she gasped, "Rock, please. Please!"

  He ignored her, except to trace a line of fiery kisses up her neck, across her trembling chin. Again he took her mouth.

  Before her wavering shreds of resistance could melt forever, she grabbed his ears and forced his head back and away, hating the feeling of deprivation her action caused.

  Rock growled in his throat. He jerked her back against him, but Genny was determined. She knew a lot of sneaky tricks from a childhood spent with three older brothers and innumerable male cousins. She pulled her head away, stuck out her tongue, and blew a loud raspberry right in his face.

  "What the--"

  "That's as far as we go, Rock. No more." Her assertiveness training did her more good than it ever had before. She was able to keep her voice firm, her tone decisive. None of her emotional wobble showed. Thank God!

  He cursed, in a voice low and dangerous. Genny felt her ears start to burn, but she kept a pleasant non-expression on her face. Guiltily she waited, for she was all the things he was saying and more. She had teased, had invited his actions. She had all but thrown herself at his feet, for Pete's sake!

  She felt a little like cursing herself, except she'd never found it to be a satisfying method of relieving frustration.

  Rock picked up his fancy felt hat from where it lay in the dust at their feet. He was quiet now, but she read anger and residual strain in the tight lines around his mouth.

  "Beg your pardon, little...ma'am," he said, his drawl more pronounced than she'd heard it before. "I surely am sorry for exposing your ears to that kind of strong language."

  Genny laid one hand on his arm. "Rock, I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean for that to happen." She would have given anything, just then, to wipe the anger from his narrow blue eyes.

  "The hell you didn't," he said.

  Chapter Four

  "The helicopter was much faster," Genny told Dixie, the bay mare who was carrying her out of Skeleton Gulch at a slow plod. "Not to mention the pilot being a lot better looking than either of you."

  Dixie swished her tail and flicked one ear. Mort, following on a lead, snorted. To Genny it seemed as if both the horse and the mule were telling her what a fool she was.

  They weren't telling her anything she didn't know. For two weeks she had been wondering what she could have done differently, that day at the Rock and Rye. She could still feel the chill from Rock after she pushed him away. He had gone from fiery to absolute zero in a single breath.

  And his snarled accusation, that she had deliberately teased, then called a halt to his embrace, had stung as deeply as had his icy demeanor. She had not been teasing him!

  Well, yes, she had. She had been flirting, but never--not in a thousand years--had she ever expected her sassy flirtation to lead to the raw emotion that had flared between them at Rock's first kiss. She had expected him to reciprocate, to play along with, perhaps, some sexy repartee. He'd make a few suggestive remarks, she'd respond. They'd both understand that nothing would come of it except a kiss or two.

  Instead she got the surprise of her life. Rock McConnell played for keeps. He didn't kiss and cuddle for fun like most of the men she'd dated. When he kissed, it was the first step toward bed.

  Why had she been surprised?

  Rock's response had been perfectly consistent with her behavior. That had been no sassy flirtation and it was high time she admitted as much. She'd given him a come-on as blatant as could be.

  And he'd responded with raw sexual hunger.

  Dixie hopped sideways, almost unseating her. The adjacent sagebrush shook, then an enormous jackrabbit burst from its opposite side. Even while she blushed in unseen chagrin at her distraction, Genny chuckled. "You old faker," she told the horse. "Don't try to tell me that's the first jack you've ever seen."

  The horse ignored her.

  That was all right, because she needed to think about where her duty lay. Petroglyphs--pictures carved into rock--were common in this region. There were many of them along major rivers, from Wyoming to Washington. The ones she'd found in Armbone were some of the best preserved and most sophisticated she'd seen yet. The incised rock surface had been painted, and traces of the pigments remained, preserved by the dry desert air for hundreds--thousands?--of years. The Skeleton Gulch petroglyphs were of native mammals, antelope and mule deer, cougar and bear, carved deeply into the green rock face, high on a wall from which all hand- and footholds had long since exfoliated.

  The excitement she'd felt when she found the first one returned, reminding Genny of Christmas morning. Old homesteads and tipi rings were interesting, but this was an original discovery, one she might even get a paper from. At least a note in one of the archaeological journals.

  She wondered if Rock would understand the importance of her discovery. He'd said little when she described the possible scenarios which might affect his waterhole permit. They'd ranged from a denial--if valuable archaeological or anthropological resources were found on-site--to an immediate go-ahead--if no evidence of aboriginal use or fossils were found in Skeleton Gulch.

  She hadn't been surprised when he'd expressed a strong preference for the latter.

  She knew he'd be relieved to know she'd found no evidence of aboriginal occupation of Shinbone. There was some indication that its entrance had been blocked by a rockfall for a long time. She didn't think proving the lack of human artifacts would be difficult. Then all they'd have to do before she could sign off on his application was check the site for plant and animal fossils. If Frank and Elaine were still available, Rock should know by September, at the latest.

  * * * *

  Rock read the letter again, still not believing the words on the official stationery. "Because of the necessity to conduct further studies, we will be unable to act on your request for a range improvement permit in Skeleton Gulch at this time. Thorough investigation of the site must take place prior to our considering any alterations of existing conditions. An Environmental Assessment may also be required. Your application will be kept on file until such time as a decision can be made."

  "Hellsfire and brimstone!" He tossed the letter back onto his desktop. Although the signature was Dan Walters', Rock knew the letter had been drafted by a slender hand with bright red fingernails. He knew he shouldn't expect any special treatment, but hell! Couldn't she have at least given him some hope?

  "Trouble, Rock?"

  "Yeah, Pancho. Looks like we're not going to get our waterhole in Shinbone this year. The BLM archaeologist found some Indian paintings in Armbone and she's got to 'investigate' them before she'll sign off on our application." He snorted in derision before quoting, "'Miocene plant fossils are common in the Sucker Creek Formation.' You've seen those fossil beds up along Succor Creek. There's more leaves on rocks in Owyhee Country than there are on trees."

  Pancho eased himself into a chair. "How long will their studies take?"


  "Months. Maybe years." Rock suspected the knee which had been crushed under a falling horse was bothering his cook again. Pancho had been one of his Pa's best hands until the accident broke half the bones in his body and left him with a limp and intermittent pain. Where most men would have become bitter and railed against the unfairness of life, Pancho had set out to become the best ranch cook in Owyhee Country. In Rock's opinion, he'd succeeded.

  He was also Rock's sounding board and best friend, never mind the difference in their ages.

  "So what do you plan?"

  "Damned if I know," Rock growled. "I don't have a lot of choices in that area. That seep up Shinbone is the only source of water for miles, outside the reservoir."

  "Have you spoken with Ms. Forsythe about the time her investigations will take?"

  "Huh!" Swinging to his feet, Rock paced the confines of his office. "She probably won't give me the time of day." Why did that realization sting? He'd been the one to run her off his ranch, to refuse to listen to her feeble apology.

  That fool woman! He knew a come-on when he saw one. She'd been hot to trot until she found out he wasn't going to be satisfied with a couple of sweet little kisses. Then she'd run as scared as a cottontail on a coyote's supper menu.

  He'd let himself get distracted by her obvious charms--a pretty face and a sexy body--and forgotten how treacherous all women were. How she must have laughed at his discomfort, when she brought him to full arousal and left him panting.

  He'd liked her! That frosted him. Most women bored him, with their talk of cooking and kids, or parties and clothes. Genny Forsythe had a head on her shoulders. She could carry on an intelligent conversation. Finding that the painted fingernails and the bleached hair typified the real person more than the BLM uniform and well-worn boots was a real disappointment to him.

  Maybe it was just as well he'd given in to his urges and showed her what he wanted. He'd bet his bottom dollar she wouldn't be comin' back for more.

  Nope. He knew scared when he saw it.

  Still, he couldn't believe how strong he'd come on. Rock prided himself on never losing control of his emotions, for all he might sometimes seem to have a pretty short fuse on his temper. That was deliberate, considering. Sweet reason didn't always work with cattlemen. Sometimes a man just had to show a little backbone, lose his temper and cuss a mite.

  Until he met Genny Forsythe, Rock's temper had been more for effect than for real.

  "Would it not be worth your while to speak to the young woman, Boss? She struck me as having good sense and lacking vindictiveness."

  Rock knew he was in trouble when Pancho called him "Boss." The semi-honorific was reserved for making a public impression and for giving him hell. This was one of the latter occasions.

  "Take my word for it, Pancho. That little gal's not going to do me any favors."

  "I do not believe you. She has her professional pride. No matter how you offended her, she will treat you as she would any other rancher where your permit application is concerned."

  "How I offended her? What makes you think I offended her?" He'd given her what she asked for, hadn't he?

  Pancho struggled to his feet and limped to the door. Just before he exited Rock's office he turned back, an unholy grin on his face. "From the whisker burns on her face, Rock. And from the glaze in her eyes when she came through the kitchen that afternoon." He winked.

  "Tarnation! A man's got no privacy around here!" Rock kicked the desk leg, then swore when he did more damage to his toes than to the desk. He'd forgotten he was still wearing his moccasins.

  * * * *

  A pounding at her front door startled Genny. She gave the dustrag a last swirl across the bedside stand before hurrying to answer. From the sound, whoever had come calling wasn't particularly patient.

  The silhouette she saw through the frosted glass of her door was unmistakable. What the dickens could her least favorite cowboy want?

  As she worked the stubborn dead bolt, she denied the small voice reminding her how that cowboy had made her feel, the last time she saw him. "He made me angry," she muttered, leaning on the door and trying again to turn the latch. It remained unmoved. "That's all he made me feel."

  "Go around to the back," she called though the window. "This door's stuck."

  His hand went to the brim of his hat. Genny found herself wondering why she had answered the door at all, once she saw who was there. She could have pretended not to be home, couldn't she?

  No, she couldn't, she admitted. Not to Rock. Angry as she was with his unfounded accusation, she still wanted to see him again, wanted to get to know him better. There was something elemental about Rock McConnell, something that called to feelings she'd never experienced, to needs she'd never admitted.

  But she wasn't going to flirt with him again. This was one man who took his flirtations seriously, and Genny was not planning to get serious, especially not with an arrogant cowboy. She'd had her fill of masculine arrogance.

  She opened the door just as he reached it. "What do you want?" If there was going to be an advantage, it would be hers.

  "To talk to you." His voice was gentle, soft. But the steel was there, underneath. "May I come in?"

  She wasn't fooled by his pose--proud head slightly bowed and wide-brimmed hat held between his hands. It was a classic stance from all the cowboy flicks she'd ever seen. Genny stepped aside, motioning him inside.

  He stood in the center of her small living room, looking about.

  His very presence seemed to fill the room, as if he used up more than his share of space, of air. Marmalade jumped from the sofa and sniffed his fancy boot. Traitorous cat that he was, he must have liked the scent, for he stropped himself against Rock's leg, purring a welcome.

  "Sit down." Genny gestured to the sofa, hoping if he were seated he would seem less...less huge and intimidating.

  Stop it, Genille. Nobody intimidates you anymore, remember.

  "After you." He remained standing until she curled into the recliner.

  The gentleman was more difficult for her to deal with than the rude cowboy had been, down in Succor Creek Canyon--or that awful afternoon at his ranch. One could take umbrage at rudeness; one had to respond to good manners like a lady. But she didn't have to offer him refreshments. One could be polite without making someone feel welcome.

  She waited for him to open the conversation.

  "I talked to Walters," he said into the expectant silence. "He said it was your recommendation that put the hold on my waterhole."

  "That's right."

  "He said the studies you want done could be done this summer or they could take a year or two."

  "That's right." She wasn't going to help him. From the set of his mouth, she knew that he was being polite and mild only with an effort.

  "If it turns out that there are plant fossils down there, I don't see how that affects my waterhole. The water won't even come close to the base of the walls. So how could my cows possibly disturb anything? They don't climb."

  "It's not the cattle that worry me, Rock." Genny shifted restlessly in her chair. She had to make him understand what she wasn't entirely comfortable with, herself. "It's the moisture. I don't know what it might do to any fossil leaves in the rocks. Once we fill the canyon--the gulch--with water all year around, how can we know what will happen to them?"

  His left foot, which had been lying across his right knee, slammed to the floor. "Hell's fire, woman! You're supposed to be the expert! If you don't know how my water hole's gonna hurt your putrefied leaves, who does?"

  "I...I don't know, Rock," she faltered. "I haven't had time yet to search the literature on the effects of atmospheric moisture on embedded fossil leaves. I'm an anthropologist, not an historical geologist."

  Everyone she'd called for information had been in the field. She had left messages at three universities, but it could be a week or more before even one returned her call. She didn't think the moisture would do any harm, but she wanted to
be certain. Elaine should know, but it still wasn't definite whether she and Frank could find time for Skeleton Gulch this season.

  "So you're gonna lock up the gulch until you can read some more books?" He rose from the sofa and towered over her. "How long's that gonna take? Months? Years?"

  "I simply don't know. We could be finished this summer, if we're lucky. And if the people I want are available to do the investigation. I've done all I can do until I hear from them. That might take a while; they're out in the field too, working on their theses." She shrugged, helplessly. "But that's not all."

  He raised a dark eyebrow.

  "If early inhabitants were in Armbone long enough and often enough to create the petroglyphs I saw, they must have left other traces. We're going to have to examine Shinbone very carefully. It could be years before you get your waterhole."

  "What!"

  Oh, man. Now it's going to hit the fan, for sure. "We have to explore all of Skeleton Gulch, look for other artifacts, try to determine how long ago the site was used. Who used it? How long was it in use? We don't know and we need to find out." She heard the tremor in her voice with the last sentence. Rock's face had grown grimmer and harder with her every word. Should she tell him the rest? Tell him that if Shinbone showed use contemporary with Armbone, he might never get his waterhole. No, not now. She valued her hide.

  "Well, hell!" His tone was very soft. Very quiet and very dangerous.

  "Rock, I'm sorry. Truly. There wasn't anything personal in..."

  "Little lady, I don't like being made a fool of and you've been doing your best to do just that ever since I made the mistake of bein' neighborly." He slapped the hat on his head and stalked to her front door. With an easy twist and a jerk, he had it open.

  Genny had only been able to open it once since she moved in two months ago.

  Standing in the open doorway, he faced her. His glare hurt. "I can't prove it, Ms. Forsythe, but I got a strong hunch you set me up. Okay. But remember this: Owyhee Country's my stompin' ground, and I know exactly how tough it can be on a pretty little city gal like you. Just don't expect me or my boys to pull your irons out of any fires." He looked her up and down, and Genny could feel her clothing smoldering under his gaze. "You get yourself up a crick without a paddle, Ms. Forsythe, and you get your own self out of it. Understand?"