Never the Twain

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2007

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Judith B. Glad

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-028-1
ISBN 10: 1-60174-028-X

Cover art and design by Judith B. Glad

Originally published in a shorter version by Treble Heart Books, 2002.

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter
invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

When I was a little girl, my great-aunt Luella (whom we all called 'Yaya') told me bedtime
stories full of adventure and excitement, stories of a Wild West that never was, except in her
imagination. Each Saturday afternoon we would go to the double feature movie--cowboy flicks, full
of noble heroes in high-heeled boots, who defended the underdogs, ran the bad guys out of town,
and always shot straight and true.

Yaya has been gone for many years, but the lessons she taught me are still part of my life.
Even today, I expect my heroes (real and imaginary) to live up to the standards set by those
cowboys. So this book is lovingly dedicated to Yaya, who taught me the measure of a good
man.

And to Neil, who is the best one.

"When in doubt, walk the road first." Dan's warning echoed in her ears as Genny fought to
keep the wheels on high ground between the deep ruts. No matter what the topo map said, this was
not a road.

She could accept cowpath, maybe. Game trail. Even a track cut by a covered wagon's
wheels a hundred years ago.

But not a road.

For the thousandth time, she wiped her dripping forehead with a dirt-streaked forearm,
dipping her head so she wouldn't have to release her death grip on the wheel. As she guided it
around still another tight, blind curve, the truck seemed to hang over empty space.

Her route was cut by a deep gully, fully ten feet wide and half that deep. She slowed still
more, shifted the truck into low-low four-wheel-drive, and eased it across. When the back wheels
finally climbed out onto comparatively level ground, she stopped, leaving the engine idling.

Forcing her fingers to unclench from the steering wheel, Genny took a deep, steadying
breath and looked at her surroundings. Greenish soil crumbled from the hillside road cut. The
morning sun slanted across steep slopes scattered with shrubs--shadscale, sagebrush, and
rabbitbrush. Cheatgrass, just turning gold, swayed in the fitful breeze.

She had done it! Another challenge, and she had met it with her eyes open and her jaw set.
Maybe this wasn't the kind of excitement Aunt Sophie had predicted, but it did get her adrenaline
flowing.

"New Hampshire was never like this," she muttered, not regretting for a minute she was in
Oregon.

She was just reaching for the stick shift when the cattle burst into sight ahead of her.

Big cattle. Range cattle eager to attack a human on foot and gore and stomp her into
shreds of flesh and fragments of bone. She knew. She'd read her Zane Grey.

Stampeding. Right toward her. The one in front was nine feet tall, at least. She wondered if
BLM gave posthumous medals to employees killed in the performance of their duties. Her folks
should have that, at least.

Genny popped the clutch, killing the engine. She buried her face in her hands and waited
for the rampaging cattle to crowd her truck off the cliff.

"Hyah!" Swinging his lariat, Rock spurred Brandy after the brindle cow and her bucking
calf. He was herding them around the bend when he saw the red pickup blocking the road.
Microseconds later, he saw the Bureau of Land Management decal on its door.

"What the hell?"

He maneuvered Brandy through the milling cattle. The driver of the pickup seemed to be
sleeping, his head resting against the steering wheel. Or sick maybe?

Usually Rock had a lot of respect for the BLM people who managed the vast empty
rangelands of southeastern Oregon and southwestern Idaho. But this was spring, and sometimes the
federal agency sent wet-behind-the-ears kids to do seasonal work. He had a hunch this was one of
them. He hoped the kid wasn't so sick he'd have to call an ambulance, because his pickup and horse
trailer were parked several miles away, back where his cattle belonged. And the radio was in the
pickup.

He had his hand on the door handle before he saw the pale blonde braids draped over the
kid's shoulders. That nape, with its curling tendrils, was the farthest thing from masculine he'd ever
seen. Slim, hunched shoulders were shaking, and he noted bright pink fingernails on the hands
covering her face.

He jerked the door open.

"If you're gonna be sick, kid, pick a better place than the edge of a cliff."

He hadn't meant to sound so gruff. It was the fingernails that did it. Nobody wearing
fingernail polish had any business being out here in the middle of Succor Creek Canyon. Hadn't he
seen what the desert did to women like her?

"I'm not sick." The soft words were spoken in an accent Rock had heard before,
somewhere. But not often and not recently. "I was frightened."

"You oughta' be. Got no business out here alone." He reached across her lap to unfasten
her seat belt. At least she had the sense to wear one! As he did so, full breasts brushed his arm,
sending a faint message of desire to his belly and below. He ignored it. "Shove over."

She lifted a pale, heart-shaped face to him. Beads of sweat glistened on her upper lip and
temples. Smears of grime streaked her forehead. She smelled of perspiration and woman.

Damn!

"C'mon. Shove over, I said." He nudged her with one hip, pushing her across the bench
seat.

He saw anger spark in her eyes and firm her lips. Delicious lips, full and a little pouty.
Kissable.
Hell's fire!
He firmed his chin and his thoughts, nudging her again.

"I don't need you!" Smooth, well manicured hands--hands that had probably never cracked
from the cold or hardened from heavy work--clutched the steering wheel. He would either have to
pry her loose or try to drive the cattle across the steep slope below the trail.

"Lady, I want to get my cows back on my land before August, and it'll be a lot easier if
your truck isn't in the way. Now, are you gonna shove over and let me move this rig, or do I let 'em
climb right over the top of it?"

She released the wheel and slid across the seat. The glare she gave him could have heated
half a dozen branding irons.

Rock eased the pickup past the quickly dispersing cattle. Now he'd have to round them up
all over again. It'd be harder this time, with them scattered all over the hillside instead of bunched in
the meadow along the creek, where grass and water were sweet.

Double damn!

"What the hell did you think you were doing? Any damfool would have seen right up on
top this trail wasn't used regularly."

"I saw what looked like an old homestead," she said, her voice stronger now, but still
caressing his ears like soft suede. "The...the cows scared me. I've heard about how dangerous range
cattle can be."

Rock snorted. He could reassure her, but a healthy respect for some of these cows was not
unwarranted. She'd be safer if she stayed in her truck. Preferably all the way back to... Where had he
heard that accent before? It came from somewhere back East, he was sure.

"And like any dumb tenderfoot, you had to go down and take a picture of it for your
scrapbook." Every summer, he and the rest of the volunteer rescue group headed into the
backcountry to extricate some tourist from the consequences of his enthusiastic sightseeing. Never
found one in Succor Creek Canyon before, though. Down here it was usually snakebite that got the
rock-hunting tourists.

"No!" She sounded insulted. "It's part of my job. I'm doing an archaeological and historical
inventory of this District."

Triple damn!
Now he was going to have to worry about this girl all summer, or at
least until she moved on west of his grazing preference. Dan Walters had warned him there would
be a new archaeologist working on the Vale District this summer, one who'd be assigned to the
Shinbone project. Rock had expected an eager youngster, full of book learning and gung-ho, but at
least able to take care of himself.

Instead, he got a pretty little greenhorn who was as out of place in Owyhee Country as
teats on a bull. A lovely one who inexplicably made him want to conquer his prejudice against all the
little tricks women use to attract willing males.

Well, she'd find that willing was the last thing on his mind. All he needed from her was a
sign-off on his waterhole.

Genny flung herself across the seat with such force that she banged her shoulder on the
opposite door.
What a bully!

She smoldered while he eased the pickup down the last half-mile of poor excuse for a road.
The closer they got to the canyon floor, the steeper and rougher the track became, until Genny was
grudgingly thankful he had taken over for her. She could have done it, but would she have wanted
to?

"Here you go, little lady. Think you can get it back on top, or shall I drive you up?"

Arrogant, dumb cowboy!

"Mister, I can take this pickup anywhere you point me, and do it as well as anyone around."
She ignored the twitches at the corners of his mouth. His very sexy mouth.

Stop it, Genille. You're out here to do a job, not admire the scenery.
Grabbing her camera
and clipboard, she headed across the meadow.

His voice, mild and almost friendly, came from behind her. "Sure. And while you're doing
it, can you give me a lift back to my horse?"

"I came down here to investigate the buildings. I'll have to do it before I go back up."
Let him wait. Or walk back.

Genny felt a twinge of shame. He hadn't needed to help her out. He could have simply
waited until she got out of his way, driven his cattle off to wherever they were going. It was just that
his bossy style was all too familiar--and so was her knee-jerk reaction to it.

She hesitated. It really wouldn't take long to do a preliminary reconnaissance. Just to see if
the site deserved additional investigation. She wondered why it hadn't been marked on her
map.

"Go ahead. My cattle can't get spread out over more than a half section or so while we
wait." He swung out of the pickup, his mouth now definitely quirked in a mocking grin. "'Cept I
never knew BLM people did the state's work for 'em."

"What?" Genny was halfway across the meadow when his words caught up with her. "The
state? What do you mean?"

"This here's Oregon land, little lady. Part of the Succor Creek State Park." His expression
was infuriatingly, blandly, innocent. "I did hear they already decided this old homestead was a
keeper."

"I'll kill him," Genny muttered, before starting back toward the pickup. "I'll tear him limb
from limb."

"What's that, little lady? Who you gonna kill?"

"Dan." The name popped out before she could stop it. Her boss had assured her that all
the sites on state land were well marked or otherwise easily identifiable. Unfortunately, he had
misplaced the map showing their locations. "Never mind. Get in. I'll take you back to your
horse."

"Now that's mighty neighborly of you, little lady."

The sarcasm in his voice was so blatant she could almost see it dripping. What was his
problem? "Don't call me 'little lady'!"

"Yes, ma'am." He sauntered toward her, a hungry gleam in improbably blue eyes. Genny
felt the beginnings of warmth radiating from her middle regions.

"Get in," she repeated, slamming the driver's door. In her irritation, she nearly broke a
fingernail on the seat belt buckle. The sooner she was rid of him, the happier she'd be.

Going up wasn't nearly as difficult as going down. Or maybe it was because she already
knew what the road had in store for her, Genny thought. She wasn't even sure why she had
overreacted so much at the gully. She'd been driving farm roads ever since she was a kid, even
during mud season. At least this one was dry. Maybe it was just the excitement of being out on her
own at last. She resolved never to let go like that again. She was competent, darn it!

Ignoring the inner question concerning range cattle, Genny eased the pickup across the
gully, which looked considerably smaller from the downhill side. How often would she have to
contend with a stampede like today's, after all?