Never the Twain (6 page)

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?"

Dumbly she nodded.

He touched the brim of his hat and pulled the door shut behind him.

Genny had to admire his restraint. She would have slammed it, after a great exit line like
that.

"Wait a minute!" The soft click of the latch brought her out of her self-imposed daze. She
leapt for the door, only to find it locked and the latch, as usual, unbudging. Flying to the front
window, she pushed it open and yelled into the night. "McConnell! Rock McConnell, you just wait
one minute, you hear me!"

The roar of his pickup's engine was her only reply.

"Darn it, anyhow!" She pounded a futile fist on the windowsill. He'd had the last word and
it galled.

Oh, how it galled.

A sleepless night convinced Genny that something had to be done. By rights, she ought to
step aside and let her boss deal with Rock about his proposed waterhole. That way she needn't ever
see him again, unless she encountered him by accident.

The very thought made her feel empty.

After two...no, three meetings, Rock McConnell had become important to her. Too
important to walk away from. She didn't know where their relationship was going, but she wanted
to.

Relationship! Ha! Right now all they had was an emotional battlefield in which there could
be no winners. His waterhole was not the issue between them, although it was the most obvious and
immediate source of contention.

She hated contention. Even more, she hated the kind of one-upmanship that she and Rock
McConnell were engaging in. It reminded her too much of her childhood, when she and her
brothers were always trying to get the best of each other. They'd probe for weaknesses, then poke
and prod until they infuriated each other.

Of course, the outcome wasn't the same as it always had been at home. No one in Oregon
was going to insist she concede authority to Rock. Male and older didn't necessarily mean wiser,
even though that was the way it had been at home.

What really got to her was that she'd been on the verge of apologizing to him, purely out
of habit. All those years of biting her tongue and giving in to the Forsythe men were behind her and
she darned well wasn't going to let Rock McConnell push her around as her father and brothers
had.

All she owed a certain arrogant cowboy was the same consideration and civility she owed
anyone who held a grazing preference on the District.

"Once I can give him some definite word on his range improvement permit application,"
she told Marmalade while they were having breakfast, "we won't have anything to fight about. That's
all I want."

All?
She could lie to her cat, but she couldn't lie to herself. Her personal reaction
to him was what was troubling her. She couldn't remember ever wanting a man like she did him. Her
reaction last night hadn't only been a natural response to the sight and feel of a sexy, virile man.
Sure, she had wanted to kiss him, to feel the wiry strength of him under her hands. But she had also
wanted to lean on him, to draw strength from him, to know he was there for her, no matter what.
She wanted, God help her, all she could have from him.

"No, you cannot crawl into the 'fridge." She used her foot to push the cat aside as she
replaced milk and sandwich spread. "What's wrong with me, Marmalade? I'm not sure I even like the
man, yet I'm worrying about his being so angry that he won't want to see me again."

The cat ignored her. Probably just as well.

"Am I sex-starved? Is that it?" She stacked her dish and cup in the sink. Picking up her
Thermos, she paused, the lid half unscrewed. "No, that's not it. I haven't even thought about
sex--well, not much--since I came to Oregon. It's something else."

Marmalade looked interested, but had no answers for Genny. He was more concerned with
the empty water dish beside his food bowl.

"Why does he make me crazy?"

Operating on automatic, Genny filled the Thermos, packed a lunch, watered the cat, and
grabbed her gear bag. All the while, her mind chewed on the problem of Rock McConnell.

If she had any brains at all, she wouldn't get any more involved with him. He was another
despot, the kind of man who had to be the big boss. He probably thought it was a woman's role to
get up on Sunday morning and cook breakfast, to shop and clean and all those other domestic things
that had filled his grandmother's days.

Genny knew all about men like that. She'd lived with four of them.

Five, if you counted her Grandfather Forsythe, who'd dominated the household until his
death when she was about six. He'd been worse than her father and three brothers all together.

She often wondered if it was in the Forsythe genes, or just a learned characteristic. Winning
through intimidation--that's what her male relatives did. And in doing so, they wore away at one's
self-confidence, until you gave in because you'd forgotten that you could do anything else.

"'Bye, Marmalade. See you this evening." She waved at the cat, watching from the kitchen
window, and carried her bike down the back stairs. What a wonderful morning. The air, dry as
always, smelled clean and fresh. A faint tang of sagebrush tantalized, and the slight breeze ruffled
wisps of hair already escaping her braids.

She strapped the gear bag to her bike's carrier and mounted, looking forward as always to
the mile-and-a-half ride before she entered the office. She was finished with fieldwork for the week.
Her in-box was piled high with paperwork that could not be ignored and there were several phone
calls she had to return. Given the restless, uncertain mood she was in, sitting in the office was
absolutely the last thing she wanted to do. She needed to be out, away from even the small outpost
of civilization that Vale represented.

If only she could escape, today. She had a lot of thinking to do. Rock had such a strong
personality that she was very much afraid he would force her...
No, face the truth, Genny.
She
was afraid she'd fall so deeply under his spell that she'd slip back into the passive role she'd learned
so young and had fought for years to unlearn.

"I don't see why Miss Forsythe would want to delay the project, Rock." Pancho's dark,
square face reflected the puzzlement in his voice. "Didn't she say that finding qualified people this
late in the season was often a problem?" He wrapped the thick roast beef sandwich in clear plastic.
"Perhaps we are fortunate that she was able to find someone available this year."

"By the time they get here, the summer's goin' to be half over!" Rock wished he'd been
here instead of Pancho, when Genny called. He'd have gotten some answers.

"Only a few weeks," Pancho said. "She thought they could be at work by the middle of
July."

"Hell's fire, Pancho! In a few weeks we could have the whole dam finished!" Rock scooped
his lunch from the counter. "Call her back...no, never mind. I'll talk to her." He stomped out,
knowing Pancho was chuckling behind his back.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. Most of the time he felt like a bronc with a burr
under its saddle.

With a wave, he headed for the corral, grateful for an excuse to do a little work for a
change, instead of sitting in his office. He had a dozen things to do of more importance than riding
fence, but this morning he needed to ride fence. Not in the pickup, either. He needed to do it the
old way, the way Pa and Gramps had, from horseback, armed only with a staple puller, a hammer,
and a bag of staples.

Shortly thereafter Rock spurred Bourbon into a canter, relaxing with the tranquilizing
effect of the big gelding's easy gait. He needed to think, and the best way to do that was while he
was engaged in some mindless task.

He had some pretty deep thinking to do, that was for certain. Never in his life had he failed
so spectacularly in reading horses, weather, or women as he had with Genny Forsythe.

The sun and solitude gradually had its way with him. The tenseness in his jaw relaxed, as
did the stiffness in his neck. Gradually he fell into the swing of Bourbon's gait, instead of fighting it.
By the time he'd found and fixed the first loose wire, he was feeling pretty good.