Water Witch (9 page)

“What in the devil are you doing?”

Max’s head shot up. Dressed in old cutoffs and a faded orange sweatshirt, Sam Garrett stood almost close enough to touch. She looked from him to the branch in her hands, then back to Sam again. When she released her hold on one fork, the rod stilled, but she felt her stomach turn over and a terrible sinking feeling spread through her. She couldn’t bear for him, of all people, to ridicule her, and she searched her brain for some plausible explanation, or even a glib lie, but her mind was as blank as a new blackboard. There was nothing to do but brazen it out.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I’m locating the best place to drill for water.” She looked him straight in the eye, daring him to laugh. “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows were drawn together and his expression was solemn. “I somehow knew you’d be back on this hill at first light. How’s your hand?”

“My hand is fine. I’m a fast healer.”

He looked at the row of spads and plastic ribbons. “What are those?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the trail he indicated. “Markers.”

“What kind of markers?”

He wasn’t going to leave it alone, she thought, and sighed. “They indicate the path of a water vein,” she replied, trying to be as noncommittal as possible.

Cocking his head, he gave a little nod as if to say, “I see,” when it was obvious he didn’t see at all. “How could you tell where to mark?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her shoulders slumped in resignation. Again her gaze met his and she held up the willow branch. “With this.”

“With a stick?” He seemed puzzled for a moment, then his expression changed slowly as he grasped what she was saying. “Do you mean you’re a water witch? I thought you were a geologist.”

“I am a geologist,” she said. “And I’m not any kind of a witch. I’m a dowser.”

For Sam to say he was shocked would be an understatement. He couldn’t believe that Max would be involved in such superstitious nonsense. Surely she didn’t expect to drill a well based on some kind of hocus-pocus. The whole idea was outrageous. Crazy. He was just about to voice his opinion when he noted the pugnacious tilt of her chin. He was beginning to recognize that unconscious gesture of hers. Nobody had ever accused Sam Garrett of being a fool. He wasn’t about to do or say anything to get her dander up again.

“Hmm,” he said, struggling to keep his comments neutral and his thoughts to himself. “Interesting. How long have you been doing this kind of thing?”

“Since I was a little girl. My grandfather was a dowser.” She searched Sam’s face for any sign of censure but found none. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she relaxed. “I know you probably think it’s crazy—most people do, so I usually don’t talk about it—but I’m really quite good at it.” She laid the branch on the boulder, wiped her damp hands on her jeans, and leaned against the big rock.

Sam picked up the forked stick and examined it. “Why don’t you show me how this thing works.”

So used to keeping her special talent a secret, Max hesitated for a moment, watching him closely for any expression indicating his interest wasn’t genuine. He seemed sincere. And he hadn’t laughed outright. For that alone she wanted to hug him.

“Okay.” She picked up the rod and walked to a place away from the markers. “I hold one prong in each hand with the tip pointed up like this.” She demonstrated the correct position, then added, “Now I walk slowly across an area.” She stepped a few paces. “If there’s no water, nothing happens. But watch what happens when I approach the spot I’ve marked.” As she came closer to her prime target, the branch began to quiver violently, then turned down again. “See?”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Sam shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Here,” he said, reaching for the rod, “let me try that.”

Walking slowly over the rocky terrain, he imitated Max’s action. Nothing happened. Not a single wiggle or a quiver. He tried again. Nothing. “It doesn’t seem to work for me. Are you sure it isn’t your imagination?”

Indignant, she shot him a black glare. “Of course it isn’t my imagination! I’ve been dowsing for water and oil for years. I’ve never missed. Ask John Ramsey how many dry wells he ever hit where I told him to drill.”

“My God, woman, do you mean to tell me that a company actually hired a dowser to find oil?”

Oh shoot, she hadn’t meant to tell him that. Feeling uncomfortable about her disclosure, she mumbled something and shrugged.

“What?” he demanded.

Scowling, she repeated, “I said they didn’t exactly know how Dowser and I located it.”

Sam glanced over at the Doberman who sat on his haunches, lolling his tongue and looking from Max to Sam. “Do you mean he’s in on it too?”

“He doesn’t seem to be any good with water, but he’s great with oil.”

“Does he have his own little stick?”

“Dammit, Sam, you don’t have to act like such a horse’s rear about it!” She turned and clomped off toward the truck.

He caught up with her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Angel, I’m sorry. But this whole thing has taken me by surprise. You have to admit it sounds peculiar. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee and you can explain to me how it works.”

He picked up a thermos leaning against a tree, poured two mugs full, and handed her one.

“Where did this come from?” she asked.

“I brought it for you to wake up with this morning, but you were gone when I got to the cottage.” He took a sip from his cup and said, “Explain about the dowsing.”

“Nobody seems to know exactly how it works. I’ve done some reading about it. Although a lot of scientists in the United States think it’s a bunch of bunk, a few of them have been investigating the phenomenon. And the Russians have been studying it seriously for years. Certain individuals seem to have the ability to locate subterranean deposits—everything from water to all kinds of ores. The art of radiesthesia, or sensitivity to radiations, has been practiced for several thousand years for all sorts of things.”

“I’m intrigued,” he said. “But why does it work for you and not for me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know why it works for some people and not for others. My grandfather said I had ‘the touch,’ but I suspect it’s simply something we don’t understand yet, some biophysical sensitivity that acts according to perfectly natural laws, like a dog’s keen sense of hearing or smell. Dowser can sniff oil and I can find it with a rod. We always agreed and we always found oil.”

“You mean that dog can sniff oil?”

She nodded. “But I suspect that it’s because of where I found him. I was working in the oil patch when I came upon him. He was little more than a puppy, beaten and half starved. Somebody had treated him badly and he was almost dead. I took him home with me and nursed him. I’ve always supposed he associates my finding him with oil, because he can sniff it out.”

She took a swallow of coffee and watched Sam, who seemed to be deep in thought. She wondered if he believed a word of what she’d told him. And she wondered if his feelings for her would change now that he knew about her strange ability. Suddenly, that thought brought a profound ache to her throat and a hollow feeling to her chest. It was as if the world were on hold while she waited for his reaction.

Finally he looked up and smiled. “Well, Angel, if you’re convinced there’s water here, I guess we’d better decide what to do next.”

A gush of happiness burst through her, and she smiled as the world moved again. He believed her. “There’s water here all right. I just have to figure out how deep to drill.” She set her cup down and opened the truck door. She selected a straight willow stick about a foot and a half long and walked back to the site with Sam trailing along behind.

Max squatted down beside the boulder and held out the stick a few inches above the last marker and parallel to the ground. It began bobbing up and down rapidly, and she felt a jolt of excitement as she watched it.

It was exceptional. Shallow and at least thirty gallons a minute.

“Look at it, Sam. Look at it!” She jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Did you see that? Did you see it? Oh, I can’t believe it.” She was laughing and crying and kissing him. “Oh, Sam, isn’t it wonderful?”

He caught her to him. “I like it,” he said, grinning as she planted more kisses on his face. “I think you missed a spot right here.” He pointed to his chin. She laughed and smacked the place he indicated. “Now it’s my turn,” he said, leaning down to drop a kiss on her chin, another on her cheek. Another on the corner of her mouth.

But his kisses weren’t quick busses spawned by an exuberant spirit. They were soft-lipped, slow, and trailing promises of things to come. The mood changed as his tongue traced the outline of her lips, flicked across the slight parting of them. Then his mouth slanted over hers with a hunger that was palpable. Warmth flooded her whole body, and she pulled his head down, straining to increase the delicious sensation.

With one broad hand he scooped her hips closer against him while the other slipped inside her jacket and found her breast. His hand was almost rough with need as he stroked the soft flesh. He rubbed her against his pelvis, and she could feel the strength of that need.

Pulling his mouth away, he nuzzled the side of her neck. His breathing was ragged as he said, “Touch me, Angel. I think I’ll die if I can’t feel your hand on my skin.”

A surge of desire poured through her, and she glided a hand up under his sweatshirt, rubbed along his back, slipped around to explore the taut muscles of his chest. She felt him shudder under her fingers, and she grew heady with the knowledge that her touch could affect him so.

“Do you have any idea how much I want you, Angel? I lie awake at night imagining your sweet hands on me, imagining you lying in my bed, imagining my . . .”

His words made her knees go weak, and his lips claimed hers again with a fierceness that brought oblivion to everything except the two of them. His tongue thrust into her mouth with bold rhythmic strokes and he reached for the snap of her jeans.

At the sound of the pop, Sam and Max both stilled. He dragged his mouth from the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. Both of them were shaking, and her breath wasn’t any steadier than his. She was mortified that she had allowed things to go so far with a man she’d only known for three days, that she had been ripe and ready to make passionate love with Sam Garrett on a rocky hill. In broad daylight. In front of God and everybody. It wasn’t like her. She didn’t do things like this. But then she hadn’t been herself since the night she’d nailed Sam’s pants to the wall and first looked into those green eyes.

What must he think? It was her fervent wish that a fissure would open beneath her feet and she would slip into it and drop to China.

For what seemed like eons to her, Sam just stood there, eyes closed, sucking in great gulps of air. After a while he chuckled.

“Love, you do strange things to my body and my good sense. In another minute I’d have had you stripped and on the rocks.” He refastened her jeans, straightened up, and stepped back. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away.” He ran shaky fingers through his hair. “Not with you. Not here. Not now.”

She looked up at him and blinked. Now she was even more embarrassed. And irritated. Not with her, he’d said. A mountain of old insecurities teetered, threatening to crush her. Did he think she was beneath him? She fought the old feelings, stiffened her spine, and glared at him. Wasn’t an out of work geologist good enough for a retired millionaire sheep tender cum lousy artist? Well, he could just–

He cupped the side of her face and rubbed a gentle thumb across her lips. “I have other plans for you, Angel. Long-range plans. And softer places in mind for the first time we make love.”

As she gazed into river-green eyes filled with tender yearning, with warmth and laughter, Max was mesmerized. Her thoughts fled. She couldn’t have strung enough words together to make a coherent sentence if her life were at stake. Compared to Sam, Svengali was a neophyte.

“Right now, my lovely water witch, we need to get this show on the road.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I figure that the sooner we can get somebody up here to start drilling, the sooner we can get on with”—he shot her a licentious grin—”more important things. How deep do you think we’ll have to drill? Most wells around here are seven or eight hundred feet. That’s as deep as my crew drilled any of the holes. Maybe we can go down to nine hundred or a thousand. It’s worth a try.”

His words were like a bucket of ice water. The spell broke and her chin came up. “We? We? Where did you get this we? It’s my project, Sam. I can handle it without any help. But thank you for offering,” she added stiffly.

“Do you have your own crew and equipment?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’ll arrange for it today.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, draping an arm around her shoulders, “do you know how much per foot it costs to drill through solid rock?”

There was that condescending tone again. It made her hackles rise. “Certainly,” she said, shaking off his arm. “I’m not stupid. But I won’t have to drill a thousand feet. Or even seven hundred. The water is less than a hundred feet down.”

“A hundred feet? Hell, Max, nobody hits water around here at a hundred feet.”

Her chin lifted even higher and her black eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m going to hit water at a hundred feet. Even less than that, I expect. Maybe nearer seventy-five. And furthermore it’s going to pump enough to keep Honey Bear’s swimming pool, and half the swimming pools in Kerrville,” she added, waving her hand toward town, “full to the brim.”