Never the Twain

B Glad Judith

Description

What do an archaeologist from Back East and a cowboy from the empty corner of Oregon have in common? Not much, except the waterhole that Rock McConnell needs for his cattle and Genny Forsythe must approve. First she has to make sure there are no prehistoric petroglyphs near the site, and that could take months of study. Now Rock isn't against preserving the past, but his cattle are gettin' mighty thirsty. Genny's youthful dreams were filled with cowboys, tall, lean, laconic, and Levi'd. Rock is all of them rolled into one gorgeous, virile man. Trouble is, she's had her fill of dominant males, and Rock is about as dominant as they come. Rock knows that delicate, feminine women can't last in the harsh environment of Owyhee Country, pretty women like Genny, with silvery hair and painted fingernails. But his body sings another tune, one of immediate, demanding hunger for her kisses--and more.Love will not be denied. Someone's got to bend, but who, and how much?

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781601740281
• Langue: English

Extrait

Never the Twain
 
By
Judith B. Glad
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2007
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein areproducts of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
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 inwhole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafterinvented, 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 bedtimestories full of adventure and excitement, stories of a Wild West that never was, except in herimagination. Each Saturday afternoon we would go to the double feature movie--cowboy flicks, fullof 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 thosecowboys. So this book is lovingly dedicated to Yaya, who taught me the measure of a goodman.
And to Neil, who is the best one.
Chapter One
"When in doubt, walk the road first." Dan's warning echoed in her ears as Genny fought tokeep the wheels on high ground between the deep ruts. No matter what the topo map said, this wasnot a road.
She could accept cowpath, maybe. Game trail. Even a track cut by a covered wagon'swheels 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 itaround 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 stillmore, shifted the truck into low-low four-wheel-drive, and eased it across. When the back wheelsfinally 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, steadyingbreath and looked at her surroundings. Greenish soil crumbled from the hillside road cut. Themorning sun slanted across steep slopes scattered with shrubs--shadscale, sagebrush, andrabbitbrush. 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 adrenalineflowing.
"New Hampshire was never like this," she muttered, not regretting for a minute she was inOregon.
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 intoshreds 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 ifBLM gave posthumous medals to employees killed in the performance of their duties. Her folksshould have that, at least.
Genny popped the clutch, killing the engine. She buried her face in her hands and waitedfor the rampaging cattle to crowd her truck off the cliff.
"Hyah!" Swinging his lariat, Rock spurred Brandy after the brindle cow and her buckingcalf. 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 besleeping, 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 emptyrangelands of southeastern Oregon and southwestern Idaho. But this was spring, and sometimes thefederal agency sent wet-behind-the-ears kids to do seasonal work. He had a hunch this was one ofthem. He hoped the kid wasn't so sick he'd have to call an ambulance, because his pickup and horsetrailer were parked several miles away, back where his cattle belonged. And the radio was in thepickup.
He had his hand on the door handle before he saw the pale blonde braids draped over thekid's shoulders. That nape, with its curling tendrils, was the farthest thing from masculine he'd everseen. Slim, hunched shoulders were shaking, and he noted bright pink fingernails on the handscovering 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 wearingfingernail polish had any business being out here in the middle of Succor Creek Canyon. Hadn't heseen 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 unfastenher 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 andtemples. 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 benchseat.
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 crackedfrom the cold or hardened from heavy work--clutched the steering wheel. He would either have topry 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 ifyour truck isn't in the way. Now, are you gonna shove over and let me move this rig, or do I let 'emclimb right over the top of it?"
She released the wheel and slid across the seat. The glare she gave him could have heatedhalf a dozen branding irons.
Rock eased the pickup past the quickly dispersing cattle. Now he'd have to round them upall over again. It'd be harder this time, with them scattered all over the hillside instead of bunched inthe 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 ontop this trail wasn't used regularly."
"I saw what looked like an old homestead," she said, her voice stronger now, but stillcaressing his ears like soft suede. "The...the cows scared me. I've heard about how dangerous rangecattle can be."
Rock snorted. He could reassure her, but a healthy respect for some of these cows was notunwarranted. She'd be safer if she stayed in her truck. Preferably all the way back to... Where had heheard 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 yourscrapbook." Every summer, he and the rest of the volunteer rescue group headed into thebackcountry to extricate some tourist from the consequences of his enthusiastic sightseeing. Neverfound one in Succor Creek Canyon before, though. Down here it was usually snakebite that got therock-hunting tourists.
"No!" She sounded insulted. "It's part of my job. I'm doing an archaeological and historicalinventory of this District."
Triple damn! Now he was going to have to worry about this girl all summer, or atleast until she moved on west of his grazing preference. Dan Walters had warned him there wouldbe a new archaeologist working on the Vale District this summer, one who'd be assigned to theShinbone project. Rock had expected an eager youngster, full of book learning and gung-ho, but atleast able to take care of himself.
Instead, he got a pretty little greenhorn who was as out of place in Owyhee Country asteats on a bull. A lovely one who inexplicably made him want to conquer his prejudice against all thelittle 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 asign-off on his waterhole.
Genny flung herself across the seat with such force that she banged her shoulder on theopposite 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 wasgrudgingly thankful he had taken over for her. She could have done it, but would she have wantedto?
"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 cameraand clipboard, she headed across the meadow.
His voice, mild and almost friendly, came from behind her. "Sure. And while you're doingit, 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 wal