Water Witch (13 page)

When she had started out this morning—some seven and a half hours ago—there had been a spring in her step and hope in her heart. She had wound her hair up in a neat bun, donned her best let’s-talk-business suit, and tied a power-red scarf at the neck of her white silk blouse. Convinced that she had the world by the tail, when Sam had asked where she was going, she had smiled mysteriously and told him she had a few loose ends to tie up before she started drilling and, no, he couldn’t tag along. She’d be back before he knew it.

Hah!

She’d talked to every reputable financial organization in the area and a couple whose reputations were highly questionable. The bottom line was: No loan.

About midafternoon she’d called her roommate, Beth, to ask if, please God, the real estate agent had called with an offer on her house in Houston. No such luck. The house had been shown a few times but there hadn’t been so much as a nibble.

Of course she could always ask Sam to co-sign a note with her or borrow the money from him outright, but that was as good as admitting defeat. She didn’t need him to bail her out; she would make it on her own. It was a matter of self-respect.

She sucked in a big breath of air and faced the inescapable alternative. The only thing left to do was sell the truck, but she didn’t think she could face that today. Besides, it was getting late and, knowing Sam, he would be ready to send out a posse to look for her. She would get a fresh start in the morning. One more day wouldn’t matter.

Max could almost hear her father laughing at her as she drove to Sam’s. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin. She was strong, she reminded herself. She was invincible.

Sam was waiting at the door when she pulled up. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he said as she trudged toward him. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her into the foyer. “I missed you today. Did you get all those loose ends tied up?”

“Not quite.” She snuggled against his chest and tucked her head under his chin. It felt so good to have him hold her. Right now his arms were a safe haven in an alien world. She had an almost overwhelming urge to pour out all her troubles, but she resisted the temptation. For all sorts of complex reasons, some she understood and some she didn’t, it was important that she wage this battle alone. Instead she said, “I have a few more things to do before we can begin drilling, but somebody’s playing a bongo in my skull and these shoes are slow torture. I think I have a blister on my toe.”

“We can handle that.” He bent down and, with her holding his shoulders for support, took off the pumps and tossed them aside. “Yep,” he said, holding her foot on his knee and examining it. “Looks like a blister all right. And you’ve got a runner,” he added, smiling as he slowly traced its path with his finger, “all the way up your leg.” His finger disappeared under her skirt.

“Tell me about it.” She gave a disgusted snort.

“Bad day, huh?”

“The pits.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head.

“How about a glass of wine and a bubble bath? My sister Adrienne always said a long soak in a mountain of foam puts the world in perspective.”

She managed a forlorn smile. “It couldn’t hurt.” As they walked down the hall, arms around each other’s waists, she asked, “Where’s Dowser?”

“He’s out playing with Bess and deviling the sheep.”

“Bess?”

“She’s Manuel’s border collie. I think old Dowser is smitten. He may change from oil sniffing to sheep tending.”

For the first time that day, Max laughed.

Sam was the dearest, sweetest man, she thought as she watched him fill the sunken tub. Bubbles, as frothy as whipped cream and smelling faintly of lilacs, mounded over the marble rim.

He took a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet, shook two into her hand, and filled a glass from the tap. When she had taken the pills, he kissed her nose. “I’m sorry you have a headache. You slip into the tub, love, while I go pour us a glass of wine.” His fingers skimmed the side of her face, and he brushed the softest of kisses across her lips.

Never had he felt so heartsick, Sam thought as he walked to the bar in the living room. Or so damned helpless. The look in Max’s eyes was killing him. He’d give anything to be able to put back the spark, the impudent sass. She looked defeated. He could feel her pain. And he knew what caused it.

He hadn’t meant to spy on her. Oh, hell, if he were honest, maybe he did intend to snoop a little. He’d told himself that he needed to go to the hardware store and pick up some extra screws for the pet door he and Manuel had made for Dowser this morning. It wasn’t a coincidence he’d seen Max coming out of the bank. Concerned because she’d been gone longer than he expected, he’d circled through town three or four times until he’d spotted the blue pickup. Keeping well out of sight, he had followed her and watched her enter another bank, the same one he used locally. Through the window, he had watched her speak with the loan officer, watched her as she left, dejected. She had been trying to borrow money.

An ache filled his chest. If she needed money, why hadn’t she come to him? He would give her whatever she needed. Hell, he’d give her everything he had. Or loan it to her, with interest, if her damnable pride demanded it. But he couldn’t stand to see her so dispirited over a problem so easily solved.

Now he was between the proverbial rock and hard place, a real avoid-avoid dilemma. If he offered her the money she needed, he’d have to explain how he knew about her business. She would be hopping mad if she knew he’d been playing Sam Spade. Yet, on the other hand, he couldn’t tolerate ignoring her need.

Damn!

He’d come within a hair of having his banker call Max and say they’d changed their minds, that the bank would lend her whatever amount she wanted. But Sam knew she would be suspicious, and God help him if she ever found out he was behind it.

Still groping for a subtle way to broach the subject, he poured two glasses of the Zinfandel Max liked so much and walked back to the bathroom.

One limp arm flung over the side, Max lay in the scented water, eyes closed and bubbles clinging to her chin. Love for her swelled in him so hard and fast, it was almost painful.

“Angel,” he whispered.

She didn’t stir.

*    *    *

Disoriented, Max blinked and looked around. She was in bed. How had she gotten there? Across the room in an easy chair, Sam sat reading the Stephen King novel she’d seen on his night stand. The lamp beside him reflected the red-gold highlights in his hair and cast a soft glow over his handsome features. One of the baskets of roses from the cottage rested on the table and their scent lent a sweetness to the air. He had remembered to bring them for her. She should have thought to ask him to pick up her guitar.

He must have sensed she was awake, for he looked up and there was an indescribable softening in his face. Max felt happiness well up and sweep over her. To have this wonderful man love her was far more than she deserved.

“Did you have a nice nap?”

She nodded. “My headache’s gone. How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of hours.” He rose, walked to the bed, and stretched out beside her on his stomach. His finger traced the swell of her breasts, just visible above the fold of the sheet.

His touch pebbled her nipples and caused a little undulating contraction of her belly. “I don’t remember getting out of the tub.”

“That’s because, my lovely water witch, you went out like a light. I had to haul you out of the bubbles before you dissolved like a sugar cube.” His finger continued stroking back and forth, each pass pushing the sheet lower until it clung to the tips of her breasts, each pass rippling her belly and tightening her nipples. “I’m sorry you had such a lousy day. Are you sure that I can’t do anything to help?” He dropped his head and began to trace the same path with his tongue.

“Not a thing,” she said, her voice low and breathy.

I’d be happy to help you line up a driller or arrange financing if you need it.”

“Everything’s under”—she gasped as his mouth encompassed a sensitive tip—”control.”

He brushed his cheek back and forth over the wet crest. “Are you hungry? Loma left our dinner in the oven.”

“Later,” Max said. “Later.”

He laughed and shifted his attention to her other breast. With languid tongue and unhurried hands, he loved her slow and easy. When they came together it was a soft dance, a lazy, wondrous feast that nourished the senses and the soul as well as the body.

Much later they filled plates in the kitchen and ate dinner in Sam’s big bed. Max had discovered a huge television behind a sliding panel in the bedroom and, after checking the program guide, had insisted that they watch The Beast with Five Fingers.

“I can’t believe you’re going to watch another old monster movie,” he said.

“Sure I am.” She snuggled under the crook of his arm. “I think I’ve about got this thing licked.”

*    *    *

At ten o’clock the next morning, Max, dressed in pants, flats, and a red cotton sweater, sat waiting for Jerry Bob Bossart, owner of Tip Top Motors. His Yellow Pages ad had promised top dollar for cars and trucks in good condition. “Try us first,” his advertisement had urged.

Perched on the edge of a chair beside the cluttered desk, she chewed on her lip and wound the strap of her shoulder bag around her finger. Even though the window unit in the office trailer made a valiant effort, the air was heavy with the smell of yesterday’s onions and stale cigar smoke. She doubted that the floor had been vacuumed since Bill Clinton was inaugurated.

Maybe she’d made a mistake coming here, she thought, eyeing the orange Texas-shaped ashtray balanced precariously on a pile of papers a foot and a half high. It was overflowing with cigar and cigarette butts. She would have emptied it, except that the wastebasket was full of newspapers and hamburger wrappers, Plaques on the wall proclaiming Jerry Bob to be a member of the Chamber of Commerce and little league sponsor of the Tip Top Tigers made her feel only marginally comfortable with her choice of a used car dealer.

She was almost ready to bolt when the door opened and a man in a white Stetson stepped inside. He stood no taller than her chin and was almost as wide. His western brass belt buckle must have been stapled to his belly button, because the pants spanning his funnel-shaped girth defied the laws of gravity.

“I hear you’re looking for me, young lady. I’m Jerry Bob Bossart.” He stuck out his hand.

Max offered her hand and relaxed when she looked into a merry face with laughing hazel eyes. It was an open, honest face. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“You’ll have to excuse the mess in this place.” He compacted the trash in the wastebasket with one stamp of his lizard boot and dumped the contents of the ashtray on top. A gray cloud of ash particles billowed up and he fanned them away from Max. “My missus usually takes care of the office, but she’s up in Dallas helping our daughter tend to our first grandbaby. Born two weeks ago yesterday. Cute little bugger he is too.”

It only took a short time for Max and Jerry Bob to strike a deal for her pickup. The price they agreed on would be more than enough to get Goose Gallagher’s rig out of hock and give her a  cushion for emergencies. She even convinced him to throw in transportation to replace the truck.

“I need something cheap, but rugged enough for my work.”

“I believe I’ve got just the thing,” he said as they toured the lot, looking over the inventory sitting under plastic pennants flapping in the breeze. “It’s not too pretty, but it runs good. Ed Stanley, who owns the feed store down the street, used it for huntin’. Traded it in just last week for a Bronco.”

Max frowned at the vintage jeep. Recently painted in garish variegated greens for a camouflage effect, it looked like a relic from World War II surplus. But the tires were good. She got in, cranked it up, and drove it around the block. Its tattered top and seat covers were patched with duct tape in so many places, it was like sitting inside an aluminum can. The engine ran like new, but every time she hit a dip or a pothole, her teeth jarred. The vehicle was obviously built for durability and not for comfort. A comedown from the ride of the Silverado, but it would do.

She and Jerry Bob signed the necessary papers and walked across the street to his bank. Max took twenty-five hundred dollars in cash and opened an account to deposit the remaining funds. When they walked back to the car lot, she gave the truck a last wistful look before she pulled away in the jeep. Her beloved pickup’s blue body sat looking forlorn, abandoned. There was a lump in her throat the size of Kerr County. It was like saying the last good-bye to an old friend she’d never see again. Giving Dowser to the pound would have been almost as painful.

Her only consolation was that perhaps no one would buy it for a few days. If she could get the well drilled in a hurry, maybe she could buy it back from Jerry Bob. She clenched her teeth, lifted her chin, and reaffirmed the wisdom of her decision.

The first thing she did was buy a new pair of stockings, the sheerest and silkiest she could find. The second thing was to drive to Goose Gallagher’s place by the river.

He was sitting on the porch rocking and drinking beer. Max could have sworn he hadn’t moved since last Saturday.

“Hiddy there, little lady. I’d about give you up.” His face beamed with a broad, toothless grin, and he set down the can he was holding and stood. “Yes, sir, I’d about give you up.”