Water Witch (14 page)

“It took me a bit longer than I’d planned to raise the cash,” she said, climbing the steps and sitting in the lawn chair with the missing webs. “I had to sell my Silverado. It was tough to have to do that, Goose. I loved that truck.”

He nodded sagely and patted his knees as he rocked. “Times are hard nowadays.”

They sat together in silence for several minutes, staring out at the green water of the Guadalupe as it flowed on its course. Sunlight shimmered across the gentle jade ripples reminding her of the light that came into Sam’s eyes when he looked at her. It warmed her to think of it. How she loved him. And how she loved this land, this river. Those long years ago, the hill country had been her sanctuary, and the green memory of it had comforted her many a dismal day and scary night.

Only the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair, the rustle of wind through the trees, and an occasional cluck of a scratching chicken marred the quiet.

Maybe it was because Goose reminded her a little of her grandfather, or maybe it was the hypnotic effect of the river, or maybe it was just because she needed to talk to somebody. For whatever reason, Max began to speak. She told the old man about the father who hated her, berated her, kept her terrified. She related her struggles, her triumphs, her disappointments. She told him the whole story of her desperate need to find water on the Bartons’ hill. She even told him how much she loved Sam.

“You could have asked your feller to help you out.”

“I know, Goose, but it’s important that I do this on my own.”

He nodded and rocked and stared out over the water. “To shed the haint of your pa.”

“I’d never thought of it just that way. I figured it was because I was so hell-bent determined and stiff-necked proud.”

“Pride’s a powerful thing,” the old man said. “Some say it’s a sin, but it ain’t all bad. Sometimes it’s the only poke that keeps us gettin’ up every mornin’.”

“Do you think we’ve got a chance of finding water on that hill?” Max asked, allowing doubt to creep in for the first time.

“Hell, yes, little lady,” Goose said, and slapped his thighs. “If you’re half the witcher Dal Maxwell was, we’re gonna hit that sweet water vein and thumb our nose at ‘em all.”

She laughed and slapped her thighs in return. “Damned right, partner.” She got to her feet and said, “How about I buy you some lunch, and then we’ll stop off and liberate your rig.”

Goose stood and started for the door. “Just wait till I get my teeth and I’ll be right with you.”

The two of them ate smothered steak and mashed potatoes and collard greens at the local cafe Goose directed her to. The old man seemed to know everybody there and he introduced Max to them all. “Dal Maxwell’s granddaughter,” he told them. “She’s one of them gee-ologists. We’re workin’ together on a job south of town,” he added with a cocky jerk of his bald head.

After Goose finished his second helping of lemon meringue pie, they went to the sheriff’s office and made arrangements for the release of his equipment.

The old truck and its mounted drilling rig looked as if it had seen better days, but Goose patted the fender and said, “Don’t you worry none about ol’ Sal here. She’s got a lotta life left in her. Give me a couple of days to get her greased up and purrin’, and then we’ll go to work.”

Max was disappointed that they couldn’t start right away, but they agreed that Goose would hire a helper and they’d meet on the hill just after sunup on Friday morning. She gave him a hundred dollars for incidentals and wrote down Sam’s phone number as well as her cell number in case he needed to contact her before then. Waving good-bye to the old man, she headed toward the cottage to pick up her guitar.

While she was there, Max stripped the bed and washed the linens. After putting the load in the dryer, she tidied the little house and cleaned out the refrigerator. The sight of a huge roll of bologna with its red bow brought a smile to her lips. She left it on the bottom shelf. She never wanted to see another bologna sandwich. Some of the other things that were starting to spoil she threw away, some she stored in the freezer, and others she packed to take to Sam’s. As soon as the bed was remade, she collected her guitar and locked the door.

A few minutes later, she drove up in front of Sam’s house and tooted the horn. Sam came out of the garage to meet her. His welcoming smile changed to a frown as he gave the garish jeep the once-over.

“Why are you driving this godawful thing? Where’s your truck?”

Max had forgotten that he would demand an explanation. Thinking quickly, she said, “The truck was making funny noises, so I left it with a mechanic in town.” She crossed her fingers behind her back in a childish gesture to abrogate the lie. “This one’s a loaner. Here,” she said, thrusting a sack into his hands. “I picked up the perishables from the cottage. Maybe Loma can use them.”

“I knew I should have gone with you this morning. Angel, if you were having problems with the truck, why didn’t you call me? I could have picked you up. You don’t have to drive this . . . junkyard reject.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of cute.” She patted a spot on the hood that was a particularly bilious shade. “It sort of reminded me of your eyes.”

“Angel—”

“Forget about the jeep, Sam. I don’t mind driving it for a few days. Anyway, let me tell you my good news.” She broke into a broad grin. “Everything is all set to begin drilling.”

He shifted the sack to one arm and hugged her with the other. “That’s great, sweetheart. When do we begin?”

She glanced up at him and shook her head. “Not we, Sam.” She tapped her finger on her chest. “Me. This is my project, remember?”

“Your project. Gotcha.” He grinned and snapped a salute. “Can’t I even watch?”

“Mmmm,” she said, as if pondering a weighty question, “Maybe. If you’re very good.”

“Oh, I’m good,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Come inside and I’ll show you how good.” He started striding toward the door with Max in tow.

Laughing, she dug in her heels. “Wait a minute, Casanova. I’ve got to get my guitar.”

“I didn’t know you played,” he said as she retrieved the instrument from the back seat. “I’ve always wanted to make love to a guitar player.”

They left the groceries in the kitchen with Loma, and Sam took her hand and drew her outside. “I want to show you something.”

His arm around her, they leaned against the white board fence that encircled the pasture. He pointed to a small herd of sheep. Dowser was running among them, driving them this way, then that. A black-and-white border collie stood under a tree, patiently watching the Doberman’s antics. Apparently thinking the sheep had had enough, the collie barked and Dowser ran to her side and lay down.

“Bess?” Max asked.

“Bess. Like someone else around here I could name, she has him wrapped around her finger. Or paw, I suppose it would be with dogs.”

Max wound her arms around Sam’s waist and laid her head on his shoulder. “Who has wrapped who?”

He laughed. “I was speaking of myself, but I hope it’s mutual. Lord, I was lonesome for you today. This place is empty when you’re gone. Don’t go off without me again.”

“I finished all my business this afternoon. I don’t have to go anywhere else until we start drilling Friday morning.”

“You have a driller lined up?”

She nodded. “I hired the most experienced well driller in these parts.” She didn’t think it was necessary to mention that the reason he was so experienced was because he was over eighty years old. Sam would have just fretted about it. “He was a friend of my grandfather’s.”

“Max, are you sure you don’t need some financial help with this?”

She stiffened in his arms. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I can handle it by myself, Sam.”

“Sweetheart, don’t get in an uproar. It’s just that I know how expensive drilling around here can be. I’ll be glad to make you a loan if you need it. Strictly business, you understand.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but I have a little extra in the bank for emergencies.” She pulled away and whistled for Dowser. He came running to the fence when he saw her. She dropped to one knee and petted him as he licked her face through the fence. “I see you have a new ladylove.”

Dowser gave a tongue-lolling grin and looked back at Bess. Then he bounded away toward the cluster of sheep.

Max and Sam went inside to wash up for dinner. After they had eaten, they decided to dress and go to the opening of a western art exhibit by several of the local artists.

Sam knew a number of people there and introduced Max to them as “my special lady.”

At the end of the evening, Max sighed as she watched him write out a check for a magnificent sculpture of a copper stallion she’d admired. Something in the power and the tones of the figure had reminded her of Sam. She could hardly take her eyes off it, but she hadn’t meant for him to buy it.

“Humor me,” he had said.

The statue cost more than she’d got for her truck. It was getting hard to be independent. She’d rather have her Silverado.

*    *    *

After Sam was asleep, Max feathered a kiss on his forehead and slipped from the bed. She took her guitar and went out on the patio. The moon was especially bright and stars studded the sky like winking fireflies. Night sounds, soft and mysterious, blended in with the rush of the river over its rocky bed.

Strumming a few chords, Max began to sing in a husky, bluesy voice that was perfect for a country ballad.

“When the night takes hold

And shadows fill my soul,

I chase my haunted dreams

With green, Guadalupe-green . . . cries.

“Rocky river shining clear,

Texas hills I hold so dear,

Lovely memories always mean

It’s green, Guadalupe-green . . . sighs.

“Now your arms enfold me.

Come close to me and hold me.

I’ve found my love it seems

In green, Guadalupe-green . . . eyes.

“Green, green, Guadalupe-green

Willow water wise.

Green, green, Guadalupe-green

It’s the color of your eyes.”

Sam stood in the shadows and listened with tears in those green eyes. He’d never heard anything more beautiful, nor had he ever been given a more precious gift.

When the last notes of the refrain drifted away over the water, Max looked up to see Sam standing beside her. For a moment neither of them spoke. Instead, they savored the magic that brightened the moon and pirouetted around them, weaving a wondrous spell.

“I love you, Angel.” His voice was a husky whisper.

“And I love you,” she answered, holding out her hand to draw him down beside her on the wide padded chaise. She laid down her guitar and snuggled in his arms, her head on his chest, his cheek on her hair.

Simply holding each other, they listened to the rippling water and the whisper of the trees, soft chirrs in the night. An intense emotional awareness wrapped them in invisible bonds as they breathed enchanted air flavored with a faint sweetness like dew-touched jasmine.

“I—I can’t seem to find the right words,” he said. “I could almost feel your soul when you sang. God, the power of the music. And the words. They’re simple, but the way they came out of you grabbed my heart like a fist.”

“I suppose that’s the reason I’ve always liked country music. It deals with complex emotions in simple ways that people can relate to. Most of it is about love or about pain of one kind of another. Blues and country songs reckon with pain a lot. I think it’s because most people are hurting somewhere down deep. They have wounds and shadows and haunting memories, and they’re all looking for love.”

“Tell me about your shadows, Angel.”

Talking to Goose about her childhood had given her a better perspective, greater distance, and made the telling of it to Sam easier.

“I really don’t remember much about my early childhood except that I was terrified all the time. I told you that my father frightened me with monsters to keep me quiet and out of his way. I told you that he didn’t like me very much. That was an understatement. He despised me. My very presence seemed to be an abomination to him. Nothing I did pleased him. And I tried. Lord, how I tried.

“By the time I started kindergarten, I’d somehow learned to cook and clean and do laundry in my childishly inept way. In school I was a model student with A’s in every subject. I desperately wanted his love. Or at least his approval, but nothing I ever did was enough. I don’t remember his ever being physically cruel, but his words hurt more than any blows could have. He constantly told me how stupid I was, how ugly, how helpless to make anything decent of myself. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over or go anywhere, not even to Sunday School. I couldn’t have dates when I got older. I became very much of a loner.”

“I could kill the son of a bitch for what he did to you.” Sam’s voice shook with fury and his whole body was trembling.

With gentle fingers, Max smoothed the frown from his forehead and caressed his clenched jaw. “I told you, he isn’t worth the bother. I know that now. And it wasn’t all bad. I had my grandfather. But if it hadn’t been for my wonderful summers with Gramps, I don’t think I could have survived. He was gentle and kind and full of fun. Until I could earn my own money when I was older, he bought the only decent clothes I had, and he taught me about love and laughter and courage. When we used to walk the hills together, he talked to me for hours about inner strength and determination and pride. Gramps made me believe that I could do anything and be anything I set my mind to. He gave me my guitar and taught me to play. It became my friend and my solace. I’ve never been able to express my feelings very well, except with music.”