Water Witch (4 page)

With a smart flip of the wrist, she twisted the key and revved up the engine with an impatient pump of her boot. A swinging Blake Shelton song blared from the dash radio, and she turned the volume even louder as Sam got in beside her. Almost before he could close the door she spun out with a rubber-laying squeal and roared down the highway toward the little towns of Ingram and Hunt a few miles west of Kerrville. She couldn’t shed him fast enough to suit her.

Wide-eyed, Sam looked at her. Turning the music down to a less ear-splitting level, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? You bet your bananas something’s wrong. I don’t like being used to ward off panting women in purple pants.” Giving the knob a defiant twist, she turned the music back up and glared at him.

A slow grin spread over Sam’s ruddy face and his eyes took on a devilish gleam. “I believe you’re jealous.”

“What!” she shrieked.

“I believe you’re jealous,” he yelled over Blake’s wail.

“Jealous! Why should I be jealous? I hardly know you.” This time she turned the volume down, then gripped the wheel as her eyes narrowed. “I’m angry. Furious! I’ve wasted a whole afternoon listening to you discuss the merits of different paintbrush bristles and watching what’s-her-name make goo-goo eyes at you while you grin and lap it up. I’m not retired. I can’t afford it. I have work to do.”

Dowser whined and hung his head over the seat to nuzzle his mistress’s neck. She patted him and said in a soothing voice, “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you, boy. It’s okay.”

Genuinely contrite, Sam laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angel. I’ll help you tomorrow. We’ll get an early start in the morning and make up for lost time.”

“No, thanks. I prefer to work alone.” Deliver me, she thought as she turned up the volume again and tried to ignore the man beside her.

It wasn’t easy.

Not even a favorite ballad by Sara Evans could hold her attention. Energy pulsed from Sam’s big frame, filled the cab of the truck, and swirled all around her. His fingers, still resting lightly on her shoulder, seemed to sear through her shirt and heat her skin. His thumb, idly tracing the arm seam, evoked little shivers with every movement. She shrugged his hand away and angled the air-conditioning vent for more cooling.

Why was she reacting to Sam Garrett this way? He was nothing but a pest. She refused to allow herself to think of him in any other way. It irritated her that something in her wanted to wiggle and purr when he came close. What nonsense. She turned the radio louder.

“You must like country music,” Sam shouted.

She nodded with a curt dip of her chin.

“Me, too,” he shouted again, slouching down in the seat and patting his thigh in time with  Rascal Flats.

He cut his eyes over to watch Max, who was concentrating on the road as if she were driving the Indy 500. Damn, she was something else! A fine looking woman with enough fire to keep a man on his toes. He hated vapid females. Max was fascinating, and obviously bright.

No woman had a right to be so damned sexy. Every hormone in his body went berserk when she was within a hundred yards of him. Yet his attraction to her was more than physical. He wanted to know everything about her, learn her secrets. Make her laugh.

She might be just what he’d been looking for. Yep, she might just be it.

In fact, the more he considered it, he was almost sure.

And the timing was perfect.

Noticing the grim determination of her mouth and the flash of her oil-black eyes, amusement made him bite the inside of his cheek. Even though right now she’d rather die than admit it, Sam suspected she felt some attraction to him. The hints of a current were there. It might take some fast stepping, but he had plans for Miss Angela Maxwell Strahan.

And what he wanted, he always got. Sooner or later. One way or another. He was patient. And he was persistent.

He reached over and turned the radio down. “Turn left at the top of the hill.”

Braking the truck, Max made the turn. She drove slowly down the road that wound beside the Guadalupe, then crossed a bridge that spanned a narrow cascade of rushing water. Giant cypress trees, stoic and ageless, stood with gray boulders amid the current. Spreading Spanish oaks formed an enchanted arch across the lane. Max could almost feel the spirits of Indians and wild game from ages past, almost expected a bronze-skinned brave to step from behind a buckeye thicket.

The setting sun spilled gold over the fall grasses and sparked and danced on the rock-strewn rapids. The countryside was so eerily beautiful, her breath knotted in her throat. The air was rife with the strange presence of something she couldn’t name, but moved through her in a poignant fluttering. An incorporeal quality hovered like a mist, so strong she wanted to reach out and grab a handful and rub it into her skin.

“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Her voice was soft, husky, barely a whisper.

Sam smiled. “It is, isn’t it?” he answered quietly. “There’s my house.”

A sprawling stone house on the rise ahead blended so perfectly into its surroundings that Max almost missed it on first glance. She pulled to a stop in front and climbed out, Dowser following close behind her.

Sam watched as she stood on the terrace wall, arms hugged tight, drinking in the view. He recognized her infatuation with the spot; he’d felt the same way when he’d first found the place ten years ago. To this day the land, the river never failed to fill him with awe. He chuckled. Score another point for his side. He and his property were a package deal. And he wanted her looking at him in that same entranced way.

He walked over to her, then stopped, scratched Dowser’s head, and made his move while her defenses were down.

“Do you like fried catfish?”

“Love it,” she murmured absently, not looking away from the fabulous view.

“Great. I’ll tell Loma to get it started.”

“Get what started?” Max asked, coming out of her dreamy abstraction. “Who’s Loma?”

“Loma’s my housekeeper, and I’m going to tell her to start dinner for us.”

“I told you I wasn’t having dinner with you tonight.”

Keeping a perfectly straight, if somewhat hangdog, face, Sam said, “But you said you liked catfish.”

“I do, but—”

“I caught two of them just for you. And in honor of your company Loma has already made potato salad and cole slaw. And her hush puppies,” he said, feigning a look of rapture, “will melt in your mouth.”

It was tempting. Max didn’t think she could face another bologna sandwich when she could have catfish. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled.

He cupped his hand to his ear. “Is that a yes?”

She laughed. “I think that’s a yes.” She looked down at her grimy clothes and dusty boots. “But I’m not dressed for dinner. I’m filthy.”

“No problem,” he said, shepherding her toward the house before she could change her mind. “You can take a quick shower in one of the guest rooms. Adrienne and Linda usually leave a bunch of stuff here for when they visit. I’m sure you can find something of theirs that will fit.”

“Adrienne and Linda?”

“My older sister and her daughter.” He held open the front door.

An open foyer arched into a huge room with a high beamed ceiling and a wall of glass that wrapped around one end of the house. Designed to take full advantage of the view, every point in the semicircle revealed a different scene, each more breathtaking than the last. The remaining walls were cedar and stone and covered with paintings. An enormous round stone fireplace with a hammered copper hood stood in the center of the room, and Indian rugs were scattered across the polished wood floor. The furniture was plush black leather and heavy nubby cotton in earth tones. It was sturdy and comfortable looking, Max thought. Like its owner.

“Sam, your home is beautiful.” She ached to explore, but he directed her down the hall.

“I’ll take you on a tour later. I’ll tell Loma we’re here, then see that Dowser gets fed. I need to clean up a little myself after I unload the truck. Take your time.” He grinned and added, “As long as you don’t take more than forty-five minutes. I’m starved.”

*    *    *

Long before her time was up, Max had showered, washed and dried her hair, dressed, and was standing in the central room admiring a Remington which hung near one of Honey Bear’s blue-bonnet paintings.

She’d had no trouble finding something to wear. There was underwear that fit—the daughter’s, she suspected from the cut of it—and a polished cotton shift in an Indian design of turquoise, tobacco brown, and white had practically leaped off the hanger at her. Turquoise leather sandals decorated with silver conchs fit her well enough. She’d found enough makeup in the guest room to make herself presentable, and left her hair down, adding a matching headband to hold it back.

While she waited for Sam, she looked at all the paintings and sculptures. Several western bronzes by artists whose names even she recognized were on pedestals scattered about the room. An impressive art collection, she thought, but she didn’t see a single canvas signed Sam Garrett. Maybe he was modest about his work.

Leaning against the arched doorway, Sam watched Max as she studied a Windberg that was one of his favorites. Damned if she wasn’t gorgeous! She looked as if she belonged there. His heart began to swell in his chest. And that wasn’t the only thing swelling. He didn’t see how he could keep his hands off her much longer.

Chuckling to himself over the effect Max had on him, he walked up behind her and laid his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look like a blond Indian maiden.”

Startled, she jerked and spun to face him. Her hand flew to her chest. “You nearly frightened the life out of me. One of my ancestors would have scalped you for sneaking up like that.”

“I didn’t sneak. You were lost in that painting.” Crossing to a bar tucked in a small alcove, he said, “I’ve wondered where those black eyes and high cheekbones came from. Indian, hmm? Cherokee?”

She laughed and followed him. “Nothing so civilized. My great-great-grandmother was Apache. The strain was fairly diluted by the time it got to me. You should have seen my grandfather. He looked as if he could have posed for the Indian-head nickel.”

“The well-digging grandfather?”

She nodded.

Motioning toward the well-stocked bar, Sam asked, “What would you like to drink? Wine?”

“Jack Daniels. Straight up.”

His brows shot up and she grinned. “Working with the men in the oil fields, I learned early on you didn’t order something prissy like white wine, even if you prefer it.”

“I have a great Texas Riesling if you’d like to share it. It’s from Llano County. I promise,” he added in a stage whisper, “I won’t think you’re a pantywaist If you drink it.”

She laughed and accepted a glass.

Max laughed a lot the rest of the evening. Sam Garrett was a charmer, no doubt about it. Everybody seemed to love him. Loma Mendez, a plump little grandmotherly type who was the fantastic cook Sam promised, absolutely glowed around him. It was obvious that the older woman doted on her “Senor Sam” and, from the knowing smiles that brightened her face when the housekeeper glanced between Max and her employer, she was delighted that he had brought home “his senorita” for her to fuss over as well.

“Sam,” Max whispered as Loma bustled off for their dessert, “you need to set her straight. She thinks that you and I . . . that we . . . well, have something going.”

That disarming grin of his flashed and he took her hand across the table. His thumb brushed the tops of her knuckles and she felt a shiver all the way up to her earlobes. “Well, don’t we?”

“Certainly not.” She jerked her hand away and took a quick sip of water.

He looked amused and neatly turned their conversation to other things. She found that she enjoyed being with Sam, watching him gesture with his wonderful broad hands and long fingers as he described something to her. His deep laughter seemed to vibrate inside her, and he had the most disconcerting way of looking at her. His eyes seemed to caress her. He could make her feel as if she were the only person in the world, someone very special. It was a heady feeling. Her defenses were crumbling fast. She’d have to be very cautious that she didn’t allow Sam to interfere with her goal, she reminded herself as she walked to the truck after dinner.

Sam insisted that he drive her and Dowser home in the Silverado.

“Then how will you get home?” she asked.

“Walk.”

“But it’s too far.”

“By the road, maybe, but the cottage is just across the river/There,” he said, pointing downstream to his right. “It’s not more than a few hundred yards. There’s a narrow spot where rocks make natural stepping stones across the water.”

“But it’s dark,” she argued.

“I’ll take a flashlight.”

She sighed and gave in. She was fast learning that when Sam Garrett made up his mind about something, he held on like a snapping turtle.

A few minutes later they were at the door of the cottage. Sam insisted that he stay until she’d deposited her dirty clothes and boots inside and turned on a light.

“Might be monsters in there, hiding in the dark,” he joked.