Water Witch (7 page)

Dowser barked and came running to where she was laughing and dancing around on the edge of the steep incline. Tears mingled with laughter as she jumped up and down, squealing with joy. “Water! I found it! I found it!”

Dowser’s whole rear end was wiggling as he joined in the game, barking and leaping up to lick his mistress’s face. Suddenly, Max was thrown back as the big Doberman made an exuberant lunge, and the loose rock gave way under her foot.

Arms flailing in a desperate attempt to grab something to break her fall, she tumbled down the craggy slope.

Jagged rocks and thorny growth ripped at her clothes and skin as she slid. Frantic, she clutched and clawed, trying to seize a handhold. Her arm hooked around something and she grabbed it with her left hand. A scream of pain tore from her throat as the sharp spines of a prickly pear cactus sank into the soft fiesh of her palm.

She held on.

For a moment she lay still, face down in the dusty gravel, fighting the nausea flooding over her in waves. When she had battled it down, she looked around her, assessing her predicament. A scrub oak grew from a crevice only inches from her right hand. She reached for it, and when she held a thick branch firmly in her grasp, she let go of the cactus. Looking up, she saw that, even though it had seemed like miles, she’d only fallen a few feet. Dowser stood on the gray boulder whimpering, staring down at her.

“I’m okay, boy. I’m okay.” She hardly recognized the shaky croak that came from her throat. Moving her arms and legs, she decided that nothing was broken. Just scratched and scraped. And her hand was full of cactus spines.

Beyond the stunted oak, the incline was less steep. Using the limbs of the tree, she carefully made her way a few feet across the pitted hillside until she could climb to the top.

Cradling her left hand against her body, she patted Dowser who stood waiting, quivering like a willow branch. She couldn’t scold him; she was quivering just as badly.

After a few deep breaths, she examined her hand. Scraped and swollen, it was full of cactus spines. And it hurt like hell.

She swiped at her dirty, sweaty face with her torn sleeve. Her dowsing was over for the day at least. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to confirm her finding and estimate depth. Knees trembling, she walked over to her toolbag and picked up a ribboned spad. Awkwardly using one hand and her feet, she drove the marker into the final spot.

When she stepped back to watch the red plastic ribbon flutter in the breeze, she managed a feeble smile.

“I found it, Sam,” she whispered. “By damn, I found it.”

Still riding an adrenaline high over her find. Max headed back to the cottage. Even with her excitement to buoy her, driving was awkward and difficult. Her throbbing hand, full of cactus spines, was practically useless, and something crept into her mind, bringing more discomfort.

Why had her first thoughts been of Sam when she’d marked the vein? She didn’t need to prove anything to him.

Don’t kid yourself, she argued. Sam’s opinion of her mattered. She wanted him to think she was special, needed his approval, ached to see pride in her shining from his eyes. Now that her financial solvency was on the horizon, she allowed herself to consider the possibility of a relationship with him. She liked the idea. He had his faults, of course—stubbornness headed the list—but she had to admit she was enormously attracted to him. She’d never met anyone who affected her quite the way Sam did. Every time they were together he snuggled in a little closer to her heart. He could stir all kinds of emotions with just a smile. But what a smile. It warmed her. And enticed her.

And his touch. Well. . .

When her stomach gave a flutter of anticipation, she realized she was actually looking forward to seeing Sarn tonight. Mentally searching her limited wardrobe for something to wear, something sexy and feminine, another snippet of an elusive tune flitted through her thoughts and she hummed as more words formed in her mind.

Green, green, Guadalupe-green. It’s the color of your eyes.

Sitting on a kitchen stool and leaning over the sink, Max was still humming as she picked the last of the stickers out and poured peroxide over her swollen hand. It had taken nearly an hour to do the job, first using tweezers, then a needle. Dowser had lain at her feet the whole time, looking remorseful and whining each time she unconsciously winced.

“Don’t take it so hard, fellow,” she said, scratching his head as she moved to the refrigerator to get some ice. “I know it was an accident. You were excited, too.”

She opened the freezer compartment and frowned. The space was full of frozen dinners, the expensive kind. Where had those things come from? She could have sworn that it had been empty before. Puzzled, she opened the refrigerator door.

The racks and drawers, which had been almost bare this morning, were laden with food. Jugs of milk and orange juice. Two cartons of eggs. Bacon and chicken and steaks and lamb chops. What looked like a bushel of fresh fruits and vegetables filled every other available spot.

And on the bottom shelf, with a big red bow around it, lay a huge roll of bologna. It must have weighed ten pounds.

At another time and another place, the gesture might have been endearing. Or at least funny. But Max’s sense of humor had deserted her. She knew this was Sam’s doing. And he had hit her most vulnerable spot: her pride. She was heartsick. She was embarrassed.

She was livid!

He might as well have taken out an ad in the newspaper announcing: Poor little Max Strahan can’t make it on her own. It was as if he’d patted her on the head like a child and said, “Let the big man take care of you, honey.”

“Damn you, Sam Garrett! Damn you! I don’t have to take your charity.”

Heedless of her injured hand or Dowser cowering under the kitchen table, she grabbed a plastic garbage bag from the pantry and began to stuff food into it. She didn’t miss a single lamb chop or frozen dinner. Every lettuce leaf and every grape was tossed in. When it was full, she twisted the bag shut and glared at it, trying to decide what to do with it. She considered several alternatives, including hauling it over to Sam’s and dropping it down his chimney, as well as a few anatomically impossible, but devilishly tempting, options.

Then an idea hit her and she glanced at her watch. Sam would be here in less than an hour expecting to take her to dinner. Mr. Garrett would have a surprise waiting.

She dragged the heavy sack to the front porch and left it there. She propped the roll of bologna beside it and pinned a note to the red ribbon telling him exactly what he could do with it.

After flipping on the porch light, turning the lock, and securing the safety bolt, she slumped against the front door. She felt absolutely exhausted. Drained. Her boots seemed like concrete blocks. Every prick in her palm and fingers, every scratch and scrape on her body screamed at her. She looked down at her filthy clothes in disgust and sighed. Pushing herself away from the door, she started for the bathroom, stripping as she went.

A shampoo and a shower washed the grime away. Then Max drew a steaming tub of water, dumped in a box of Epsom salts, and sank into its warmth to soothe her aches. But the bath couldn’t reach the worst ache. It was the one that squeezed her heart and yearned for what might have been.

*    *    *

Something interrupted the peaceful fog enveloping her. Max started and sat up, splashing tepid water onto the floor. She must have fallen asleep. A loud banging noise was mixed with Dowser’s whining and scratching at the bathroom door. She climbed out of the tub, quickly dried off, and wrapped a towel around her.

“Sam Garrett, no doubt,” she said, giving Dowser a comforting pat on her way to the living room. “Who is it?” she yelled at the front door.

“Who in the hell do you think it is?” a deep voice yelled back. “Let me in!”

“Go away!”

“I’m not going anywhere until you open this door and talk to me.”

“You’re going to have a long wait, Mr. Garrett.”

“Dammit, Max, open the door!” The doorknob rattled and the banging started again.

Max hitched up her towel and glared at the door. “If you don’t stop that and go away, I’m going to call the police.”

The pounding stopped and Max waited, straining her ear against the door, listening. After a few minutes, she relaxed. He must have given up. She tiptoed to the living room window and eased the curtain aside to peer through the slit. His car was still there.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” a voice behind her asked.

She nearly lost her towel when she spun around. Sam stood not five feet away, hands on his hips. Even in the dim lamplight of the room, she could see his jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed.

“How’d you get in here?”

“Through the bedroom window. You really ought to keep it locked, you know. The burglar’s still at large.”

“I like the fresh air, but you can be assured that I’ll lock it just as soon as you leave.” She lifted her chin and tried to look as haughty as possible, given that her only attire was the precarious blue towel she clutched over her breasts.

Sam’s languid gaze traveled the length of her, and she was keenly aware that she was naked under her skimpy covering. She wanted to dash for the nearest closet, but she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing she was uncomfortable.

“I thought we had a date,” he said, affecting a bewildered expression, one of such wide-eyed innocence that she had to stifle the urge to throw a lamp at him.

“That was before Lord Bountiful snuck over here and filled the refrigerator with his largesse. I don’t need your charity. I think my note made it quite clear what you could do with your bologna.”

Uh-oh. He’d done it now, Sam thought. Troubled over what he’d found out about Max’s financial situation, he’d been so pleased with himself when he’d come up with the idea. Hell, he couldn’t let her starve. But he hadn’t counted on her fierce pride. Most women he knew would be delighted to take what he offered, but he was fast discovering that Max was not like most women. He’d miscalculated, and now she was madder than a scalded cat. It would take some tricky maneuvering to get out of this one.

He fought back a smile. She looked so damned cute standing there fighting with that towel, damp hair curling around her freshly-scrubbed face. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from taking her in his arms and loving her until some time next week. Lord, he wanted her.

Careful of every word, he said, “Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would you think I’m offering you charity?” She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. He shrugged and went on, “I thought you might be tired after working on that hill all day, so I figured maybe we could cook dinner here tonight, have a casual evening at home rather than going out.”

He could see her shoulders relax a bit, and he plunged on with his explanation. “I went to the grocery store to pick up some steaks and potatoes, and some stuff for a salad. Then I decided you might rather have chicken or something else, and every aisle I went down, I thought, ‘She might like this.’ And before I knew it, 1 had a basket full. Then I figured maybe we could have the rest tomorrow night.”

Max eyed him with suspicion. Was he telling the truth, or was this a first class snow job? “What about the bologna?”

“I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” He grinned. “Would you rather have had roses?”

It was the grin that did it. She felt its warmth slide over her like a down comforter. Even her bare feet tingled. An answering smile spread across her face, and she shook her head. “You’d probably have bought the florist’s whole supply.”

“Probably.” He ventured close enough to touch the face that was becoming so dear to him.

Their eyes met and held as his finger traced the contour of her cheek, trailed to her chin to rub the slight indentation there, slipped along her neck to her shoulder. A sense of shivering delight rippled over her, and she moved her head to one side and arched her neck like a kitten begging to be stroked. His finger continued its meandering path over the curve of her shoulder, then paused.

He frowned and looked down at a spot his finger skimmed. “What’s this?” he asked, indicating the scrape on her shoulder.

“I had a little accident today after you left. It’s nothing serious.”

“What kind of accident? Where else are you hurt? Did you see a doctor?”

He began examining every exposed inch of her, and if she hadn’t clamped down on the towel with her elbows, she suspected he’d have jerked it away and examined the rest of her.

“Sam!” she said, twisting away. “I didn’t need to see a doctor. I told you it wasn’t serious. I fell and got a couple of scratches and a few cactus needles in my hand.”

“Where? Let me see.” He grabbed both of her wrists and turned her hands palm up. “My God, Angel,” he said, wincing as he gently touched the injured hand. “Are they all out? Are you in pain?”

Max was finally able to assure him that she wasn’t a candidate for intensive care, but he insisted that she rest while he prepared dinner. He practically pushed her into the bedroom.

“While I think you look lovely in a bath towel, Angel, I believe I’d concentrate better if you’d put on something a little less . . . distracting.”