Water Witch (8 page)

She dressed in a well-worn sweat suit, its navy color muted by repeated washings, and slippers. Her hair was difficult to manage with her puffy fingers, so she gave it a few swipes with the brush and tied it back with a red bandanna. She added a touch of makeup to her face and frowned into the mirror. Not exactly the sexy image for tonight that she’d planned earlier.

When she walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Sam was stowing the last of the groceries back in the refrigerator. He’d shed his jacket and the sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up.

“Looks like we lost a few eggs, but everything else seems intact,” he said. “You sit down right here,” he added, steering her to the kitchen table and seating her. “And put your feet up on this.” He dragged a second chair over and stretched her legs out on the cushioned seat. “I’ve made an ice pack for your hand.”

Uncomfortable with his ministrations, Max squirmed. She wasn’t used to anyone taking care of her. She’d been on her own since she’d been old enough to tie her shoes. “Sam, I don’t need an ice pack.”

“Sure you do,” he said, taking her wrist firmly and wrapping a kitchen towel filled with ice cubes around her hand. He laid her arm on the table, then poured a glass of wine for her. “Now you sip this while I rustle up some dinner.” He tucked another towel into his waistband and opened the refrigerator. Frowning at the contents, he asked, “Steak okay? Or would you rather have something else?”

“Steak’s fine.”

He took out a package of rib eyes and studied the gas stove for a moment. He stared at the dials and opened the oven door, then closed it and looked perplexed.

Max bit her lip to keep from smiling. “The broiler’s on the bottom.”

“I knew that.” He retrieved the broiler pan from the lower compartment and arranged the huge steaks on it. “I’ve got everything under control. You just relax and drink your wine. How’s that ice pack feel?” When she assured him that it felt all right, he whistled as he liberally salted and peppered the meat, then, with a great flourish, sprinkled on half a bottle of garlic powder he found in the spice rack.

Max almost choked on her wine, but she didn’t say a word. It seemed that Sam did everything in a big way.

After he’d managed to start the steaks broiling, he picked up two potatoes and looked from the stove to the objects in his hands, then back again. “Uh,” he said, nonchalantly glancing toward Max, “how long do you like your potatoes baked?”

“Usually about an hour,” she replied, struggling to keep the laughter from her voice. When he looked stricken, she added, “If I’m in a hurry, I use the microwave.”

A look of relief came over his face, and he nodded. “Me too.” He thrust the potatoes into the microwave and fiddled with the timer for a moment. That done, he took a sip of his own wine and gave her a self-satisfied grin. “Now for the salad.”

Gathering vegetables from the crisper, he tossed them in the sink and rinsed them, then began chopping with a vengeance.

Max sniffed, then sniffed again. “Sam?”

He stopped his assault on a stalk of celery and turned to her. “Yes, Angel?”

“I think the steaks are burning.”

He yanked open the broiler and flames shot up a foot above the charred meat. As he doused the fire with a glass of water, a loud explosion came from the microwave. He strode over to it and jerked open the door. He stared at the mess in the microwave, then turned to Max. “I think we lost one.”

She couldn’t contain herself any longer. She hooted with laughter.

In the end, Sam called the local barbecue joint and paid a kid twenty dollars to deliver dinner. With it they ate the salad he’d made. When Max complimented him on it, he managed a sheepish grin. “I do salads best,” he said.

After they were finished, he poured them each another glass of wine and began stacking their dishes in the dishwasher. He’d cleaned up the earlier mess while they waited for the delivery. Even Dowser had turned up his nose at the blackened, garlic-laden remains of his efforts at broiling steaks, and, while the Doberman munched on dry dog food, the meat had gone down the disposal.

Sam had handled the whole fiasco with such good humor that Max couldn’t help but be touched. She watched him as he moved about the kitchen, remarkably graceful for a man of his size. She liked the bigness of him: the breadth of his shoulders, the strong thighs evident under the lightweight slacks he wore. Everything about him spoke of strength and confidence, yet he was sensitive and gentle as well. It had been obvious that he was no cook—his culinary skills were only slightly better than his artistic ones—but he’d plunged right in, willing to give it a try. She wondered what kind of lover he’d be. Bold, she suspected. Imaginative. Adjectives flitted through her mind until she barely could catch her breath.

Sam turned to look at her just as she licked her lips. He leaned back against the counter, feet crossed, unruly shock of russet hair across his forehead, dish towel still tucked into his waistband. He lifted his wineglass and drank from it, watching her over the rim.

The kitchen was filled with sexual awareness.

It bounced off the ceiling, pulsated from every corner. It was so potent Max couldn’t breathe at all. She couldn’t move. Her heart felt like a rock hammer beating against her ribs.

The telephone rang. They didn’t move. It rang again.

On the third ring, Sam muttered an oath and snatched up the receiver from the wall behind him. “Hello.” The greeting was an impatient bark. His scowl softened and he said, “Oh, hello, Uncle Buck. It’s Sam.” After a pause he said, “Having dinner.” He looked over at Max and winked. “Yes, she is. But you’d better watch out, you old lecher, or I’ll tell Honey Bear on you.” He laughed at something his uncle said, then held out the phone to Max. “He wants to talk with you.”

She rose, her muscles beginning to stiffen up from her spill, and, trying not to limp, stepped to the phone. “Hello, Mr. Barton. This is Max Strahan. I may have some good news for you.”

“You mean you think there’s water on that hill, little lady?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Hot damn! Honey Bear’s gonna be whoopin’ and hollerin’. I had a hunch about you, gal.”

Max laughed. “I need to do some more testing tomorrow, but if things are as I suspect, we’ll start drilling in a few days. You’d better get your checkbook ready.”

“Hot damn! I may give you a bonus. Honey Bear’s gonna keep me up all night, she’s gonna be so tickled. We’ll be back in Houston by the end of next week. If you hit it before then, give us a call up here at the Plaza Hotel in New York City.”

Max took down the number of their hotel suite and said her good-bye. Buck Barton’s excitement had been infectious. After talking to him, her previous exhilaration over the project had returned. Still grinning, she turned to Sam. A deep furrow creased his forehead.

“You didn’t tell me you’d located a drilling site today,” he said.

“You didn’t ask. And anyway, as I told Mr. Barton, I have to do some more testing before I’m sure of the best spot. I can’t afford to drill any dry holes.”

Sam chewed on the inside of his lip, trying to decide what to say. She looked so happy and excited after talking to Buck. He didn’t want to burst her bubble or hurt her feelings, nor did he want to make her mad again. But he knew there wasn’t any water on that hill. He took her injured hand in his, looked at it carefully, then dropped a feather-light kiss on her palm. The swelling was down some, but it was far from healed. And although she’d tried to hide it, he’d seen her limp. It wrenched his gut to think that she’d be scrambling around on that rough ground trying to find something that wasn’t there.

“Angel,” he finally said, “you’re in no shape to work tomorrow.”

“I have to, Sam. I have no choice. Anyway, I’ll be fine by morning.”

“Why is finding water on Honey Bear’s hill so important to you?”

She hesitated for a moment, then looked into his worried eyes. “I need the money.”

He almost breathed an audible sigh of relief. She’d finally admitted to him that she had a problem. “Oh, hell, sweetheart, if you need money, I’ll loan—”

“No, Sam. Thanks for offering, but I don’t want your money. I can handle this by myself. Mr. Barton will pay me when I bring in the well.”

Sam hugged her to him and nuzzled his face in her sweet-smelling hair. What was it about this black-eyed angel that made him want to coddle her, protect her, shield her from disappointment? He drew back and scanned her face. “Are you so sure there’s water there?”

“I’m positive.”

She said it with such fervor that she almost convinced him. “Then go for it, Angel. I’m with you all the way.” Hell, if it took drilling a hole to make her happy, he’d help her sink holes all over the damned hill.

Max felt as if she were drowning in green, so powerful was the spell of Sam’s gaze. His head lowered and his lips met hers in a moist kiss. With a soft sigh, she melted in his arms, savoring the breathless wonder of the taste of him as his tongue nudged past her parted lips.

She reveled in the power of the strong arms around her, delighted in the heartbeat pounding his chest against her hand. She clung to him as his tongue thrust against hers and he pulled her closer to his body.

His fingers slipped under her shirt and kneaded the bare skin of her back. There was longing in his touch, yet she could feel him holding back. Demanding, she ground her pelvis against his and whimpered.

Sam went wild. Growling deep in his throat, he pulled her hips against him. When she sucked in a cry of pain, he went dead still, then dropped his hands and broke away.

“Oh, Lord, I hurt you. I’m sorry.” His breathing was ragged and his expression alarmed as he looked into her face.

She smiled and smoothed the lines from his brow. “You didn’t really hurt me, Sam. I think you just located another bruise from my fall.”

He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I’d better go and let you get some rest.”

When she walked him to the door, he reminded her to lock the bedroom window. “I’ve been wondering,” she said, “how you got in to leave the groceries.”

“Buck and Honey Bear left a key with Loma in case of emergencies. But I promise,” he said, smiling down at her, “I won’t use it again without your permission. Unless it’s an emergency.”

She grinned. “Whose definition of emergency? Yours or mine?”

He laughed and kissed her nose. “Good night, Angel.”

Max found herself humming again as she locked the door and the window. More words for the song came.

I chase my haunted dreams . . . with green, Guadalupe-green . . . cries.

The first golden rays of the sun were breaking over the hills as Max pulled the truck to a stop and got out. She turned up the collar of her wind-breaker against the slight chill of a northerly breeze, stuck her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, and breathed in the fresh, clean air of the hillsides. Yawning, she stretched to loosen the kinks before she began her search. How she would have loved to be snug in bed right now, catching a few more hours of sleep.

It had taken a long time for her to fall asleep the night before. Of course the thrill of her find had kept her adrenaline pumping, but it was more than that. Every time she closed her eyes, memories of her evening with Sam replayed in her mind: his laughter, his touch, his kiss. The very scent of him lingered in her nostrils. She must have dozed and awakened half a dozen times until she finally decided to get up. Well before dawn she had loaded her gear in the pickup and whistled for Dowser.

Her early start was partly excitement and partly a need to leave before Sam could arrive and put a crimp in her plans. As fond of him as she was growing, he always seemed to divert her attention from everything else.

Even now, when she needed to be about her business, she was thinking about Sam. He had been so sweet last night, treating her like a princess on a pillow. She was surprised that someone so obviously masculine could be so sensitive, so solicitous. That side of him didn’t fit the image of the typical corporate executive. Oh, there was no doubt that he was used to bossing people around. She’d seen that side of him too. And she’d gotten the full force of his overprotective streak. Although she had to admit that she’d enjoyed his fussing, she didn’t need his clucking over her like a broody hen today, of all days. First things first, she reminded herself once more.

After flexing her hand a few times she decided that, while it still felt a bit tight, the pain was gone and she could use it well enough to work. The few sore spots from her fall barely registered as she studied the serpentine row of markers. In the light wind of early morning, red ribbons flirted along the rocky ground, teasing, enticing her to test the spot again.

A rush of anticipation made her laugh and punch the air with a short jab. By damn, she’d found it! She’d have the money in hand before the week was out. Almost giddy, she did a little shuffle and reached into the truck for a forked willow branch.

To validate her discovery, she searched the area anew, pacing paths across the line of markers. Each time, the dowsing rod dipped the same as it had yesterday. Starting at the outer perimeter, she followed the trail of spads toward the large boulder. As she neared, the quivering of the branch became more pronounced. She fought to keep the tip turned-upward, but again the bark skinned away in her hands as it writhed in the throe of a downward spasm.