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  “Dowser?”

  She nodded toward the Doberman, still sitting where she had commanded, his shoulders quivering as he eyed the man in the chair.

  Sam squirmed. “Has he had his dinner? He looks hungry to me.”

  She suppressed a smile. “He’s been fed.” Then taking pity on them both, she rose and commanded, “Dowser, heel.” Both of the two big males seemed relieved when she closed Dowser in the bedroom, but she felt uncomfortable being alone with Sam Garrett. Even with her back to him, she could feel his green-eyed gaze on her.

  And she’d noticed that his eyes were an unusual green, as green as the junipers that clung to the rocky hillsides. No, they were more like translucent jade, more the color of the Guadalupe when sunlight shimmered on its surface.

  Turning to face him, she discovered she was right. He was gazing at her as if her robe were invisible, as if those Guadalupe green eyes were magnets pulling her toward him. For a moment she could only stand and stare, as mesmerized by the flesh and blood man in the chair as she had been by the monster on the television screen. She could feel the same kind of reactions: a flutter in her stomach, a prickling of her skin, a pulsing in her neck. Somehow he frightened her, which was strange. Men had never frightened Max, only monsters. And Sam Garrett was no monster—he was all man.

  After she had stood there staring for what seemed like an eternity, she cleared her throat and glanced anxiously around the room. “Would you like something to drink?” Why had she asked him that? She didn’t want him to stay. She wanted him to go. He made her nervous.

  “I’d like that,” he said, his deep voice a rumbling caress. “I don’t think Honey Bear would mind if we raided her brandy.”

  When he smiled, a slow, lopsided lift of his lips that crinkled his eyes and deepened the grooves bracketing his mouth, Max felt as if she might dissolve into a puddle on the braided rug. Her fingers fidgeted in the pockets of the plaid robe. She cleared her throat again. “I’ll fix it,” she said, and hurried to the bar beside the huge stone fireplace that stretched across one end of the room.

  Sam sucked in a ragged breath and, with his elbow propped against the chair arm, dropped his head into his hand. His fingers massaged his damp forehead. Godamighty, he was sweating. He’d never had a woman affect him so. Those black eyes of hers had about burned him to a crisp. He’d wanted to grab her and kiss those full pink lips and touch her all over. Angela Maxwell Strahan was some kind of woman: full of spit and vinegar and sexy as hell. He had a feeling she’d tackle a tiger and come out with him by the tail.

  Yet, for all her gutsiness, there was something else he saw behind those dark eyes. Maybe it was just nervousness. She didn’t know him from Adam, and he had tried to break in the house, had nearly scared the pants off her. Recalling their earlier exchange, he grinned. Yes, she was some kind of woman. And he wanted to see more of her—again. He groaned when he remembered the soft curves visible beneath her thin nightshirt.

  “Are you in pain?”

  He looked up to see Max standing beside him, frowning. “Just a little,” he said, feeling a twinge of guilt for the lie. His leg was the furthest thing from his mind. Reaching for the snifter she offered, he gave a blatantly theatrical sigh and said, “I may have to stay here overnight so you can nurse me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come off it, Garrett.” Sure, the project was vital to her, but she’d be damned if she’d play games with this overgrown redhead to keep it—no matter how attracted she was to him. Sinking into the sofa that matched the chair he was sprawled in, she tucked her legs under her. “You’ve probably been hurt worse playing football lots of times.”

  “Why do you think I played football?”

  “Because you’re as big as the side of a house. Didn’t you play football?”

  He shook his head. “Do I look crazy? I’m a gentle kind of guy; I didn’t want to get my brains mashed out. I played a little baseball in high school and college.”

  “And what do you do now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” He took a sip of brandy and rested the snifter on his stomach. Looking a bit smug, he added, “As of today, I’m retired.”

  “Retired? Aren’t you too young to retire?”

  “Nope. Too old. I’d planned to retire by the time I was thirty-five. I missed it by a year.”

  His comments infuriated Max. Here was this big brute, obviously from a wealthy family, and he could retire. Here she was, she who had worked her buns off for everything she had, struggling to survive. Dammit, life wasn’t fair.

  “I suppose now you can spend your time sitting on the front porch rocking and whittling,” she said, doing nothing to hide the caustic bite of her disdain.

  “Now there’s an idea,” Sam said, nodding, ignoring her sarcasm. “I may even learn to chew tobacco and spit.” Then he grinned. “Actually, I plan to do some fishing, some more building around my place, raise a few sheep, maybe some chickens. And I intend to devote a lot of time to painting. It’s something I’ve always wanted time for. The scenery around here is perfect for it.”

  Max regretted her snide remarks. After all, her troubles weren’t Sam’s fault. “Sounds nice.” Her finger absently traced the rim of her snifter. “So you’re an artist.”

  He shrugged, then abruptly changed the direction of their conversation. “What kind of project are you doing for Buck?”

  She reached for her purse on the coffee table, pulled out a business card, and handed it to him. She didn’t mention that the ink was barely dry and the cards weren’t paid for yet. “I’m the owner of the Never Miss Drilling Company. I’m here to locate water on Mr. Barton’s hilltop south of Kerrville and drill a well for Mrs. Barton.”

  Sam let out a whoop of laughter and Max glared at him. “What’s so damned funny?” she asked, grinding her teeth to keep from kicking his good leg.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t look like any water well driller I’ve ever seen. And in any case, there’s no water on that property Honey Bear wants to build a house on. I know. As a favor to my uncle, I had my best drilling crew sink seven or eight holes up there. If there was any good water to be found, they’d have found it. It’s nothing but a pile of rocks with a pretty view. Don’t waste your time and Buck’s money.”

  “Do you have a drilling company?”

  “No, until today I had a heavy construction company—airports, football stadiums, that kind of thing. But we often had to drill wells to provide our own source of water for construction. My crew was headed by a top-notch man. If he said there was no water, there was no water.”

  A terrible sinking feeling crawled in the pit of her stomach. Sam must have been the nephew who, as Buck said, “drilled a bunch of doodlebug holes that were drier than a liar’s lips.” She wouldn’t allow herself to believe that there was no water on the hill. There had to be. Buck Barton had a hunch there was. He hadn’t made millions as an oil wildcatter without good hunches. She had to believe him. She needed that seventy-five thousand dollars.

  “I’m a geologist. And a damned good one,” she said. “Don’t worry about Buck’s money. Our deal is: If I don’t hit, he doesn’t pay. If there’s water to be found, I’ll find it.” Plunking her glass down, she stood and glared at Sam Garrett. “Now get yourself and your . . . leg out of here. I’ve got to go to bed. Some of us have to work for a living!”

  Chapter 2

  Elbows to her sides, Max clutched the prongs of a forked willow branch, holding them tightly in her upturned fists. Watching the skyward-pointed tip for any movement, she slowly picked a path over the rough ground. Despite her thick-soled field boots, the jagged rocks and gravel made her search tedious.

  With the sleeve of her chambray shirt, she mopped the sweat off her face and made her way over the rocky terrain toward where her pack lay. It was already one-thirty and she’d barely made a dent in the area to be covered. So far there wasn’t a hint of water on the property. Not once had the
small limb twisted in her hands, nor had the tip dipped downward. Whistling for Dowser, she sat down on the limestone boulder and laid the willow branch she’d cut this morning beside her. Maybe her skills were just rusty. After all, she hadn’t witched for water since she was thirteen or fourteen and under Gramps’s careful eye.

  When Dowser came bounding up, she scratched his head and laughed. “You’re not having any luck either, are you, boy? I doubt if we’re going to find any oil around here.” She dug a bowl from her pack and poured him a drink of water from her canteen. As she watched him lap up the water, she sighed. “I wish you were as good at locating water as you are oil. Water,” she said, wiggling her fingers in his bowl. “We need to find water.”

  Dowser sat back on his haunches and gave her a tongue-lolling grin. She tossed him a dog biscuit and watched him trot off to the shade of a scrub oak nearby. Until the bottom had fallen out of the domestic oil market and she’d lost her job with Tex-Ram Petroleum two years ago, they’d made a darned good team. When her witching rod and Dowser’s nose agreed, there was always a good producing well drilled on the spot. Nobody ever knew her secret—not even John Ramsey, the owner of Tex-Ram. Everyone simply thought she was an excellent geologist. And lucky for her, for even the best geologists hit dry holes. Max never missed.

  For the three years she had worked for him, John Ramsey had rewarded her well. After her first big strike, he’d given her the blue Silverado pickup she still drove; after the second, a new Lexus; after the third, a trip to Hawaii. Then cash bonuses added up to provide a down payment on a house and furniture. The last year John had started giving her a share of the business with every strike. He’d laughingly said that at the rate she was going, it wouldn’t be long before she owned more than he did. But with the downswing in the economy and the domestic oil business, Tex-Ram went the way of most of the small producers. Oh, they had managed to hold on longer than some, but in the end, the company had folded. Even the big concerns had huge layoffs. And geologists were a dime a dozen.

  Max walked to the truck, took a bologna sandwich and an apple from the cooler, and returned to the boulder. A breeze ruffled the damp tendrils around her face and rustled through the scrub oaks as she ate her meal and looked out over the rolling hills, remembering happier times. Remembering summers long ago when she walked those rocky hills with her grandfather.

  * * *

  Sam Garrett paused as he climbed to the crest and watched Max, half reclining and propped on one arm, staring into the distance, nibbling an apple. Even in field boots and jeans, she was lovely. All night and all morning his mind had been full of her. Those black eyes had haunted him. He’d almost convinced himself that his fantasies had exaggerated her appeal.

  He was wrong.

  Her hair, in a thick braid over one shoulder, was the same color as the long silky tufts of delicate grass dried golden by long days in the summer sun. The curve of her hip and long line of her leg were a contrast in softness against the weathered gray boulder. He ached to capture her beauty on canvas—or better yet, in his arms.

  A crunch of gravel brought Max out of her reverie. Glancing toward the sound, she saw Sam Garrett, thumbs hooked in the pockets of low-slung jeans, sauntering toward her. A deep rust-colored knit shirt, nearly the same shade as his hair, molded his big frame and matched his cowboy boots. A peculiar feeling fluttered over her as she watched his approach. He was even better-looking in daylight.

  “Hello,” he said, flashing a wide grin. “Found any water yet?”

  An answering smile sprang to her lips. “Not yet. I’m just getting acquainted with the land. It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it? I can understand why Mrs. Barton wants a house here.”

  Sam sat down on the hard outcropping beside her and followed her gaze out over the slopes and arroyos where twisted junipers, prickly pear cacti, and stunted mountain laurels clung to the craggy inclines. “It’s even prettier in spring.” He pointed toward the highway and the open fields below. “When the bluebonnets bloom, that whole area is a sea of blue. Honey Bear loves bluebonnets.”

  Max laughed. “From the number of paintings at the cottage, I kind of figured that.”

  “You should see the house in Houston. Her blue-bonnet paintings are liberally sprinkled among the Renoirs and the Wyeths. Even I have several. She often gives everyone in the family a bluebonnet painting for Christmas. They’re real gifts of love.”

  “She sounds delightful,” Max said, tossing her apple core toward a stand of scrub oaks where she’d seen a white-tailed doe earlier that morning. “She deserves a home here where she can enjoy the hills. I’ve always loved this country. In another month or so the sumac will begin to turn red and yellow and orange. My grandfather always said sumac looked like fires dotting the hillsides.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  She nodded. “He lived here until his arthritis forced him to sell his business and move to East Texas with his sister. He had a water drilling company in Kerrville. I spent every summer with him here until I was about fourteen. I adored him. Most of my happiest memories are of the vacations I spent with Gramps. He died less than three years after he left the hills.”

  “So now you’re carrying on the family tradition.” Sarn picked up the forked branch lying beside Max and began absently snapping off bits of the wood and tossing them toward the spot where Dowser was snoozing. “Are you a ground water geologist?”

  Horrified when she noticed that Sam was mutilating her dowsing stick before her eyes, Max almost shouted at him to stop. Then she caught herself and clamped her mouth shut. She couldn’t tell him that she was a dowser, a water witch. At best, most people thought that finding water by such methods was superstitious mumbo jumbo. For some reason she didn’t think she could tolerate this man, of all people, ridiculing her.

  “I beg your pardon?” She’d missed his question when she’d seen him pick up the willow branch. Disgusted with herself that she’d only cut one this morning, she was already figuring how much time she would lose driving to the river, finding another private area with willow trees, and cutting another. A good dowsing stick had to be cut fresh each day, and Sam had destroyed this one.

  “I asked if you were a ground water geologist. Is something wrong?”

  “No, not a thing.” Her voice squeaked like Minnie Mouse. “And no, I don’t have any sort of hydrogeology specialty. Not in terms of formal training. I’ve worked mostly in oil. But,” she added, challenging him eye to eye, “I have a great deal of practical experience. I assure you that if there’s water here, I’ll find it.”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow and, with an amused look, gave a little nod as if to concede the point. “How did you and Buck get together? Did you work for him in the oil industry?”

  She lifted her chin and announced, “No, I worked for John Ramsey of Tex-Ram. I met Mr. Barton at the Petroleum Club in Houston. He mentioned that he hadn’t been able to locate any water here and his wife was heartsick about it. I agreed to take a look.”

  She didn’t tell Sam that she had been working as a cocktail waitress at the posh club that catered to oilmen. She’d figured that, with generous tips, it paid as well as any other work she could find in that economically depressed area. Several of her colleagues with Ph.D.’s were selling shoes or delivering the Houston Chronicle. The added advantage of working at the Petroleum Club was that she could pick up rumors there of any kind of an opening for a geologist. She had located a few consulting jobs, but in the last several months there had been nothing.

  Desperate, during the summer she’d even tried to sell some of the songs she’d written over the years through an agent in Nashville. A musician friend had recommended the Bullock Agency, but, although Smith Bullock seemed genuinely interested in the tapes she’d sent and agreed to represent her, nothing had come of it. In some ways, that was the most devastating blow of all. It was the loss of a secret dream.

  She’d done everything she could to pick up extra money here and there, including sev
eral part-time jobs and taking in a roommate to help with the enormous expense of her house. That house she loved so much had taken a healthy chunk of her salary when she’d been riding high, and was now an albatross. It had been up for sale for almost two years without so much as one reasonable offer. If the mortgage company foreclosed, her credit rating would be ruined, and she’d be damned if she would give her father the satisfaction of knowing that she couldn’t make it. Not that he’d ever really know—she hadn’t seen or talked to him in nine years—but she’d know.

  With her mouth set in a determined line, she stood and brushed off the seat of her jeans, planning a similar brush-off of Sam Garrett. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my project.”

  “Great,” he said, standing and tossing away the remains of the stick he’d shredded. “I’ll tag along and watch.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have better things to do than watch me.”

  He hung his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his heels, and grinned. “Nope, not a thing.”

  Max groaned silently. Lord, deliver her from bored buttinskys. Why had she ever thought he was attractive? Right now she’d love to strangle him with rusty barbed wire. The dowsing stick he had destroyed had to be replaced before she could continue her search. Driving back to the river meant at least an hour or two delay. She was losing valuable time. Somehow she had to get rid of him. Politely, if possible.

  “It’s such a beautiful day,” she said, “you should be fishing.”

  “I’ve been fishing already. Caught four nice cats. Want to come over for dinner and help me eat them?”

  “No, I don’t want to come over for dinner. Why don’t you go paint some pictures or tend to your goats and chickens and let me get back to work?”

  “Sheep.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sheep, not goats. And I have a man who tends the sheep. Anyway, Manuel says there’s not much to do with them right now except stand and watch them eat.” One eyebrow lifted as he added, “And I’d rather watch you.”