go so far. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what Sam had in mind. And she’d encouraged it. What in the world had she been thinking?
That was the problem. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d simply plastered herself on him like a price tag from a discount store. She’d intended to send Sam home, or somewhere, anywhere, so she could witch this area. What had happened to her good intentions? She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that one either.
Some way she had to convince him to leave. She had to find that water. And soon.
She withdrew from the comfort of his lap and stood. “I’d like to check one or two more things.” She took another deep breath and said, “Sam, go away. I have important work to do here.”
“But, Angel—”
“Sam,” she said firmly, narrowing her eyes and planting her fists on her hips, “go home and watch your sheep or go sign up for painting lessons or go bug what’s-her-name at the art store, but stop bugging me. Please.”
He grinned. “Have I been bugging you?” He reached and pulled her back onto his lap.
She shoved him away and scrambled to her feet.
“Dammit, Sam Garrett, you are without a doubt the most thick-headed male God ever put on this earth.” She looked around for his car. “How did you get here today? Did you plan for me to drive you home again? If you did, get in the truck. The sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can get some work done.”
He stood and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “My car’s parked at the foot of the hill. I didn’t want to drag the bottom out of it on this rough road. Looks like I’m going to have to buy myself something more serviceable if I keep coming up here.”
Deliver me, Max thought, rolling her eyes heavenward. She grabbed the canvas and the easel and said, “Here, let me help you carry your stuff down.”
By the time she reached the foot of the hill, Max was breathing hard, partly from having almost run the entire way, partly from sheer exasperation. Sam, carrying the rest of the things, was close behind her.
When she saw the big Jaguar parked beside the road, something about that maroon pile of money with leather seats sparked a renewed irritation in her and her lip curled. “That yours?”
He nodded and opened the trunk.
“Very fancy. What do you put in the radiator? Perrier?”
He laughed. “Now there’s an idea.” He took the canvas and easel from her and stowed the things away. “Thanks for helping, Angel.” Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on her nose. “I’ll pick you up for dinner about seven.”
She scowled. “I’m not going out to dinner with you.”
“Want me to come back up on the hill and help you some more?”
“But. . . but,” she sputtered, “that’s blackmail.”
He shrugged.
She glared.
“Seven,” he said.
Max muttered all the way back up the hill. Sam Garrett had a way of making her talk to herself. Maybe she was going crazy.
An hour later, she was still muttering as she tramped over the rocky terrain, a fork of the willow branch in each fist. The tip of the limb pointed skyward, mute, mocking. She trudged onward through the rough gravel, more determined than ever to find a vein of water.
The little quiver in her hands was so faint she almost missed it.
Max stopped, her heart pounding. Not a dip, but definitely a quiver. She moved on and the branch stilled. Moving over a few feet, she walked a path parallel to the one she’d just completed. Another quiver.
Excitement began bubbling like a spring deep inside her. But she mustn’t get her hopes up yet. It was just a quiver, a hint of the possibility. It might be the edge of a big vein or it might be nothing of any consequence. She laid down her forked stick on the spot, then retrieved her rock hammer, several spads, and some red plastic ribbons from her tool bag. She hammered a marker into the rock where she’d felt the first quiver, another
That was the problem. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d simply plastered herself on him like a price tag from a discount store. She’d intended to send Sam home, or somewhere, anywhere, so she could witch this area. What had happened to her good intentions? She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that one either.
Some way she had to convince him to leave. She had to find that water. And soon.
She withdrew from the comfort of his lap and stood. “I’d like to check one or two more things.” She took another deep breath and said, “Sam, go away. I have important work to do here.”
“But, Angel—”
“Sam,” she said firmly, narrowing her eyes and planting her fists on her hips, “go home and watch your sheep or go sign up for painting lessons or go bug what’s-her-name at the art store, but stop bugging me. Please.”
He grinned. “Have I been bugging you?” He reached and pulled her back onto his lap.
She shoved him away and scrambled to her feet.
“Dammit, Sam Garrett, you are without a doubt the most thick-headed male God ever put on this earth.” She looked around for his car. “How did you get here today? Did you plan for me to drive you home again? If you did, get in the truck. The sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can get some work done.”
He stood and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “My car’s parked at the foot of the hill. I didn’t want to drag the bottom out of it on this rough road. Looks like I’m going to have to buy myself something more serviceable if I keep coming up here.”
Deliver me, Max thought, rolling her eyes heavenward. She grabbed the canvas and the easel and said, “Here, let me help you carry your stuff down.”
By the time she reached the foot of the hill, Max was breathing hard, partly from having almost run the entire way, partly from sheer exasperation. Sam, carrying the rest of the things, was close behind her.
When she saw the big Jaguar parked beside the road, something about that maroon pile of money with leather seats sparked a renewed irritation in her and her lip curled. “That yours?”
He nodded and opened the trunk.
“Very fancy. What do you put in the radiator? Perrier?”
He laughed. “Now there’s an idea.” He took the canvas and easel from her and stowed the things away. “Thanks for helping, Angel.” Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on her nose. “I’ll pick you up for dinner about seven.”
She scowled. “I’m not going out to dinner with you.”
“Want me to come back up on the hill and help you some more?”
“But. . . but,” she sputtered, “that’s blackmail.”
He shrugged.
She glared.
“Seven,” he said.
Max muttered all the way back up the hill. Sam Garrett had a way of making her talk to herself. Maybe she was going crazy.
An hour later, she was still muttering as she tramped over the rocky terrain, a fork of the willow branch in each fist. The tip of the limb pointed skyward, mute, mocking. She trudged onward through the rough gravel, more determined than ever to find a vein of water.
The little quiver in her hands was so faint she almost missed it.
Max stopped, her heart pounding. Not a dip, but definitely a quiver. She moved on and the branch stilled. Moving over a few feet, she walked a path parallel to the one she’d just completed. Another quiver.
Excitement began bubbling like a spring deep inside her. But she mustn’t get her hopes up yet. It was just a quiver, a hint of the possibility. It might be the edge of a big vein or it might be nothing of any consequence. She laid down her forked stick on the spot, then retrieved her rock hammer, several spads, and some red plastic ribbons from her tool bag. She hammered a marker into the rock where she’d felt the first quiver, another
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