Water Witch by Jan Hudson Page B

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