Never the Twain Read Free Page B

joyous and
unfettered emotions.
    Her emotions had certainly been unfettered enough since last Tuesday. The carefully
hidden part of her--the part that had jumped the traces and led her across the continent to
Oregon--had been in control ever since she met this sexy, infuriating man. And now she was going to spend
an entire day in his company. She wasn't sure she could stand it. He fit her fantasies far too
well.
    There was an unmistakable gleam of humor in the slitted blue eyes examining her from
booted toes to the top of her billed cap. Examined her with special attention to secondary sexual
characteristics. Genny's breasts came alive under his gaze; she hoped the loose flannel shirt she wore
against the morning's chill concealed the blossoming of her nipples. Her belly warmed as his eyes
briefly halted between her belt buckle and her knees. Why hadn't she chosen her uniform pants a
size larger, so they didn't reveal her womanly curves quite so explicitly.
    "Mr. McConnell and I have met," she said in response to Dan's introduction. Her
proffered hand was enveloped in a callused grip, one that sent a melting heat up her arm and into
her chest.
    She wanted to look away, to smile at Dan, to admire the helicopter. Anything but drowning
in eyes like a boiling spring, icy blue and burning at the same time.
    His wink broke her hypnosis. His words were aimed at Dan. "Miss Forsythe had a rather
sudden introduction to range cattle last week. I, ah...I came to her assistance."
    Oh, God! Her face was as red as it had been when she left him on the trail.
    "No, it was ol' Brindle," he was saying, in response to an unheard question of Dan's. "You
know how big she looks, what with her longhorn blood and all."
    Genny headed for the helicopter, to load her daypack and map case. If he was going to tell
her boss all about her cowardly behavior, she didn't have to listen. She'd get enough ribbing from
Dan later.
    McConnell was right behind her. As soon as he got in, he exchanged his fancy cowboy hat
for a billed cap with the legend, The Way to a Man's Heart is Through His Fly , in bright blue
across the silhouette of a fishing rod.
    He treated her with impersonal politeness as he made sure she was strapped in, had the
earphones and mike correctly seated on her head, and her gear safely stowed. Only after the blades
began to whirl did she realize that the minuscule bubble in front of her was all that protected her
from the elements--and emptiness. There were no doors on the helicopter!
    What was she doing here, sitting in a flying machine with no visible means of support, a
technological imitation of the exoskeleton of a strange, metallic insect? Surely this wasn't part of her
youthful dreams.
    Those dreams had led her to Oregon.
    As the youngest of four and the only girl on a New Hampshire farm, Genny's childhood
had been peopled with characters from books. She had been fascinated by the history of the
American West. The Oregon Trail called to her. Stories of wild and woolly cattle drives triggered
daydreams of excitement and adventure waiting for her somewhere beyond the sunset.
    She had seen pictures of the rugged Cascades, of the broad Columbia in its black-walled
gorge, and of the vast emptiness of sagebrush plains. But vacations, to the Forsythes, meant the
Maine Coast or, sometimes, a long weekend in Boston, doing the museums. One did not venture
west of the Alleghenies. One never considered crossing the Great Plains, still believed to be
inhabited by savages--only now dressed in faded denim and high-heeled boots.
    Five minutes into the flight, Rock was wondering just how big a mistake he was making.
She was even prettier than he remembered.
    He switched to internal communication. "There's Mitchell Butte off to the left. You'll be
able to see Owyhee Dam pretty quick now."
    He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye.
    That wasn't all he saw. The dark green BLM shirt clung to delicious curves. Her uniform
pants weren't tight, but somehow