"Well, hell, Isabel, you can put a well here if you want to, but all you're going to get out of your bucket is rocks."
"Rocks won't water my lemon trees," she all but snapped. So she was still too angry at him to be friends.
"No, they won't." John kept his tone even and strode in a different direction, looked at her trees and then the border of mustard weed that grew along the edges of her property. "You're going to have to settle for another spot."
"Like where?"
"Like where I tell you."
She folded her arms beneath her breasts, gnawing on the inside of her mouth in contemplation.
He set out once more and made several passes up and down the length of the grove and back to the house; to the front; by the back door, only on the other side; then beyond the lemon trees up the foothills. He was about to tell her she couldn't get water anywhere near her house on this gravel pit, when a golf ball arced out of the sky and dropped at his feet--right by a clump of bush poppies.
Turning with a jerk of his neck, John narrowed his eyes. Nothing stirred in the tall grasses. All he saw were the rooftops of the mill and Calco Caf�.
With a snort, John concluded Nicklaus was at it again. The way the ball's arc had a loop to it, it seemed that this time the old buzzard was using his lofting iron.
His attention shattered, John lowered the rod anyway for one last try. To his surprise, he got a reading--a strong one, enough to signal he'd hit pay dirt.
"I didn't need any help," he muttered. Now why in hell had he said that? As if Nicklaus could hear him. As if Nicklaus were somebody... important.
"Well?" Isabel walked up to him. "Did you get anything?"
"I got something, all right." He picked up the golf ball and shoved it into his Levi's pocket. "Almost hit in the head from a bogie by Santie Claus."
Her lips pursed. "Are you going to start that business again? You're going to ruin our chances."
Leaning his weight on one foot, John used the toe of his boot to mark a large X in the dirt. "Money or no money for a well, you've got water. Right here."
Tempered excitement lit her eyes. "Really? This isnt where I wanted it to be." Then as the gist of it hit her, her whole face seemed radiant, softer, her mouth more kissable. "But I have water."
He thought about taking her into his arms and kissing her again. That kiss they'd shared yesterday in the tent had affected him like no other. He wanted to get to know Isabel better. Be with her. Explore all there was about her.
Funny how thoughts of the Republic Saloon dimmed as each minute with her passed. And he no longer felt as restless as he used to, so unsteady.
But at the end of this contest, if they didn't win... they'd have no reason to be together anymore. Unless...
He propped the diving rod on his shoulder, then angled the brim of his hat against the sun. "I tell you what, whether or not we win this contest, I'll dig your well for you."
"You will?"
"Consider it a Christmas present."
Her protest came out in a rush. "But I don't have anything for you."
With a smile, he reached up and touched the tip of her nose with his fingertip and said, "You don't know the half of what you've already given me."
Chapter Six
A gray curtain of fog had covered the landscape early in the morning. But by mid-afternoon, the sun had broken through in enough places to warm Isabel's shoulders as she rode her horse. Clouds in wispy forms streaked through the sky as if a painter had put his brushstrokes here and there. They were on their way to Moontide Ridge, a high precipice that overlooked a stretch of Ventura beach--a simple day's ride, no spending the night
John rode ahead of her, leading the way. Every now and then she gave his broad back and narrow hips a slow perusal, admiring the taut display of muscles. She should have been boiling mad at him still. After all, he'd said she was nutty. And he'd denied Bellamy Nicklaus was Santa Claus.
Isabel was more sure now than she ever had been. Saint Nicholas. Bellamy Nicklaus. The same last name with a spelling variation. Why hadn't she caught on right from the start? It was so obvious. Had anyone else guessed besides her?
When she and John had stopped for a lunch of beans wrapped in tortillas along with dried figs, she'd tried to get him to see things through her eyes. But he'd have none of her reasoning.
A nonbeliever, that's what John Wolcott was.
She wished she could still call him a slouch. But after he'd found water on her place and offered to dig the well, she couldn't make a slanderous reference to his character. John did have a human side. That was the problem.
Even though he didn't believe her, she still found him thoroughly irresistible. Darn it all anyway.
John led the way to Santa Paula Creek, the very one that had been so full a day ago that their crossing had had to wait until morning. The night had slowly ticked away. She'd lain awake for most of it, listening to John breathing, sleeping. How could he sleep when she was angry at him? Didn't he want to talk about why they were mad at each other? Apparently not. Why was it men could roll over and get a good night's rest when a woman stewed over the argument and thought up all the things she should have said but hadn't been fast enough to think of at the time of the fight?
She would have given him what for in the morning if he'd made one Bellamy Nicklaus insult. But he hadn't. In fact, he'd acted as if nothing was wrong so she'd decided not to talk to him.
Simple.
Until he said he'd find water for her.
Then she couldn't ignore him anymore.
And when he'd touched her nose with the tip of his finger... she'd wanted to say she forgave him--even though she didn't, not all the way, at least... somewhat. Oh, she hated staying mad! But he was making her.