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"I didn't know talking meant offering."
"It does." He steered around a manzanita, then back next to her once more. "So are you?"
Isabel thought of the time it would take her to return to her cabin—precious too much of it. The sun would be going down in another two hours. If she got home ahead of it, she could water her trees. However much she didn't want to be beholden to John, she had to think of her future business.
Slowing to a stop, she nodded.
John reined the horse to a halt, then held out his palm. Grasping it, she gave a slight hop as he propelled her upward in front of him into the saddle. She landed with a small cry as he tucked her in tight, both her legs dangling off to one side.
His thighs were hard as steel against her bottom. She clutched her basket to her breasts as an unconscious defense against the tension winding through her. As much as she wanted to deny it, he was all man.
As he nudged the horse forward, she tensed with the swaying jolt and would have grabbed the horn had she a free hand. Instead, John's arm came around her midriff to steady her. The mere touch of his hand sent warm shivers through her.
They rode the way back without speaking, Isabel sitting rigid and making her joints ache. Once they came to her porch, she slipped out of the saddle so fast he didn't have the chance to give her aid.
"Well… thanks," she said climbing her rickety steps to put as much distance in between them as she could. She still clutched her wicker hamper as if it were a shield against him.
"I'll say it was my pleasure and that I hope our paths never cross again."
Isabel lowered her chin so her hat brim could keep the sun from her eyes. "I hope likewise."
Then he turned around and loped down her lane, kicking up clouds of dust.
Only after he disappeared, did she lower the basket to the porch and let her muscles go slack. Needing something to take the dryness out of her throat, she unscrewed the cap to the canteen and drank. Once her mouth touched the opening, she remembered John Wolcott's lips had been on it.
Bringing the canteen in front of her to look at, she thought about wiping off the rim. Rather than do that, she slowly brought it back to her lips, closed her eyes, and drank… swearing she could taste his mouth…
All the while she ignored the heat that coiled in her stomach.
John had thought to get one up on Isabel by beating her to the top of Chumash Mountain, but now he wasn't so sure he'd outfoxed her. She'd turned the tables on him with that heavy-lashed gaze of hers that could make a man forget he'd ever looked at another woman.
Her eyes were the shade of coastal lupines… a blue yet violet. He'd never seen such an eye color in a person. Each time she gazed in his direction he felt as if he ought to give up liquor, buy a new set of clothes, and swear undying love for her.
Now if that wasn't stupid.
She'd worked at the Blossom, of all places—the town whorehouse. Newt had had a good ol’ time with her. Unbidden, the image of Newt and Isabel in a room up at the Blossom came to him. The picture put a twist in his belly and made his teeth ache where he clenched them. John wondered how many times Newt had kissed her full mouth… how many times he'd…
John made himself shrug out of the thought. He had more important matters on his mind, namely winning the contest.
The day had dawned sunny and bright. Not a single breeze. Air hung low in the sky, warming the rocks and trails through the valley. John sat astride his horse wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut short, a bandanna around his forehead—his beat-up Stetson over that, and a pair of worse-for-wear cotton duck pants.
He was headed for Oak Grove Gulch, an out-of-the-way place known only to those who'd come across it by accident—which was damn few, as the grassy ravine was off the beaten path by many miles. The ride was a good half day, but worth the effort. The hills were covered with holly bushes.
Steering clear of an outcropping of boulders that had slid down the mountain, John reined in and then gave his horse some spur. Just over the other side of this ridge and he would be there.
A whorl of dust caught his eye. From the west, a horse and rider approached at what seemed a fair gait. Slowing, John squinted against the sun; then he swore up a blue streak when he made out who it was bearing down on him.
He damne
d his luck—or lack of it, and rested his forearms on the pommel of his saddle. There was no sense in proceeding. They were both going in the same direction.
Dust clouds swept over the ridge as Isabel slowed her horse. John gave the animal a cursory inspection, then swallowed a laugh as he stared at the rider.
Isabel wore a split skirt and boots, and a blouse that denned her every curve. If he hadn't been gaping at the slow rise and fall of her breasts, he would have seen the fire in her eyes before her words ignited him.
"You! You're following me."
He took offense and leaned toward his left the better to view her, to see the blush of pink across her cheeks and the column of her throat. "You've got that turned around. You're following me."
