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John could tell Isabel was still mad at him for not buying into her Santa Claus idea.
And for calling her crazy.
The latter had slipped out, sort of. Maybe he'd really meant it so she could see she was being illogical. She obviously didn't think so. She'd been giving him the silent treatment ever since. And after a night spent in the tent, a ride back to Limonero, and half a day at her place, the quiet was getting on his nerves. He'd have taken his words back if he thought she'd yell at him. But Isabel wasn't the yelling type. Her anger came in concise movements and a peevish mask.
She sat in the shade on the porch of her house, counting berries and putting them into burlap bags, lying off the tops of each with string, she stacked them against the house. Never once did she look up at him. He'd told her he'd help her count. After all, they'd designated today to do the counting. They had just over forty-eight hours left to collect berries and he wanted to know how they stood.
He still didn't know. Every time he asked her what the tally was, she raised her hand at him and waved him off—as if he were causing her to break the rhythm of counting in her head.
So be it.
Since he had nothing else to do, John had examined the ground in front of and behind the small lemon grove.
Isabel wanted a well.
John knew how to douse for water.
She hadn't asked him to find the well spot—she didn't know he could. Maybe it was the desire to make up to her for his remarks that made him leave and pick out a willow branch and come back. He doubted she even knew he'd been gone. Her head was still down in concentration, fingers nimble—that itty-bitty derringer by her side as if she were guarding a bank vault.
"Four hundred ninety-seven. Four hundred ninety-eight. Four hundred ninety-nine." She snuck a quick peek at him when he came up to the porch and leaned against the post.
Then, plop, the last berry went into the bag. "Five hundred."
A bowl loaded with berries sat in her lap. She went to reach for another bag and he drawled, "Where is it you want your well?"
An arch of her brow clearly said she thought he had ulterior motives. "Why?"
"Why?" he countered back, somewhat insulted. "Because I'm asking, that's why." Pushing the brim of his hat up, he motioned to her. "Get up and show me and I'll tell you if that's where you want it."
"What do you know about wells?"
"Enough to tell you whether or not the spot you've picked out will lead you to water."
She bit her lip, set the bowl aside, and stood. At least he'd won a little ground with her. "Well, I do have a spot I thought would be perfect."
He must have been temporarily forgiven, for she took the steps to the yard and walked to its weedy side. After picking up the stick he'd fashioned into a fork, he followed her.
Isabel had gone past the trees and toward the rear of the house in easy proximity to the back door. Stopping, she pointed. "Right here. This is where I want my well. It's close to my kitchen sink when I want water, and I would have to walk no more than ten paces to get to my trees. This is the perfect spot." Then in a voice he thought sounded placating, she asked, "Don't you think?"
"I can't say until I feel my way across it." He positioned the willow in his hands, palms up. The branches were limber enough to be responsive, yet stiff enough to resist all but a definite pull from the selected area. "Step aside and I'll see if you're right."
John had to relax and drift into a mental state that made him focus on only one thing: water. He chanted the word over and over in his head like his dad had taught him.
Dowsing wasn't something just anybody could do. Tom had tried, but he'd lacked the mental focus required. John could take himself inside a place where he felt only the energy coming off the ground, sending pulses to his hands, fingers, and palms. It was a strange thing, an electrically charged feeling he couldn't describe.
As he walked to where Isabel had stood, John watched the end of the rod and he closed off all noises and scenes around him. If there was water, the forked stick would react by a pulling motion, sometimes toward his body and sometimes away. He never knew. Either one meant he'd been successful.
Passing over the ground with its rocks and weeds, he felt no pulse. He tried coming in at a different angle. Again, no motion. Making two more attempts, he finally lowered the rod.
"'You don't have water right here."
Disappointment mapped a pattern on her brows, mouth, and the corners of her eyes. "I don't? But I really wanted a well in this spot."
"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."
