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 damned 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."
"I don't think so. How come you keep ending up in the same place I'm at?"
"How come you keep ending up in the same place I'm at?" he shot back.
Isabel sat straighter, glaring ahead at the terrain-- the same terrain they seemed destined both to cover. Now why in the hell was that? There had to be a reason. The only person who knew this country like the back of his hand was...
John faced her. "You know Duster Hobson?"
Quizzically, her eyes widened. "You know Duster Hobson?" "I just asked that. And I'm still waiting for your answer."
"I know him. He was at the Blossom when I was..." The sentence trailed off.
John grew unexplainably angry. Had she acquainted herself with Duster as well as Newt?
"Why do you want to know?" she questioned.
"When Duster's not at the Blossom, he's at the Republic." Were his words as peppered as he thought, or had he imagined jealousy oozed from his tone?
"Well, now that we got that straight--what does knowing Duster have to do with us both being here?"
"I think you know the answer to that"
"Do I?"
"Duster talks a lot."
"Yes, he does. About the landscape."
"Got that right. He used to hold up stages in these parts."
"He did?"
"Hell yes. Why do you think he knows the landscape?"
"I assumed he knew it because he used to drill for oil... and came up dry all the time. That's why they call him Duster." "That reputation came a long time after he gave up his illegal ways."
"Why... I never would have figured Duster for an outlaw. He's just too sweet."
John grew annoyed by the way she stuck up for the old man. "Well, some people can lead a surprising life. And Duster's one of them. He goes on and on about this rock cut and that creek--"
"--this ridge and that ravine..."
"Where white alder grows and where purple sage is thickest."
Isabel nodded. "And where black sage is compact or junipers are the tallest." She gave an audible sigh. "Rigby Glen."
He knew the spot--the next logical place to search for hollies if a man... or a woman... had been listening to Duster go on. After that--John threw up his hands in resignation. "Foster's Hideout."