Water Witch Read Online Free PDF Page B

her time was up, Max had showered, washed and dried her hair, dressed, and was standing in the central room admiring a Remington which hung near one of Honey Bear’s blue-bonnet paintings.
    She’d had no trouble finding something to wear. There was underwear that fit—the daughter’s, she suspected from the cut of it—and a polished cotton shift in an Indian design of turquoise, tobacco brown, and white had practically leaped off the hanger at her. Turquoise leather sandals decorated with silver conchs fit her well enough. She’d found enough makeup in the guest room to make herself presentable, and left her hair down, adding a matching headband to hold it back.
    While she waited for Sam, she looked at all the paintings and sculptures. Several western bronzes by artists whose names even she recognized were on pedestals scattered about the room. An impressive art collection, she thought, but she didn’t see a single canvas signed Sam Garrett. Maybe he was modest about his work.
    Leaning against the arched doorway, Sam watched Max as she studied a Windberg that was one of his favorites. Damned if she wasn’t gorgeous! She looked as if she belonged there. His heart began to swell in his chest. And that wasn’t the only thing swelling. He didn’t see how he could keep his hands off her much longer.
    Chuckling to himself over the effect Max had on him, he walked up behind her and laid his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look like a blond Indian maiden.”
    Startled, she jerked and spun to face him. Her hand flew to her chest. “You nearly frightened the life out of me. One of my ancestors would have scalped you for sneaking up like that.”
    “I didn’t sneak. You were lost in that painting.” Crossing to a bar tucked in a small alcove, he said, “I’ve wondered where those black eyes and high cheekbones came from. Indian, hmm? Cherokee?”
    She laughed and followed him. “Nothing so civilized. My great-great-grandmother was Apache. The strain was fairly diluted by the time it got to me. You should have seen my grandfather. He looked as if he could have posed for the Indian-head nickel.”
    “The well-digging grandfather?”
    She nodded.
    Motioning toward the well-stocked bar, Sam asked, “What would you like to drink? Wine?”
    “Jack Daniels. Straight up.”
    His brows shot up and she grinned. “Working with the men in the oil fields, I learned early on you didn’t order something prissy like white wine, even if you prefer it.”
    “I have a great Texas Riesling if you’d like to share it. It’s from Llano County. I promise,” he added in a stage whisper, “I won’t think you’re a pantywaist If you drink it.”
    She laughed and accepted a glass.
    Max laughed a lot the rest of the evening. Sam Garrett was a charmer, no doubt about it. Everybody seemed to love him. Loma Mendez, a plump little grandmotherly type who was the fantastic cook Sam promised, absolutely glowed around him. It was obvious that the older woman doted on her “Senor Sam” and, from the knowing smiles that brightened her face when the housekeeper glanced between Max and her employer, she was delighted that he had brought home “his senorita” for her to fuss over as well.
    “Sam,” Max whispered as Loma bustled off for their dessert, “you need to set her straight. She thinks that you and I . . . that we . . . well, have something going.”
    That disarming grin of his flashed and he took her hand across the table. His thumb brushed the tops of her knuckles and she felt a shiver all the way up to her earlobes. “Well, don’t we?”
    “Certainly not.” She jerked her hand away and took a quick sip of water.
    He looked amused and neatly turned their conversation to other things. She found that she enjoyed being with Sam, watching him gesture with his wonderful broad hands and long fingers as he described something to her. His deep laughter seemed to vibrate inside her, and he had the most disconcerting way of looking