Miss Greenhorn. Diana Palmer
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“I’d rather find an old six-shooter or some Apache arrowheads than the gold, if you want the truth.”
“I’ve got a whole collection of Apache arrowheads,” he told her. “And if you like, I’ll run you over to Cochise Stronghold one day while you’re here. Cochise and his band used to camp there. He and his people fought the U.S. Cavalry to a standstill and legend and the historical people say he’s buried in an unmarked grave on the site. The Indian agent, Tom Jeffords, who was his friend, was the only white man who was privileged to know the old chief’s burial place.”
“What is it like there? Desert?” she asked.
“No!” he denied, shaking his head. “It’s way back in a canyon with plenty of trees and good water and mountains behind. It’s a beautiful spot.”
“Imagine that.” She sighed, staring at him. “You know, before I came out here, I thought the desert was just a lot of sand stretching to the horizon. But it’s not like that at all. It’s full of creosote and cholla, ocotillo and prickly pear cactus, and cottonwood and mesquite. And the birds! The red-winged blackbird is so beautiful.”
“Not to mention the cactus wren, the roadrunner, and the owls,” he agreed, smiling back at her. “Yes, there’s life out there. Other kinds, too. Lizards and snakes, coyotes, wolves, deer, game birds—”
“How long have your people lived in Arizona?” she interrupted.
He shrugged. “I don’t really know. An ancestor of mine was living in Tombstone around the time of the O.K. Corral, but I don’t know when he actually came here. All I know is that he was a Southerner. He came here after the Civil War.”
“Someone told me that the city of Tucson once flew the Confederate flag just briefly.”
“And it’s true. A lot of Southerners settled here in the old days. There’s plenty of history here in this part of the state.”
“I grew up reading Zane Grey,” she recalled wistfully. “I never dreamed I’d actually get to see any of the places he wrote about. But the most exciting part of this trip has been looking at the Hohokam ruins.”
He nodded. “They fascinate me, too. In 300 B.C., the Hohokam farmed here using a 150-mile system of canals. They were an inspiring people.”
“Yes, I’m learning that.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you through?”
“Yes, thank you. How can you take off whenever you like?” she asked hesitantly as they got up.
He grinned. “I’m vice president of the mining company. My uncle owns it.”
“Oh.”
“I’m rich,” he said, and a mocking smile touched his lean, dark face. “Haven’t you noticed? Most women do.”
She flushed and turned away, flustered by the point-blank bluntness. In her haste to move, she backed into the chair he’d pulled out for her, tripped, and went face down across it, plowing into a table full of tourists and their children.
Milk shakes and hamburgers went everywhere. So did the contents of Christy’s purse. She sprawled on the floor, feeling unbearably foolish and embarrassed.
“That was my fault,” Nate said quietly as he helped her up and proceeded to patch up the incident with a charm and diplomacy that Christy was just beginning to realize was an innate part of his personality. Flinty he might be, but he was a gentleman, and he had a knack for putting people at ease. The tourists were more concerned about Christy than the mess she’d made, and even the restaurant people were understanding and kind.
All that sweetness only made Christy feel worse. She was in tears by the time Nate helped her into the Jeep.
“Now, now,” he said gently, mopping up her tears. “I shouldn’t have cut at you like that. It was my fault, not yours.”
“It was mine,” she wailed. “I’m so clumsy…!”
He finished clearing away the tears and tilted her face up to his searching gaze while he surveyed the damage. “Red nose, red eyes, red cheeks,” he murmured dryly. His eyes fell to her mouth and lingered there until she felt her toes curling in her shoes. “Red mouth, too,” he said, his voice deepening. The hand holding her chin contracted a little. “Red and soft and very, very tempting, little Christy,” he said, half under his breath. He lifted his eyes to catch the look in hers, and his gaze held hers until she was breathless from the tense excitement he created.
The interior of the Jeep was quiet with the canvas top on, and they could barely hear the traffic noise outside. The heat was stifling, but neither noticed. His dark eyes lanced into her pale ones and even as he looked at her, he moved closer, looming over her, the spicy scent of his cologne filling her nostrils as his mouth began to move down toward hers.
She felt her nails clench on the expensive fabric of his jacket while her heart tried to climb into her throat. His mouth was very masculine, and it looked hard and ruthless for all its sensuality. She imagined that he knew a lot more about kissing than she did, and the thought of being kissed by Nathanial Lang was far more exciting than she’d ever dreamed. She felt her lips parting for him, waiting, her body in a tense expectation that was suddenly, painfully, shattered by the car that pulled up alongside Nate’s Jeep with a noisy roar.
Nate sat up, glaring toward the new arrivals. “Just as well, honey,” he said when he noticed Christy’s expression. “What we were leading up to wouldn’t have been appropriate in a public place. I don’t want an audience when I kiss you for the first time.”
She choked on her own reply, but he only smiled and started the Jeep.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he said easily, and pulled out into the road with apparent ease, his expression as relaxed as if he’d been on a leisurely outing with no excitement at all.
He let Christy out at the dig, and try as she might, she couldn’t quite manage to be as blasé and sophisticated about what had happened as he was being.
Fortunately for her, George saw them drive up in the Jeep and came loping toward them, all smiles, with a laptop computer under one arm.
“There you are!” he called to Christy and waved. “I missed you!”
Nate glared toward him. “George, again,” he murmured darkly. “Does he have radar, do you suppose?”
“He’s lonely,” she stammered, surprised by his antagonism for the younger man.
“Is he?” He glanced at her curiously and then shrugged. “Well, to each his own. See you later.”
He let her out and pulled away with a shower of dust, without even looking back. In another man, she might have suspected jealousy. But a man like Nathanial Lang wouldn’t be jealous of her in a million years, and certainly not of sweet egghead George. She turned with a smile painted on her face to listen to what George was rambling on about. But her mind was still on what had happened in the parking lot of the restaurant, her lips hungry for a kiss she’d wanted so desperately and didn’t get.
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