own.
"No, you don't," he said into her ear. "You're not going to let this one make off with the bait." Together they watched the line being pulled to and fro. Then Roarke gave it a quick tug. Fins flashed, and the sun glinted off a yellow underbelly.
"A good-sized bass, Gennie," he said with a laugh. "Easy now… pull away, girl."
His arms felt hard and strong about her. He smelled faintly of leather and sweat and wood smoke. Chasing a strange quiver of feeling away, Genevieve helped him land the fish. They regarded the plump, flopping bass in the grass beside the river.
Roarke gave her shoulders a little squeeze before releasing her. "You see, Gennie, it's easy. Tomorrow I'll show you how to set a seine for them."
She looked away to hide the flush that stained her cheeks. "Will you stay to supper?" she asked. "I'm not much good at catching fish, but I know a thing or two about cooking them."
Roarke thanked her but said, "I'd best be getting back home to Prudence."
"How is she?" Genevieve asked quickly. She felt slightly guilty being here with her friend's husband, with her insides all aflutter in some strange, forbidden way.
"Doing well," Roarke said as he began cleaning the fish expertly with a thin-blade knife. "She's been asking after you, Gennie. Why don't you come for a visit? The house is plenty big for guests. You could stay the night."
Genevieve shook her head quickly. "I can't, Roarke. I've too much work to do around here." Automatically, her eyes went to the small kitchen garden behind the run-down house. It bore nothing edible yet, but Genevieve had carefully cultivated the ruined plot, hoping to coax some of the turnips and onions and potatoes from their wild state.
"You've been working too hard, girl," Roarke said. "Every time I come by, you're toiling over something or other."
"I don't mind the work. I like it, in fact. For the first time in my life, I'm doing something for me, Roarke, and I like the way that feels."
He nodded in understanding. But then he asked, "What good is it, though, if you've no one to share it with?"
"You'd best get back to Prudence," Genevieve said quickly, taking the gutted fish from him.
Genevieve shaded her eyes at the westering sun, then looked down at the neat, newly weeded rows of the garden. The rich, red-brown soil was nourishing a nice summer crop of vegetables. It was a fine thing, Genevieve decided, bringing things from the earth. She glanced up at the twin hills behind the house. The land there was rich, too. Luther had said it had borne two seasons of tobacco. But there was too much land for one woman to work. Not for the first time, Genevieve wished there were some way to use the land again.
She sighed, and nearby a cat gave an answering mew and stretched, blinking long, lazy eyes at her. Roarke had brought the cat a week ago, saying it might be good company. It wasn't. The little beast only seemed interested in sunning itself and occasionally murdering a bird or field mouse.
"Day's almost over, cat," Genevieve said. "I thought sure I'd be finished with the weeding by now, but it looks like I've another day's work here." The cat purred and dug its claws into the dirt.
"Fat lot you care," Genevieve said, but she was smiling. She bent and pulled up a final weed. On the way back to the house, she stopped to fill her apron with some raspberries that grew wild along the fringes of the dooryard. Then she went inside, the cat padding silently behind her, and stirred the embers in the grate.
She and the cat shared a meal, shrouded by purple twilight, the sounds from the woods swelling with the coming night. Genevieve tried not to think about the fish she was eating. She told herself firmly that she should be thankful for the river's abundance. But, Lord, she was tired of the taste of fish. She pushed her plate over to the cat, allowing him to devour her portion.
Then she added some sticks to the fire and waved her apron at it until if flared up. It wasn't nearly
"No, you don't," he said into her ear. "You're not going to let this one make off with the bait." Together they watched the line being pulled to and fro. Then Roarke gave it a quick tug. Fins flashed, and the sun glinted off a yellow underbelly.
"A good-sized bass, Gennie," he said with a laugh. "Easy now… pull away, girl."
His arms felt hard and strong about her. He smelled faintly of leather and sweat and wood smoke. Chasing a strange quiver of feeling away, Genevieve helped him land the fish. They regarded the plump, flopping bass in the grass beside the river.
Roarke gave her shoulders a little squeeze before releasing her. "You see, Gennie, it's easy. Tomorrow I'll show you how to set a seine for them."
She looked away to hide the flush that stained her cheeks. "Will you stay to supper?" she asked. "I'm not much good at catching fish, but I know a thing or two about cooking them."
Roarke thanked her but said, "I'd best be getting back home to Prudence."
"How is she?" Genevieve asked quickly. She felt slightly guilty being here with her friend's husband, with her insides all aflutter in some strange, forbidden way.
"Doing well," Roarke said as he began cleaning the fish expertly with a thin-blade knife. "She's been asking after you, Gennie. Why don't you come for a visit? The house is plenty big for guests. You could stay the night."
Genevieve shook her head quickly. "I can't, Roarke. I've too much work to do around here." Automatically, her eyes went to the small kitchen garden behind the run-down house. It bore nothing edible yet, but Genevieve had carefully cultivated the ruined plot, hoping to coax some of the turnips and onions and potatoes from their wild state.
"You've been working too hard, girl," Roarke said. "Every time I come by, you're toiling over something or other."
"I don't mind the work. I like it, in fact. For the first time in my life, I'm doing something for me, Roarke, and I like the way that feels."
He nodded in understanding. But then he asked, "What good is it, though, if you've no one to share it with?"
"You'd best get back to Prudence," Genevieve said quickly, taking the gutted fish from him.
Genevieve shaded her eyes at the westering sun, then looked down at the neat, newly weeded rows of the garden. The rich, red-brown soil was nourishing a nice summer crop of vegetables. It was a fine thing, Genevieve decided, bringing things from the earth. She glanced up at the twin hills behind the house. The land there was rich, too. Luther had said it had borne two seasons of tobacco. But there was too much land for one woman to work. Not for the first time, Genevieve wished there were some way to use the land again.
She sighed, and nearby a cat gave an answering mew and stretched, blinking long, lazy eyes at her. Roarke had brought the cat a week ago, saying it might be good company. It wasn't. The little beast only seemed interested in sunning itself and occasionally murdering a bird or field mouse.
"Day's almost over, cat," Genevieve said. "I thought sure I'd be finished with the weeding by now, but it looks like I've another day's work here." The cat purred and dug its claws into the dirt.
"Fat lot you care," Genevieve said, but she was smiling. She bent and pulled up a final weed. On the way back to the house, she stopped to fill her apron with some raspberries that grew wild along the fringes of the dooryard. Then she went inside, the cat padding silently behind her, and stirred the embers in the grate.
She and the cat shared a meal, shrouded by purple twilight, the sounds from the woods swelling with the coming night. Genevieve tried not to think about the fish she was eating. She told herself firmly that she should be thankful for the river's abundance. But, Lord, she was tired of the taste of fish. She pushed her plate over to the cat, allowing him to devour her portion.
Then she added some sticks to the fire and waved her apron at it until if flared up. It wasn't nearly
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