too. We were standing close, and the alcohol was cool in contrast to his skin, which seemed very hot under my fingers. Cool and bracing, the sharp smell mixed with the strong scent of lavender floating up and filling my head.
The smell slowed my brisk motion, and I stared at my fingers. At the dirt—McCulloch dirt—mixed with that drop of my blood and the herb that Aunt Hy included because it had antibacterial properties and smelled good, but had some other purpose, I was sure. More sure by the moment. Because the fizz of curiosity I’d felt all morning had turned to funny, queasy bubbles in my stomach.
That couldn’t be good. Even though it didn’t feel very bad at all.
Ben cleared his throat, and I realized I was still holding his hand. I let go quickly, but caught his studying gaze as he shook his fingers dry. I wondered if he’d felt something, too, but then he asked, exaggerating his central Texas drawl, “How is it you got left in charge of the farm, again? Because picking you isn’t exactly convincing me of your aunt’s stability.”
The languor of the moment snapped. “I’m actually the responsible one,” I said, in something surprisingly like a normal voice.
“Yeah,” he drew out the word, but I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or not. “I can see that.”
I dropped the hand gel into my bag, jerked closed the drawstring, and slung it over my shoulder, pretending I hadn’t been affected at all by holding his hand. Or whatever the hell had just happened. “Let’s go.”
Near the excavation was the canopy I’d seen from the hill, where Phin and Mark were already chatting with an academic-type woman. I glanced at my watch and hoped I hadn’t missed too much. It felt like Ben and I had talked for an hour, but it had been a matter of minutes.
“Where have you been?” Phin asked when Ben and I stepped into the shade.
“I had to tie up the dogs,” I said, hoping no one had noticed the hand-holding in the middle of the field. I was grateful the men who’d been sitting around on their tailgates had piled into the cabs and followed Mr. Sparks off to the north quarter, or wherever they were going.
“And the ranch manager had to talk to me,” Ben added.
The older woman standing by Mark gave Ben an arch look, somehow annoyed and amused at the same time. “I told him yesterday. We’ll be done when we’re done.”
Ben kept his expression almost neutral, but I was getting a lot of experience with the varieties of his annoyance and the barometric pitch of his eyebrows. “Any idea when that would be, Doctor?”
She smiled slightly, relenting in her torture. Her face was austerely handsome, with sculpted bone structure and an olive complexion that had seen a lot of sun. Her hair, dark brown shot with gray, was braided back, and her clothes—cargo khakis, hiking boots, denim shirt—were worn and practical. “We should be out of your hair by the end of the day, and you can put your bulldozer back to work in the morning.”
Ben’s rueful smile acknowledged his impatience. “Thank you, Dr. Douglas. I realize you have to be systematic.”
“Well, yes.” She looked from Phin to me with slightly vexed humor. “Of course, when we actually finish will depend on how many more visitors Mark has invited to drop by.”
I grimaced, aware that the students were barely working, distracted by Phin and me. Or possibly Ben, I amended as I caught the direction of one girl’s gaze. She caught me catching her, and grinned—sort of conspiratorial, sort of sheepish—before returning to her work. She was crouching in the pit that had everyone’s attention, and the back view of Ben McCulloch’s Wranglers was likely hard to resist from that vantage point.
Mark made good-natured excuses to the professor. “I just figured since Phin and Amy were UT students, and their place is spitting distance from here …”
“And Amy is a huge fan of the Discovery Channel,” said Ben, in a taunting monotone.
Dr. Douglas took that at face value, missing my glare at Ben. “All right,” she said. “Since they’re friends of the McCullochs.”
My glance turned wary, but Ben merely hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and hung back, letting the assumption stand. I supposed if he’d really wanted us gone, he would have sent us packing already.
“What’s going on here?” I asked, gesturing to the work-tables, where a girl was numbering