by her companions.
And the hat! It had been a great hit among the youngest contingent at the party. Genny
wondered in what condition it would be, when and if Sophie got it back. First the littlest McCarthy
girl had asked to wear it. Sophie had graciously consented. Then one of the almost teenagers had
snatched it, declaring it the coolest thing she'd ever seen. Genny had lost track of the hat after that,
but Sophie hadn't seemed at all distressed. "Let them enjoy it," she'd said, smiling benignly.
Where was Rock? He'd danced a polka with her, about a hundred years ago, then
disappeared, leaving her at the mercy of a platoon of lithe young men in tight jeans and shiny,
elaborate western boots. Until today Genny had considered square dancing silly--gentle, patterned
prancing of people in ornate, pseudo-western garb. She believed it should be rowdy and rough, as it
was being danced here. Even the Virginia Reel, mainstay of her junior high folk-dancing class, was a
lot different when interpreted by these folks.
"Ready for a rest, little lady?" The voice in her ear and the hand at her back were both
familiar.
"That I am." Genny heard the breathlessness in her voice. She hoped Rock would take it as
the result of her last, exhilarating dance, and not because he had touched her. "Can we find a quiet
corner and sit? Preferably for about a week?"
"I've got a better idea. Let's go for a walk." He guided her among the sets forming for still
another dance. Did these people never tire?
"Fred's great granddad planted a grove of black locusts, back in ought-nine when he
homesteaded this place. They're a real forest now, because nobody's ever wanted to cut them
down."
"If you'll let me stop at the refreshment table first. I need a gallon or two of
lemonade."
She accepted the large plastic cup he handed her gratefully. Sipping, she looked around the
interior of the old barn. "Where's Pancho? I haven't seen him since we got here?"
"He's out at the corrals, watching the bronc bustin'." Rock snorted. "Old fool. I had to put
my foot down or he'd be riding, himself."
"Pancho? But his leg, Rock! How could he ride?"
"He rides okay, when it's not a bronc." Rock shook his head in disgust. "I think he wanted
to impress Miss Enderby. For years Pancho's never seemed to care about the rodeo events. Now all
of a sudden, he's taken with this fool notion that he's as good as these young bucks." He poured
himself another glass of fruit punch. "Crazy old goat. It's a good thing your aunt's in with the other
women, or I'd have to keep him off the broncs by main strength and awkwardness."
Genny looked across at the cluster of older women, just to assure herself that Sophie was
still where she'd been. "Rock, we'd better go to the corrals."
"After, darlin'. I want to show you Malheur County's only hardwood forest first."
"And I think we'd better leave that until later. Sophie's not in the barn."
"Hell and damnation!" Rock grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him. Quickly he cut
through the crowd and out the wide barn door. "I told him he's too old to go pantin' after a woman,
especially a lady like Miss Enderby. Pancho's never been anything but a bronc rider and a ranch
hand."
Genny felt a little guilty, because Rock's words were so similar in content to her own
thoughts of a few hours earlier. Pancho looked to be about sixty; according to Genny's dad, that was
the prime of life. Just try to tell Waldo Forsythe he was an old man. Try, and step aside before you
got mowed down.
She continued to half-run along in Rock's wake. Had he forgotten he was pulling her with
him?
"I'll kill him," Rock was muttering as they neared the corrals. "If he so much as stands next
to a bronc, I'll shoot him. Then I'll fire him."
Genny heard the cheering as they rounded the corner of the new barn.
"Go, man!"
"Hang on, dude!"
"Stick, baby, stick!"
"Go for it, Pancho. You can do it!"
"Ride 'im, cowboy!"
She almost bumped into Rock as he came to an abrupt halt.