Tender Is the Storm

by Johanna Lindsey

  Slade had yet to kill anyone, yet he was a known killer! He had only reappeared in the white man's civilization a year ago, but rumor had it that he'd come up from Texas five years before, after killing his first man. All his killings had been fair and square, it was said, the assumption being that a fast gun didn't have to fight dirty. Yet marshals quickly asked him to leave their towns, and Slade found it impossible to get information out of anyone once they knew his name.

  He had changed his appearance. He had let his hair grow again and wore knee-high moccasins in­stead of boots. It helped a great deal. He didn't have to lie and say he was a half-breed, but he gave that impression, and people thought he was. So after a year of searching, he had finally found Feral Sloan.

  He found him in Newcomb, a town of less than two hundred even if you counted the surrounding ranches and their hands. It galled the hell out of Slade when he learned that Sloan had settled in this town seven years ago, soon after it was founded. It galled him most because Sloan was foreman on the ranch nearby that he and Billy Wolf had raided that last time. He had been that close to his father's killer and hadn't even known it. And he was closer now, for Feral Sloan was in the saloon, sitting at one of the card tables with two other men, his back to the wall.

  Slade had spotted him immediately. His image had never left Slade's mind. The gunslinger was about thirty now, with slicked-back hair and a chin that jutted aggressively. But the lanky body had gone soft, and his hairline had receded. There were lines of dissipation on his face. But if those years had not been kind to his appearance, they had obviously been profitable years. He dressed in an ostentatious display of silver conchas and diamond jewelry and fancy duds.

  Slade concluded that Feral Sloan was either one of the town's main guns or the only one. The latter was likely. There were many cowboys from the nearby ranches in the room, it being Saturday night. Slade had learned to judge a man in the first instant the other fellow looked at him. He could dismiss all the men in the room except Sloan.

  It was only a waiting game now, and Slade Holt had become good at waiting. He knew Sloan would come to him, would have to, for the sake of his repu­tation. Approaching a menacing stranger was a task that always fell to the town gun. The people expected it, demanded he ask questions to appease their curi­osity. When the town toughs didn't get the answers they wanted, they either commenced a show of friendliness or walked away grumbling loudly, pray­ing the stranger wouldn't take offense and start a fight.

  Slade had only twenty minutes to wait before Fe­ral Sloan joined him at the bar. Those men who had moved to the ends of the bar to give Slade plenty of room now moved over to the tables. If there was to be any shooting between these two dangerous men, the tables offered cover.

  "Where you headin', mister?"

  He remembered the voice all too well. Easiest hun­dred dollars I ever earned. His head began to ache with the memory, but nothing marred his expres­sion, even as he faced this hated man.

  "You talking to me, Sloan?"

  Feral was surprised and suspicious. "You know me?"

  "Sure. I heard of you a long time back. But that was years ago. Thought you were dead."

  Slade was playing his man perfectly. Men like Sloan loved their reputations, and Sloan was quick to defend his absence from the public eye.

  "I got such a nice little setup here, I couldn't resist settlin' down," Feral bragged. "But you know how it is. A man's name sometimes gets so big, people just won't leave him alone."

  "I know." Slade nodded solemnly. "I hear you're a foreman now on the biggest spread in these parts. Must be a nice job."

  Feral chuckled. Here was a man who could appre­ciate his cleverness. "The nicest—seein' as how I work only when I feel like it."

  Slade lifted a dark brow, pretending interest. "You mean you get paid for doing nothing? How is that?"

  "I work for Samuel Newcomb, and you might say I know somethin' about him that he don't want to be­come public knowledge."

  Slade whistled softly. "He's rich then, Newcomb?"

  "Let's just say he owns half the town and his bank holds mortgages on the other half."

  "I guess he can afford to keep you on his payroll then, rather than—"

  "—pay someone to get rid of me?" Feral finished, finding this quite amusing. "That might be his style, but he don't dare. I left a confession with a friend, you see. If anythin' happens to me . . . well, you get my drift."

  Slade looked down at his drink. "A man that rich must have a lot of enemies."

  "Oh, he's well liked around here, but with his past he can't take no chances. He's got himself a small army of men to protect him. And get this," Feral chuckled again and leaned forward as if imparting a secret. "He's even got a special attachment to his will that if he dies by malice, a hundred thousand goes to the man who gets his killer! That's common knowledge, see? Smart, real smart. The man who kills him wouldn't live out the day, and that's a fact. Hell, the only way you could hurt that bastard would be to ruin him financially. But it would take a power­fully rich and clever man to do that."

  "You don't sound as if you like your benefactor."

  Feral shrugged. "Comes from knowin' a man too well too long. We rub each other the wrong way these days."

  "You've been with Samuel Newcomb a long time, have you? He wouldn't have been the man you worked for over in Tucson back in '66, would he?"

  Feral's expression changed abruptly. "How the hell did you—? No one around here knows that. Who are you, mister?"

  "Is he the one, Sloan?" Slade persisted in a calm voice.

  Feral began to sweat. This tall kid had shocked him, and he wished he were anywhere but where he was. Still, he couldn't resist a chance to boast. "I did a few jobs for Sam in Tucson, killed a couple of fel­lows he wanted out of the way. No big deal, just a couple of nameless prospectors." He shrugged mod­estly. "Now you tell me how you knew."

  "I happened to be there," Slade replied in a low voice. "I saw your work firsthand."

  "Did you?" Feral perked up. "But hell, you must have been just a kid then."

  "True, but what I witnessed I'll never forget."

  Feral mistook Slade's meaning. "You saw me get Hoggs? Yeah, that was a close one. The bastard got what he deserved for daring to challenge me."

  "No," Slade said slowly, ominously. "It was the nameless prospector I saw you shoot, the one New­comb paid you to kill." His conscience needed that confirmation.

  Feral turned wary again. "That fight wasn't worth remembering. There was no challenge to it."

  "I know."

  Feral swallowed. "You never said who you are, mister."

  "Name's Holt, Slade Holt."

  As he said it, his voice carried to a nearby table. His voice spread in a matter of seconds until the room buzzed with the name.

  "You're pullin' my leg, mister." Feral mustered enough bravado to sound almost belligerent. "Slade Holt ain't no half-breed."

  "That's right."

  The eyes that had seemed light green before now burned with yellow fire. Feral's hands were sweat­ing, and that wasn't good. Couldn't handle a gun well with sweaty hands.

  "Didn't mean to offend you none, Mr. Holt."

  "You didn't." A single muscle ticked along Slade's smooth jaw, the only sign of the turmoil inside him. "Your offense was committed nine years ago when you killed that nameless prospector. And your mistake was in not killing me when you had the chance."

  Feral's eyes widened in sudden understanding, but understanding came too late. He smelled death, his own. Automatically he reached for his gun, but the ball slammed into his chest just as the gun cleared his holster. He was thrown backward with the impact, landing on his back several feet away. Slade's soft moccasins made no noise as he walked over and stood by Sloan's head.

  Sloan was looking up into a face that showed no emotion, not even triumph. He was dying, and the man who had killed him was taking it in stride.

  "Lousy bastard," Feral managed in a whisper
. "I hope you go after him now." His words weren't com­ing out as clearly as he heard them in his mind. "Then you'll be a dead man. Damn kid. Dead like you should've been . . . you were supposed ..."

  Feral Sloan's eyes glazed over. Slade stared at the dead man for a moment. Though he had meant to kill him and didn't regret it, his stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat. But his expression remained impassive, and the onlookers thought him a cold-blooded killer, unaffected by death. The legend of Slade Holt was being confirmed there in the saloon.

  Slade wasn't thinking of that. He was remem­bering two ten-year-old boys racing desperately away from Tucson with a murderer after them. He was seeing it all again, and this time his head didn't ache with the memory. Feral Sloan had shot him and assumed he was dead. He hadn't bothered to climb down the rocky gorge to make sure. Now, finally, Slade remembered all of it. He knew now how to start looking for his brother.

  He left Newcomb without a backward glance;

  Chapter 1

  1882, New York City

  N

  OT too far north of the hectic business district, Fifth Avenue became a quiet residential area. Trees grew at curbside between handsome street lamps. Elegant mansions lined Fifth Avenue. Brownstones could be found next to houses with mansard roofs in the French Second-Empire style. A Gothic Revival mansion stood next to an Italianate-style mansion with pediments over the windows and a balustrade atop the cornice.

  The facade of Hammond House was a mixture of brownstone and white marble, with a high stoop on the first floor and three more stories above the first. Marcus Hammond lived here with his two daugh­ters. A self-made man who was well on the way to wealth long before his first daughter was born, he permitted no obstacles. Few challenged his will, so he was generally good-natured and generous, espe­cially with his daughters.

  One of those daughters, the older one, was at the moment readying herself for an outing with her fiance, a man chosen for her by her father. Sharisse Hammond didn't mind the choice. The day Marcus had told her she would marry Joel Parrington dur­ing the summer, she'd just nodded. A year before she might have questioned his choice, might even have protested, but that was before she returned from a tour of Europe and a disastrous love affair so humili­ating that she welcomed a safe, loveless marriage.

  She had nothing to complain about. She and Joel Parrington had been friends since childhood. They shared the same interests, and she found him terri­bly handsome. They would have a good marriage, and if they were fortunate, love would come later. It would have been hypocritical for either of them to speak of it now, though, for Joel also was abiding by a father's dictates. But they liked each other well enough, and Sharisse knew she was envied by her friends. That went a long way toward keeping her pleasant if not overly enthusiastic. It never hurt to be envied by a crowd of women who were forever try­ing to outdo one another. With her wealth on a par with theirs and her looks rarely commented on, her fiance was the only thing Sharisse was envied.

  Her thoughts were not on Joel just then, however. Sharisse was wondering where in a house of so many rooms she would find Charley. She had decided to take him along on today's outing. He would keep her company if Joel turned absent-minded, as he had been doing lately.

  She left her maid, Jenny, to put away the outfits she'd been trying on before she'd decided on the basque top with a skirt trimmed in velvet, a French style of plain green satin combined with wide moire-striped green satin. She carried her Saxe gloves and plumed poke bonnet to put on just before she left.

  She stopped first at her sister's room down the hall to see if Charley might be with her.

  Sharisse knocked once and didn't wait to be in­vited in before opening the door. She took her younger sister by surprise, and Stephanie gave a start and quickly stuffed some papers into her desk drawer. She glared at her sister accusingly.

  "You might have knocked," Stephanie pointed out sharply.

  "I did," Sharisse replied calmly, a twinkle in her amethyst eyes. "Writing love letters, Steph? You don't have to hide them from me, you know."

  Stephanie's lovely pale complexion was suffused with color. "I wasn't," she said defensively. "But it's none of your concern, anyway."

  Sharisse was taken aback. She didn't know what to make of her little sister anymore. Ever since Stephanie had turned seventeen at the start of the year, her whole disposition had changed. It was as if she suddenly harbored resentments against every­one, and all for no reason. Sharisse, particularly, became the brunt of unexpected temper tantrums ending in bursts of tears and followed by no explana­tion at all. She had given up trying to find out what was bothering her sister.

  What was so perplexing about it was that Stepha­nie had finally come into her own over this last year, turning into a stunning beauty who had beaux at her beck and call. With her full breasts and trim waist, her very petite build, and the added bonus of lovely blonde hair and blue eyes, hers was the beauty that happened to be at the height of fashion. She was envied by every woman who lacked even one of those attributes—including Sharisse, who lacked them all. She "couldn't help it, but she did so wish she looked like her sister. Sharisse hid her disappointment well, though, hid it under a guise of self-assuredness that fooled the most discerning. Some even thought her haughty.

  Stephanie's perplexing behavior was enough to try a saint. The only one she didn't snap at was their father. But both girls knew better than to show a fit of temper in his presence. Their mother, who had died two years after Stephanie was born, had been the only one who'd dared to argue with Marcus Ham­mond. She'd had a fierce will, and their fights had been frequent and heated. When they were not fight­ing, they had loved just as fiercely.

  Neither girl seemed like her parents. Their father believed both were biddable and sweet-natured. They were excellent performers.

  "What do you want?" Stephanie asked peevishly.

  "I was looking for Charley."

  "I haven't seen him all day."

  Sharisse started to leave, but her curiosity was piqued. "What were you doing when I came in, Steph? We never used, to keep secrets from each other."

  Stephanie looked hesitant, and, for a second, Shar­isse thought she was weakening. But then she stared down at her hands and said childishly, "Maybe I was writing a love letter. Maybe I have a special beau." Looking up, she said defiantly, "And maybe I'll be -getting married soon, too."

  Sharisse dismissed all of it as sulky nonsense. "I wish you would tell me what's bothering you, Steph. I really would like to help."

  But Stephanie ignored her. "I see you're dressed to go out."

  Sharisse sighed, giving up. "Joel suggested a ride through Central Park if the day turned out to be nice."

  "Oh." Pain flashed through Stephanie's eyes, but only for a second. Then she said airily, "Well, don't let me keep you."

  "Would you care to come along?" Sharisse asked on a sudden impulse.

  "No! I mean, I wouldn't dream of intruding. And I have a letter to finish writing."

  Sharisse shrugged. "Suit yourself then. Well, I do want to find Charley before I leave. I'll see you this evening."

  The moment the door closed, Stephanie's face fell, and her eyes filled with tears. It wasn't fair, it wasn't at all fair! Sharisse always got everything. Nothing but roses came her sister's way. She had been the one to get their mother's glorious copper hair and her unusual eyes that could be a deep, dark violet or a soft, sensuous amethyst. She was the one with poise and self-confidence, always their father's favor­ite. Their governess, their tutors, even the servants looked to Sharisse for approval. Their Aunt Sophie preferred Sharisse because she reminded her of her dear departed sister. She was not fashionable, not at five feet seven with that vivid coloring, but she was the one to stand out in a crowd, fashionable or not, and she did it regally, as if it were her right to be the center of attention.

  Stephanie had never begrudged Sharisse any of her good fortune. She loved Sharisse dearly. But now Sharisse would be getting wh
at Stephanie wanted more than anything in the world—Joel Parrington. She ached with wanting him. She ached knowing she couldn't have him. Her sister would have him, and it hurt more because Sharisse didn't care one way or the other.

  That was the bitterness she had to bear. Her sister didn't love Joel. And he never looked at Sharisse the way he looked at Stephanie, with an admiration he couldn't always hide. If he were given a choice, she had no doubt whom he would choose. But he had never had any choice. Neither had Sharisse. If only their father weren't so heavy-handed when it came to controlling everyone.

  If only Sharisse had married sooner! If only she weren't already twenty and could be given more, time to choose. If only she would fall in love with someone else. Sharisse could fight for herself if she had to. She could face Father and argue for her hap­piness. Hadn't she fought to have Charley stay?

  But what was the use of hoping for a miracle when the wedding was only two months away? Her heart was breaking, and there was no help for it. And if she was suffering so terribly now, before the event became an actuality, how would it be afterward? After the wedding, they planned to move into a house just down the street. How could she bear to see them so often, to know that they . . . She wouldn't be able to bear it.

  Stephanie opened the drawer in her desk and took out the papers she had stuffed inside. She had torn the strip of newspaper out of The New York Times's advertisements for mail-order brides. If she couldn't have Joel, she would marry someone who lived far away, where she would never have to see Joel again. She had written three different letters, two to men who had placed the notices themselves and one to an agency that handled such things.