Tender Is the Storm

by Johanna Lindsey

  Mack grunted and turned to leave, grumbling, "Better not let Billy come across that feisty little thing. He'll think he's found something new to throw into the stew pot."

  Sharisse turned wide, horrified eyes on Lucas. "Did I hear him correctly?"

  "Mack's the feisty one, Sharisse," Lucas said, amused. "Just about everything he says must be taken with a grain of salt."

  "But-"

  "You're not to worry about your pet, not at least as far as Billy's concerned. He works for me, too. He isn't nearly as savage as Mack would have you be­lieve."

  Was he teasing her? She supposed she would have to take his word for it, but she decided to keep Char­ley close to her for a while.

  Then she addressed another important topic.

  "Mr. Holt, about what you did."

  "Greeting my prospective bride with a proper wel­coming?"

  Sharisse was abashed by the devilishly charming grin that turned his lips soft and made him appear rakishly handsome.

  "We were interrupted," he went on. "If you'd like me to continue ..."

  "No! I mean, well, we're not exactly an average en­gaged couple. What might be allowed after an ex­tended courtship doesn't apply to us. We have only just met."

  "And you want to get to know me better first?"

  "Exactly." She was relieved. He wouldn't be so difficult to manage after all. Just as long as he under­stood she wouldn't allow any intimacies.

  "But how am I to get to know you if you keep me at arm's length? If you don't like kissing, then we've got a problem."

  His approval of her seemed to rest on her answer. She bristled.

  "I am not in the habit of letting strangers kiss me," she said stiffly. "And you are still a stranger."

  Lucas shook his head. "You're telling me to keep my distance, but if I go along with that, we'll end up being strangers much longer than necessary. It's going to take a few months as it is for me to find out if you can fit in here. Am I supposed to waste that amount of time and then find out if you and I are compatible?"

  Sharisse was aghast. In his mind, it would be purely a waste of time if, after she passed muster in other ways, he discovered there was absolutely no chemistry between them. True. But what he was suggesting was abhorrent. Was she supposed to let him take liberties with her?

  Sharisse drew on her years of contrived confi­dence. "Mr. Holt, I realize our situation is unique and I will have to make allowances for it. However, I really must ask for at least a little time to feel com­fortable with you. After a while a kiss or two might be permissible—if you insist. More than that I sim­ply cannot allow, not before we are wed. And if that is not satisfactory to you ..."

  Lucas knew when to back down. "I guess you can't get more reasonable than that. Your room is right there on the left. I'll get your things now."

  Sharisse sighed as he left and turned to look around. There were two doors on the left wall of the room she was standing in. The room was bigger than she had imagined, but it was the only room besides those two doors to the left. Against the back wall was a kitchen of sorts, a wood-burning stove, a sink with a hand pump, some cupboards cluttered with dishes, and a big table. A window behind the sink looked out on the backyard. There was a door to the left of the stove. The rest of the room, to her right, contained a fireplace with a thick rug in front of it and a gray wooden settee without cushions. Next to that, near the front door, were an old arrow-back rocker and a candle stand.

  Sharisse felt her shoulders sag. It was such a de­pressing room. So austere. She shuddered to think what her bedroom would be like. She faced that door and opened it. The two windows inside it were open and the curtains drawn, letting in a cheery light, but also the heat. She couldn't find a single thing to her liking and she didn't try, moving quickly to the other bedroom before Lucas came back. This room proved more dramatic, with dark coloring and a look of being lived in. The bed was unmade, and a wardrobe stood open with dirty clothes slung over the doors. Other articles were scattered around. His room, to be sure. She was rather embarrassed to have looked in.

  She closed the door quietly. Then it dawned on her. These three rooms were all there was. No servants' quarters. That meant . . .

  "How do you like the place?" Lucas asked as he walked in the front door carrying her luggage.

  Sharisse couldn't answer, not with the alarming thought that they would be the only two people sleeping in the house. "You don't have . . . any ser­vants here, do you?"

  "Not the kind that see to a house, I don't." He gave her that engaging boyish grin. "Now you know why I need a wife."

  He was teasing her again, yet she was insulted. "Wouldn't it be simpler to hire a servant?"

  "A lot simpler," he agreed. "But I couldn't expect a servant to share my bed, could I?"

  He said it so casually that Sharisse felt a tremor in her belly. Fear? She stayed where she was as he took her luggage into her room.

  "You'll want to get unpacked," he called out, "and I recall you wanted a bath. I'll see about that and some grub for you, then leave you to rest." He came back into the room, and his vivid green eyes probed hers for a moment. "You've nothing to fear here, Sharisse. No harm will come to you as long as you're my responsibility."

  He left her standing there, weighing what he had just said against everything else that had been said and done that day. Nothing to fear? If only she could just walk away from the situation! But she had no al­ternative. Even writing her sister, which she in­tended to do that very night, would produce no results for some time. She was stuck, she was there under false pretenses, and she didn't have the re­motest idea how to make the best of things.

  Chapter 7

  SHARISSE'S eyes opened to a blinding glare. She sat up quickly, confused, then saw that the hot light had been caused by the little standup mirror she had set on the bureau yesterday. She hadn't real­ized that the mirror would reflect the morning sun right onto her pillow. The sun was rapidly heating the house.

  Slipping into the thin silk robe left on the end of her bed, Sharisse walked over to the window. The lovely robe, a creation of lime green and white lace, matched the negligee given to her by her aunt when they were in France. Sharisse had brought it along, and another like it, because she had thought she would be alone in some sweet little cottage, not shar­ing a cabin with a man.

  Packing thin summer clothing had been the only sensible thing she'd done thus far. Everything else could be counted as simply disastrous—especially her rash decision to leave home in the first place. When she thought of the safety she had thrown away!

  Sharisse sighed, looking out at the sun hiding be­hind the fat fingers of a giant saguaro cactus in the side yard. She could see part of the corral, and she re­alized with a start that the window was low to the ground. Just about anyone could have walked by it and seen her lying in bed.

  She yanked the curtains closed, her face flushing. There was only one person she could visualize look­ing in. She quickly closed the other curtains, too, then went back to sit on the bed, trying to calm her­self. Everything in the room made her think of Lu­cas, the large round tub he had filled yesterday, still full of cold water, the tray of dishes. Her eyes fell on the blouse she had gone through so much discomfort to save, lying now in a torn heap in the corner where she had thrown it in a fit of temper. She had had to rip if off her back after all, something she couldn't af­ford to do, not with the meager wardrobe she had. But she couldn't very well have asked him to aid her, or Mack. Alone with two men—that was his idea of being chaperoned!

  On the bureau was the letter she had stayed up late writing. Oh, the things she had packed, includ­ing her personal stationery, thinking of a quiet exis­tence in some quaint village! It was laughable. Negligees, linen morning gowns, day dresses, an outing costume complete with gloves, bonnet, and matching shoes. A formal evening dress. She had brought along more toiletries than she needed, fans, hair ornaments, silk stockings, petticoats and bus­tles, even an extra corset. She h
ad stuffed her trunk and yet found herself in an unwelcoming climate in an uncivilized area with nothing suitable to wear. It really was laughable, or something to cry over.

  And she did feel like crying, but she hadn't said that to Stephanie. She had taken hours wording the letter just right so she wouldn't throw her sister into a panic or consume her with remorse. She hadn't mentioned the jewels at all except to say they were missing, and that was meant to explain how she had ended up in Arizona after all. There was a brief para­graph describing Lucas Holt, and she had been char­itable in the describing. Yet she had made certain Stephanie understood that she couldn't stay away very long. Something else would have to be ar­ranged, and Stephanie would have to handle it.

  Sharisse dressed slowly, delaying as long as possi­ble the inevitability of facing Lucas Holt again. Charley was still asleep in the empty washbowl where he had buried himself during the night. He had made one exploratory trip out the window, prowled around the room until she was ready for bed, then settled in the cool porcelain bowl. She wondered if he would adjust to the heat and stop losing so much fur. She wondered if she would adjust. She sighed, leaving the room braced.

  She was relieved to find no one in the outer room, but then she realized she was hungry and there was no food on the table and nothing on the stove, not even a pot of coffee. She set her tray of dishes by the sink and considered a search through the storeroom. She supposed they ate early around there and she had just missed it.

  She headed for the back door, but it opened before she reached it, and Lucas stepped in, Their eyes met and held for a moment. Then his gaze swept down her, taking in the gown of beige lawn, heavily trimmed and flounced in white lace with wide lace borders down the back and front bodice, along the collar and high neck, and on the long sleeves. Two brown satin bows were prominent on the bustle and another at her throat.

  "You going somewhere?"

  Sharisse was surprised. "I'm not dressed to go out," she said, as if explaining to a child. "This is a simple morning gown."

  He laughed. "Honey, what you're wearing is fan­cier than anything the ladies of Newcomb could manage even for Sunday best. And that's not a going-out dress?"

  She was indignant. "I'm afraid I don't have any­thing plainer than this, except my traveling suit."

  "Which is too heavy," Lucas stated, shaking his head. "I can see I'm going to have to get you some new clothes."

  Sharisse blushed. "I will manage."

  "Will you? And will you be doing chores in that fancy gown?"

  Chores? "If ... if I have to," she said stoutly.

  "Suit yourself." He would not argue with her. "Where's breakfast?"

  "There isn't any."

  "I can see that," he replied patiently. "So when are you going to get started?"

  "Me!" she gasped. "But I can't cook!"

  "You can't? Well, I guess you'll have to learn real quick."

  "But who cooked before?"

  "I managed, Mack managed, and sometimes Wil­low took pity on us and fixed a big meal."

  "Willow?"

  "Billy's wife."

  "You mean there is another woman here?"

  "Sure. She's expecting a kid any time now." And he warned in a no-nonsense tone, "She's got enough to do taking care of Billy and herself, so don't even think about asking her for help. I've been taking care of myself all my life, Sharisse. But now that you're here . . ."

  Her eyes widened in panic as his meaning sank in. "But I really can't cook. I mean, I never have. There have always been servants." She fell silent. His ex­pression was not the least sympathetic. "I suppose I could learn ... if someone can teach me."

  He grunted. "I guess I can have Billy pick you up a cookbook when he goes to town today." He sighed disagreeably and headed for the storeroom.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Holt," Sharisse felt compelled to say, though she didn't know why.

  "Never mind," he said over his shoulder. "As long as you've got a strong back for the other chores and are a quick learner."

  She was left wondering about those other chores while he searched around, finally coming back with his arms full. The next hour was spent ruining her fine lawn gown with flour and grease stains that splashed beyond the apron Lucas told her to put on. She had her first lesson in cooking, and she didn't like it at all. But she was able to watch Lucas when he wasn't looking at her, and wonder about this man who was from the East yet adapted to this land so well. He was by turns abrupt and to the point, then charming in a rapscallion way.

  When breakfast was over, Lucas went outside again and Sharisse sat at the table with another cup of the most atrocious coffee she had ever drunk, worse even than the horrible brews she had tasted at the stage stops. She was contemplating the way Lu­cas's mood had improved while he ate. By the time he left, he had seemed ready to laugh. Well, her mood dimmed considerably when Charley jumped up on the counter by the stove to investigate the spilled flour and she suddenly realized that she was sup­posed to clean up all the mess!

  "Oh, I could just scream!" she said aloud before she caught herself. She groaned as Charley jumped down, tracking flour across the floor.

  She didn't have to clean it up, she thought rebel-

  liously. Yes, she did. If only she had known there

  would be no servants, that she would have to work

  like one herself. . ^

  It was a good while before the last dish was put away and Sharisse felt she could seek the sanctuary of her room. She turned in that direction, then screamed at the sight of the half-naked man stand­ing inside the back door. Long black hair flowed to his shoulders, and a faded scarf of some sort was wrapped around his forehead. His bare chest was more visible than covered under a short leather vest. His knee-length soft boots hid more of his legs than the rectangular square of cloth managed to hide.

  At the moment it was impossible to say who was more startled, Sharisse, facing a savage, or Billy, who found himself speechless for the first time in his life. Expecting a tiny little blonde who would run screaming to Luke, he faced an Amazon who was taller than he was, for God's sake. Granted, she had screamed, but she hadn't moved a foot.

  Lucas rushed in the front door, having heard the scream. "What the—?" He looked between them, taking in the situation, then gave Billy a disgusted frown. "You could at least have put some pants on, Billy, until she got used to you."

  Billy relaxed a little. "It was too hot," he said, as if that was enough explanation. "What happened to the yellow-haired one?"

  "She wasn't the one," Lucas answered shortly.

  "But you showed me the picture, and you said—"

  "It was a mistake," Lucas ground out warningly. "Now did you two meet, or were you just standing there staring at each other?"

  They were both embarrassed, Sharisse doubly so for being reminded of the deception she was playing and for thinking Billy was a savage when he was ob­viously a friend of Lucas's.

  "I'm Billy Wolf, ma'am, a good friend of Slade Holt's—and now Lucas's," he said with a cocky grin.

  "Sharisse Hammond," she responded, her voice a little stilted.

  "Didn't mean to scare you none," he added for Lu­cas's benefit. "I came in to see if you want anything from town, since I'm heading that way."

  "After you put some clothes on, I hope," Lucas grunted.

  Sharisse spoke up. "As a matter of fact, I have a letter to be posted, if it won't be too much of a bother. I'll just get it."

  The moment she stepped into her bedroom, Billy whispered to Lucas, "When you saw how tall she was, why didn't you send her back?"

  Lucas grinned. "She's not too tall."

  Billy looked him up and down. "Yeah, I guess her height don't matter much to you. But, Jeez, Luke, she's so skinny!"

  Lucas raised a brow. "You think so?"

  "Well, I just didn't want you disappointed in her, seeing as how she was my idea."

  Sharisse came back into the room and handed the letter to Billy. But Lucas snatched it out of
her hand, and she blanched at his arrogance, never having dreamed he might read it before it was safely on its way.

  "Trudi Baker?" Lucas read the name aloud, then looked up at her questioningly.

  Sharisse imagined his thoughts. When she had said there was no one she could turn to in New York, he must have assumed she had only her father and sister.

  "Trudi is a friend of my sister, Mr. Holt. My sister, Stephanie, is only seventeen and still lives at home with my father, so, you see, she was in no position to help me." She grew uncomfortable speaking of this in front of the curious Billy. "I'm sending the letter to her best friend's house, because, well, I did explain to you about my father."

  She left the rest unsaid, wondering why it was nec­essary to explain a letter in the first place. She held her breath while he looked at it again. Finally he shrugged and handed it to Billy.

  "See it gets posted, Billy, and don't forget the cook­

  book I told you about." «

  Billy saluted with the letter and exited jauntily.

  Sharisse continued to watch Lucas warily and was surprised when he smiled sheepishly. "That was rather high-handed of me, and I apologize. I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of me. I wasn't expecting you to be writing to anyone."

  "My sister and I are very close." Sharisse re­lented, explaining that much. "Though I can't corre­spond with her directly because of my father, she did make me promise to let her know that I'd arrived safely."

  "She knows what you came west for?" His smile widened. "And did she approve?"

  Wholeheartedly, Sharisse wanted to say bitterly. And then she felt guilty for even thinking it. She couldn't blame her sister for all this.

  "What could she say, Mr. Holt? Stephanie knows my circumstances."

  He let that pass and said reflectively, "She looked older than seventeen in the picture. But then I took you for older than eighteen."

  "That's because—"

  She stopped abruptly, realizing in the nick of time that he had to have got the age from Stephanie's let­ters. What other surprises was she going to encoun­ter because of Stephanie's correspondence with the man? She wished she could see those letters before she blundered badly over something.