Tender Is the Storm

by Johanna Lindsey

  "Because?" Lucas prompted.

  "Of my height," she finished lamely. "It's always made me look older."

  "You don't like your height, do you?"

  She nearly choked. No man had ever been so indis­creet as to even mention the subject. The very idea! For this one to presume . . . had he no manners at all?

  "It's not so much that I don't like being tall," she said defensively, wishing she could upbraid him in­stead. "It's just that most men find my height discon­certing, and that can sometimes be an embar­rassment."

  "I don't."

  "You wouldn't," she said dryly.

  He laughed. Then he gripped her elbow and steered her toward the front door. "How about a walk? The rest of your work can wait a bit."

  The audacity of the man, Sharisse thought. He hadn't even waited to see if she would agree to walk with him. Then she realized what he'd said.

  "What work are you referring to, Mr. Holt?" She firmly eased her elbow out of his grip and stopped walking, forcing him to halt and look at her.

  "The garden needs tending—weeding and so on. Clothes need washing. My room could use a good going over. Just wifely things, Miss Hammond."

  She wanted to balk, but his low tone, the way he addressed her as Miss Hammond after dismissing that formality yesterday, made her hesitate. Was he angry? She wished it were easier to tell, but with him she never knew for sure.

  "I hadn't realized . . ."

  "I can see that," he said gently. "And I'll make al­lowances for it. But I did warn you in my letter that life here wouldn't be easy."

  Did she dare say she thought he'd been referring to the climate? Never once had she thought she'd be put to work as a servant, yet that was the only way she could look at her situation. And there wasn't a single thing she could do about it, short of having him send her back to New York immediately. What a tempting idea that was. Her conscience pricked her as she thought of her sister. She had to give Stepha­nie a chance. She wouldn't admit how scared she was of seeing her father.

  She managed a smile, though she really felt like crying. "About that walk, Mr. Holt."

  He grinned and took her elbow again. She was acutely aware of his touch, his closeness. She was so aware of it that she didn't notice where he was lead­ing her until they reached the corral. She drew back in distaste, and he said, "What's wrong?"

  She gave him a look. "I don't like horses. And I dis­like even more the smells associated with them."

  He grinned. "Honey, this is a horse ranch. You're going to have to get used to those smells."

  "I don't see why." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  "Unless you expect me to clean the barn. Let me tell you—"

  "Hold on, no one said anything about cleaning the barn. But you will be riding."

  "No, I won't." She shook her head firmly.

  His dark brows shot up. "Are you telling me you don't ride?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying."

  "We'll have to correct that, then."

  She didn't like his expression at all. He looked for­ward to the lesson, didn't he? "You brought me here in a perfectly good buggy. I can drive it."

  "But I don't own a buggy. That one was rented, and Billy is taking it back to town today."

  At that exact moment the vehicle in question charged out of the front of the barn, stirring up enough dust to choke them. Sharisse shielded her eyes and watched the Indian, now dressed in a much more civilized manner, race wildly away from the ranch.

  Lucas saw her expression and began to feel terri­ble. He was overloading her with too many burdens too quickly.

  "Do you always look so beautiful after spending all morning in the kitchen?"

  She turned back to him in amazement.

  "You're making fun of me, Mr. Holt. You must know this morning was the first morning I ever spent in a kitchen." She wouldn't belittle herself by adding that her coloring was too vivid for true beauty.

  "Then kitchens must agree with you." He grinned.

  Before she could answer, he steered her around the corral to the large cottonwood. The breeze kept the corral smells at bay, and the shade was welcome. There was a bench that just fit two people, but he didn't move to sit beside her. He placed his foot next to her on the bench and rested an arm on his knee so that he was leaning over her—looming, actually.

  She tilted her head to look up at him. His kiss took her completely by surprise. She moved back to break away, but his hands fell on her shoulders, and she was forced to let him kiss her, forced to stare into those jewel-like eyes and wonder what emotion she saw there.

  It was only a few seconds before she began to no­tice the texture of his lips, how very soft they were. His hands slid along her shoulders to her neck, and a heady feeling came out of nowhere. Her eyes closed. Her lips moved under his provocatively until he met the challenge, his tongue boldly slipping between them.

  Sharisse jerked back, gasping. "Mr. Holt!"

  Never had she been kissed like that!

  She felt so naive. To think she'd come so close to making love with Antoine, yet knew so little about kissing. Even Antoine had never kissed her like that.

  Thinking of Antoine brought a quietly sleeping anger to the fore. All men were the same. They never gave anything honestly. They always wanted some­thing in return for their sweet words of flattery. From her, they had always wanted either her money or her body. Now she could add another want to that list—servitude. Lucas Holt was after a lifetime ser­vant, with a convenient body as an added bonus. There was no kinder way to put it.

  "I thought we came to an understanding last night, Mr. Holt." Water would have frozen at the sound of her voice.

  "Considering . . ." He paused meaningfully, grin­ning like a rogue. "Don't you think it's time you called me Luke?"

  "I don't. And we have an understanding," she re­minded him severely, incensed that he was amused. "Which you seem determined to ignore."

  His eyes twinkled merrily. "No, ma'am. As I re­call, you wanted time to feel comfortable with me. But you seemed comfortable enough with me just now, so . . ." He shrugged.

  "One day's grace was not what I had in mind."

  His expression turned carefully blank. "I don't see what all the fuss is about. Do I frighten you? Is that it?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Well, at least you're honest, I'll give you that."

  Oh, if he only knew, she thought uneasily, her temper cooling quickly. She watched him turn and move the few feet to the corral fence. One of the spot­ted horses came over to his extended hand. Pre­sented with his back, she stared at his lean body, the tight jeans and buff-colored shirt that left little to imagine about his physique. His legs were so long, well-muscled, too, and nicely shaped.

  "I just don't know you," she found herself blurt­ing.

  He glanced back at her for a second before re­turning his attention to the horse. "You want my life story? I guess that's reasonable. Later, maybe. Right now I better get back to work."

  Was he dismissing her? Yes, he was. How very au­tocratic! Just like her father, though not in a bluster­ing way. This man had a very quiet arrogance, nothing showy. The worst kind.

  Sharisse knew she was arrogant as well and hated that fault. She laid it at her father's feet. Two arro­gant wills would make for war and were not to be considered. It would be just like her parents.

  Well, if she were looking for a husband—which she surely wasn't—Lucas Slade certainly wouldn't be her choice. Thank God things were not that desper­ate.

  Chapter 8

  SHARISSE placed the last bowl on the table and stood back, wiping her brow. She had done it, cooked her first meal by herself. It didn't look like food she had ever eaten before, but she wasn't going to worry about that. Billy had handed her a country cookbook when he got back from town, and she could only surmise country food was different from city food. She hadn't understood some of the terms in the book so she'd just skipped over those parts. What harm could s
kipping one or two little things do? She had prepared enough food for three, since no one had told her if Mack would be eating with them or not.

  Sharisse moved to the open door, hoping for a cool breeze. There wasn't one, but the brilliance of a flam­ing red sky mesmerized her. Black silhouettes dotted the land like low sentinels: barrel cactus, yucca trees, the giant saguaro cactus. A small animal scurried across the ground. A coyote howled.

  Sharisse had to admit she had never seen any­thing quite so lovely as the scene before her. On the train, the blinds had always been closed against the late afternoon sun, so she hadn't realized the West offered such spectacular sunsets. If nothing else came of this insane trip, at least she had been able to see this.

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  Sharisse swung around, startled. Lucas was clos­ing the back door. His shirt was open to the waist, and a towel was wrapped around his neck. His hair was damp, with soft black tendrils curling about his temples. He looked so virile, so overwhelmingly mas­culine. Her guard went up.

  "I hope I'm not expected to hunt you down for meals." The haughtiness in her tone was unmistaka­ble.

  Lucas tore his eyes away from her and went to the table. "A yell from the window will do," he said as he looked over the food.

  "I don't yell, Mr. Holt."

  "Really?" She had his full attention again. "Not even when you're mad?"

  "I don't get mad."

  He laughed. "Honey, I never met a redhead who didn't."

  Sharisse gasped. "I do not have red hair!"

  "No, you don't," he conceded, admiring the copper tresses. "But it's close enough."

  She moved to face him across the table. "I hardly see what hair has to do with it. My father would tell you I am sweet-tempered and quite biddable. I like to think I am."

  "Not a disagreeable bone in your body?" Laughter danced in his eyes.

  "I don't like to fight, if that's what you mean," she retorted. "I was witness to more than enough of that when I was a child. I am quite thankful I didn't in­herit my parents' volatile natures."

  Lucas grinned. "Well, I guess I've had enough hot-tempered females. Having a sweet, compliant wife will be a nice change."

  Sharisse blushed. A gentleman would never men­tion the women from his past.

  "If you will be seated, Mr. Holt."

  "When are you going to let go of some of that starch, Miss Hammond?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind." Lucas sighed. "I see you have three places set. Are we expecting company?"

  "I didn't know if Mack would be joining us or not. You said Mr. Wolf has a wife who sees to him, but you didn't say if Mack would take his meals with us or not."

  "He's 'Mack,' but I'm still 'Mr. Holt'?" Irritation sparked his words. "Why is that?"

  Sharisse groaned. The man was temperamental. For all his devilish smiles and apparent humor, there was this other side to him. She didn't know what to make of him. He might have a violent tem­per for all she knew.

  "I... I suppose I could call you Lucas," Sharisse finally conceded.

  "Luke would be even better."

  "Lucas is more appropriate."

  "I'll wager your father threw in 'stubborn' occa­sionally when he was describing you."

  Sharisse smiled despite herself. He might intimi­date her sometimes, but he had an exasperating kind of devil-may-care charm that was quite appeal­ing. Put him in a suit and cut his hair, and the ladies back home would find him a delightful rogue, even handsome. Yes, quite handsome. If she hadn't been so shocked yesterday by his rough appearance and appalled by his size, she would have seen that be­neath his darkly tanned skin was quite an attractive face. Still, lily-white was in fashion, not bronze. She would have to remember that. It wouldn't do for her to find the man attractive.

  Lucas came around the table to seat her, then took the chair next to her. "You set three places," he ob­served. "But the amount of food you have here will barely feed the two of us, and that's only because I'm not very hungry."

  Her eyes widened. She looked at the roast beef and gravy, the half-dozen biscuits, the potatoes, carrots, and onions. Granted, the slab of beef she had started with had shriveled to a rather small hunk, but still. . .

  She looked back at Lucas and sighed. She ought to have remembered all the pancakes he had put away that morning. A man his size would eat large por­tions of food, of course.

  "I'm sorry," she offered sincerely. "I'm afraid the men of my acquaintance, well, they're not active men. And they're not nearly so big, either. I just didn't realize."

  Lucas was grinning at her. "I guess a couple of spins around a dance floor wouldn't stir up much of an appetite, not like breaking three wild horses. But Mack whipped us up a big lunch, so don't worry about it."

  Her cheeks pinkened as she wondered if he had come in today to look for his lunch. What had she been doing early this afternoon? She hadn't even thought of lunch, not after their late breakfast.

  "Is that what you did today, break wild horses?"

  Lucas nodded as he began filling his plate. "I've got an order for a dozen horses to be delivered to Fort Lowell, near Tucson. Breaking them in for the cav­alry is short work. It's turning wild mustangs into good cow ponies for the ranches that takes a might more time. Sam Newcomb wants thirty by the end of summer, and with the other orders I already have, Billy and I will have to head up into the mountains again pretty soon."

  "You catch the horses?" Sharisse was surprised. "But I thought you bred them. Isn't that what's usu­ally done on a horse ranch?"

  "It's not quite two years since I settled here, Sharisse. Not a single horse came with this place. I've started a breeding program, even brought in a thor­oughbred from Kentucky, but it takes time to build up stock. I've got a good number of foals pastured up in the hills, but not one is old enough for sale yet, and they won't be for some time."

  "I see. It's just. . . you fit in so well here, I thought you'd been here longer."

  "It doesn't take long to adjust," he said meaning­fully.

  "I imagine that depends on the background you come from," she murmured.

  "You think mine was so different from yours?" He was grinning again.

  "I'm waiting to find the answer to that," she said sweetly.

  He laughed. "I did say 'later,' didn't I? But how about giving me a chance to enjoy this food before I bore you with my life story?"

  "If you insist. Coffee?"

  "Please."

  When she came back to the table with the coffee pot, Lucas had a mouthful of food. She began to fill her own plate. She kept sneaking peeks at him to see what he thought of her first attempt at cooking, but his expression gave no clue.

  She took her first bite of the meat. It was tough and bone-dry. Her biscuit tasted moldy, and when she examined it, she could see splotches of raw flour. Were they all like that? The carrots were hard, but edible. The potatoes were mushy. The onions were just right. Well, how could you hurt an onion? And the coffee, after four attempts, was divine.

  She glanced up at Lucas, her face hot. "It's awful, isn't it?"

  "I've had worse," he grunted.

  She wasn't going to let this upset her, she just wasn't. "I suppose the few things I didn't follow in the book counted more than I thought they would."

  "You mean you improvised?" He grinned.

  "No, I just left out things I didn't understand. But how was I supposed to know what 'knead' meant for the biscuits? I've never heard the word. And it said to slow-cook the roast, but it didn't explain what slow-cooking is. It said to add water, but not how much, to season to taste, but not which seasoning to use. And all I found was salt, anyway."

  "The herbs are in the garden, Sharisse."

  "Well, this is a fine time to tell me that."

  "I guess I'll have to have Willow pay you a visit af­ter all. You can ask her about the things you don't understand. But before then, in the morning, at least add some coffee beans to the coffee."

&n
bsp; "But the coffee is perfect!"

  "It tastes like hot water."

  "That's because you're used to that thick slop you made this morning. I don't know how you can drink it. It tastes like mud."

  "You'll get used to it."

  In other words, it had to be made his way. She fell stonily silent, eating as much of her food as she could stomach, then moved off in a huff to clean up the mess.

  Lucas leaned back in his chair. The meal hadn't really been all that bad, for a first effort. He had ex­pected worse. He had also expected to find her com­pletely bedraggled and worn out from the day's load, which was probably more work than she had done in her life, much less all in one day. But she didn't look done in, she looked good, too damn good.

  She had changed her dress and now wore a splen­did garment of olive-green foulard silk with a dark, myrtle-green leaf pattern, trimmed with ecru Orien­tal lace. This gown had a square neck, not cut very deeply, and three-quarter-length sleeves. She had found another apron and was wearing two to protect her gown.

  His eyes followed her as she flitted from counter to sink to table and back. She had been on his mind the whole damn day, and he had been forced to keep busy just so he wouldn't be tempted to seek her out. He couldn't remember a woman ever intruding on his thoughts like that before. No woman had ever af­fected him so much. The plain fact was, he wanted her. He admitted now that such had been the case ever since he'd seen her picture. Being there in the flesh, she inflamed him. It was almost more than his body could stand.

  There were no two ways about it. If he was this hot for her after having her there only one day, then there was no way in hell he could stop himself from making love to her before he sent her away. It was not what he'd planned, but he wasn't going to fight it. If she were a virgin, he'd have had to give the problem more thought, but she wasn't a virgin.

  "Did I tell you how lovely you look in that gown?" he heard himself saying.

  Sharisse glanced over her shoulder at him. "This old thing? Good heavens, Mr. . . . Lucas. I look a fright. I intended to change to an evening dress be­fore dinner, but the time got away from me."