Delilah's Weakness (12 page)

"Leave my problems alone," Delilah drawled lazily, listening to the mellow murmur of her own voice with mild surprise. She assured herself it wasn’t Luke’s nearness that was taking the sting out of her remarks. It was only the sunshine. And the sandwich.

His response was equally lazy. "Now, that doesn’t make sense, ‘Lilah. What kind of person doesn’t want her problems solved?"

"An independent person, maybe? I solve my own problems."

"Uh–uh. A bullheaded person. You’d just rather put up with a problem than have to admit you need help."

"Ha," she said, gamely trying to give it her usual bite. "If I have a problem I’ll ask for help." She pulled her feet up under her so she was perched cross–legged on the rounded side of the barrel—a precarious position at best. "I don’t see any need to get excited about a few inconveniences, especially when there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. Accepting things you can’t change—that’s called adapting, Luke."

"I think I’d call it compromising. I don’t care for it, myself."

She snorted. "It’s called surviving. Things that can’t learn to adapt to reality become extinct—like dodo birds and dinosaurs."

Luke shrugged. "Yes, but without the movers and shakers, the ones who wouldn’t accept compromise, we’d all still be swinging from trees. There’d be no civilization."

"Humph," Delilah muttered, then added reluctantly, "Okay, it takes both kinds. But I am who I am. I’ve got to handle my problems my way." She wadded up the paper towel that had been serving as both plate and napkin and lofted it toward the brown paper bag at Luke’s feet. She missed, and he stooped with characteristic grace to retrieve it.

"Okay, Popeye," he said, dropping the paper into the bag. "And I am who I am. And we’ve established that it takes both kinds to make things civilized." He strolled toward her and planted one booted foot firmly beside her on the barrel. "What do you think we could do about civilizing this place, working together?"

His voice was a purr full of all sorts of suggestions and sub harmonies. Delilah hesitated, wondering what had happened to the air supply around her. And then, whether by accident or design, Luke’s foot rocked the barrel backward.

Delilah uttered a strangled whoop and reached wildly for the only thing that could prevent her from toppling over backward—Luke. As her hands gripped the unexpectedly solid bulk of his shoulders she felt herself caught and once again supported by a pair of strong, warm masculine arms. And even though she knew it was ridiculous, once again she felt as though she’d forgotten how to breathe.

"How about it?" he murmured from an inch or so away. "Think we could build you a runway?"

"Mm," Delilah said.

"Tell me, how do you manage to get those animals from the holding pen, through the orchard, and into the barn?"

"It’s a lot like stuffing feathers through the wrong end of a funnel," she muttered.

What an incredibly intimate thing laughter could be, she mused, when felt through another person’s body rather than heard. Luke’s laughter set up a corresponding vibration in her own stomach that made her want to break into giggles of pure joy. Fighting to hold on to a modicum of sanity, she cleared her throat and added, "But that’s not the point. I don’t have the materials to build a runway."

His eyes crinkled at her. "Sure, you do. There are posts and planks in that scrap pile over by the rams, and you have the roll of wire fencing you were using to divide the holding pen."

Delilah shook her head. "It’s not enough. I’ve measured."

"Trust me," he said huskily. "I’m an engineer."

"But—"

"Come on…" His words were silk on her eardrums, moist warmth on her cheek. "If I can design you a runway, will you help me build it?"

There was something wrong with the proposition, and she knew it. She just couldn’t think, right this minute, what it was. She felt herself nodding. "Yes."

"Atta girl." Luke’s laughter held a trace of smugness as he straightened, lowering Delilah gently to her feet. Squaring his shoulders and rubbing his hands together with thinly disguised self–congratulation, he announced, "Now, then. I’ll need a few things."

"Lumber, for starters," she said dryly. Now that she could think again she was thinking:
You big, arrogant know–it–all!
She had remembered what it was about the "deal" she’d just struck with Luke that wasn’t going to work. She’d figured and calculated it a thousand ways and knew, as well as she knew there was an orange airplane in her pasture, that she didn’t have enough material to build a runway.

"Hammer," Luke said, ignoring her comment. "Nails, baling twine, post–hole digger—"

"Will a shovel do?" she asked sweetly.

"I’ll make it do. See, I can compromise." He gave her a dazzling smile and strode off, tossing over his shoulder as he ducked under the branch of an apple tree, "Oh—and see if you can find me a pair of gloves, while you’re at it."

"And when did you get to be the boss here?" Delilah asked, but he was already out of earshot, purposefully sorting through a pile of planks.

Her temper was soaring, but it occurred to her that if she gave him enough rope, Luke MacGregor might contrive his own comeuppance much more effectively than anything she might dream up. And so she saluted smartly, smiled, and went off to find the articles he’d requested.

It promised to be an entertaining afternoon.

L
uke was in
a good mood. Both his projects—the wooing of Delilah Beaumont and the building of her sheep run—were proceeding better than even he could have hoped. Not only was the run nearly finished with time to spare before chores, but Delilah had been bubbling away beside him all afternoon in an unusually prolonged state of high spirits. It had been a surprise to discover that when she chose to be, Judge Beaumont’s black–sheep daughter could be a real delight.

Building the run had been even easier than he’d expected. He couldn’t understand why Delilah had put up such a fuss about it. A matter of pride, he supposed. Some people just couldn’t stand to lose an argument. Digging the postholes had been the hardest part, and in spite of the gloves he had a couple of painful blisters to show for his afternoon’s work. But other than that, it had just been a case of stretching the wire fencing along one side of the run and anchoring it to the posts with staples, then nailing the one–by–six planks into place along the other side. And Delilah had been proven wrong about those planks. As he’d calculated, there were more than enough of them to run two rows. The lowest was set at about eighteen inches—belly–high on those long–legged Suffolks. The highest was about head–high, leaving a gap of no more than a foot between. Of course, it was possible Delilah considered that the sides needed to be higher. He had an idea sheep might be good jumpers. But as narrow as the runway was, in order to prevent the sheep from turning around, he didn’t see how they could get enough of a running start to jump the fence.

All in all, Luke was as proud of those two rickety–looking parallel fences as he was of anything he’d ever built. He felt like a kid putting together an electric train track. He could hardly wait to try it out.

A muffled "Damn!" came from the direction of the scrap–lumber pile. Luke paused with his mouth full of nails to aim a look of resigned annoyance at Delilah. For Pete’s sake, he thought, why can’t she follow the simplest, most logical suggestion? He’d already told her a dozen times to quit trying to sort through those heavy, splintery planks by herself. Why did she always have to be so damned independent? As far as he was concerned, if she hurt herself it served her right for being so bull–headed.

And it was obvious she’d hurt herself. She was standing with her head down, one hand clutched in the other, her slender shoulders hunched. She looked so small––like somebody’s kid sister. When he saw her lean forward suddenly and tuck both hands between her legs, he put down his hammer and nails with a resigned sigh and went over to her.

"Here. Come on, ‘Lilah, let me see."

She had to resist him, of course, as if he’d made an indecent suggestion. "It’s nothing."

"Let me see it."

She lifted her eyes then—deep–set, black–fringed, sky–blue eyes, glazed with pain but still defiant.

Once, while white–water rafting on the Colorado, Luke had had a steering oar get away from him and hit him squarely in the middle of his chest. There had been a few moments when he’d thought his heart had stopped beating. He was experiencing that same sensation now. He had a sudden and wholly unexpected urge to wrap his arms around Delilah and pull her against him, to hold her and stroke her hair and whisper idiotic nonsense words of comfort.

Her lips were having a disturbing and uncharacteristic tendency to tremble. It was all Luke could do to tear his gaze from them and look at the hand she was pulling unwillingly from its hiding place between her thighs. Much more roughly than he meant to, he ordered, "Come on. Quit stalling. "

With a belligerent flip of her head she thrust her hand at him. "Look, it’s no big deal. I jammed my finger a little, that’s all. It’s practically numb now anyway."

Luke peered closely at the index finger of her right hand and swallowed. "Jammed, hell," he said stonily. "You have a splinter. A big one. It’s gone in under the nail, looks like halfway to the base." He caught her hand when she would have snatched it back. "Oh no, you don’t, Blue Eyes. That has to come out of there."

Stiff with hostility, she glared at him over their clasped hands. At last, unable to come up with anything better, she stuck her chin out and said with childish defiance, "Sez who?"

That unfamiliar wave of tenderness swept him again, and he fought to keep his face straight. "Sez me. Come on, you know you can’t leave it like that."

She was breathing hard, like someone who was about to lose her temper, or start to cry. In her case he’d have bet it was temper. He couldn’t imagine anything in the world that would make this woman cry. And he’d never met anyone, man or woman, who hated more the prospect of giving in.

"If you leave it in there." he said pleasantly and without emphasis, "it will fester and your fingernail will turn black and fall off and you’ll get blood poisoning and die a slow and extremely agonizing death."

She whispered something uncomplimentary about Luke’s antecedents. He raised his eyebrows and "tsk’d" reprovingly. "Well. I guess you can dish it out, but you can’t take it," he drawled sadly.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

He tapped his head, and she responded with a snort. "Oh, sure. You were unconscious, remember? You fainted."

"Feel free to faint if you want to. It’s all right with me. Where can I find a needle and some tweezers?"

"Now I’m expected to hand my persecutor the thumbscrews?" She sighed. "I think there’s a needle with my vet supplies in the barn. I don’t have any tweezers. And I never faint. I’ll probably throw up. On you, with any luck at all."

** ** **

Delilah was saying, "Well, I guess you can take it, but you can’t dish it out."

Her voice was so unusually soft and husky that Luke opened one eye and squinted at her from under his arm. She was sitting cross–legged in the straw near his feet, dousing her injured finger with something noxious–looking from a plastic squeeze bottle.

"Did you get it out?" he inquired hoarsely.

"Yes."

"Let me see."

"Are you sure you should?" Her voice carried stifled laughter, but she held out her mustard–stained hand for his inspection.

"Can’t see a thing with that stuff all over it," he complained. "Are you sure it’s out?"

"It’s out."

"What is that, anyway?"

"Iodine."

"Iodine? Whatever happened to nice antiseptic sprays in aerosol cans?"

"They’re expensive. I use this for disinfecting the lambs’ navels." Delilah blew on her finger to dry it and glanced sideways at him. "Tell me," she asked with amused curiosity, "how did you think you were going to be of any use to me around this place at lambing time if you faint at the first sign of blood?"

"Blood’s got nothing to do with it," Luke said morosely, sitting up. "I can’t stand inflicting pain on anyone. It’s not my style." He smiled, then watched her face close and her eyes become guarded. It was as if, he thought in frustration, his smile had triggered an automatic defense mechanism.

As she turned from him to gather up the refuse from her most recent surgery, she said, "You don’t have to worry about hurting me. I’m a lot tougher than I look."

"So you told me," he said, and then, unable to help himself, "Does anything ever get to you, ‘Lilah?"

She threw him that mulish look, and with some effort he dampened his own irritation. Cautiously and gently he probed, feeling his way. "Has any one ever gotten to you? Hurt you? Is that why you’re so defensive?"

She gave him a flat stare. "I’m not defensive."

"The hell you’re not."

She was looking down and away, but he could still see the pink tinge across her cheekbones. "Well, if I am defensive, maybe it’s because this is none of your business."

"Ah–hah," he said, softly triumphant.

"Ah–hah
what?"

With a small sense of victory he noted that he’d managed to rattle her. She’d lifted her head to fix him with a glare of disdain, but the look in her eyes was pure panic. Suddenly, irrelevantly, but not for the first time, he thought:
Damn, she’s beautiful.

And, he reminded himself, she had the personality of Geronimo and the living habits of a hard–rock miner.

But then a vision touched him, shimmering with spring sunshine—her meadow, knee–deep in grass and abloom with daisies, and Delilah running toward him in slow motion, wearing that pink thing with the narrow straps and the lace across the top and bottom that he’d hung on the line this morning…

Okay, maybe not Geronimo.

"Ah–hah," he repeated, so quietly it was more thought than whisper. "Someone’s gotten to you." He was touching her, his fingers on her cheek, and he couldn’t recall ever having been so keyed to his sense of touch before. It was a shock to feel her warmth, to feel the way she seemed to melt into his skin. His fingertips slid across her cheek, counting and memorizing every pore, every microscopic irregularity. He brushed the wisps of hair that curled over the delicate shell of her ear, then followed the hairline down to the nape of her neck. Her eyes had a glazed look and her lips were slightly parted. He had an urge to kiss her that was like an ache demanding to be rubbed.
Don’t be afraid of me,
he said silently.
I told you—hurting’s not my style.