Delilah's Weakness (7 page)

"Can I ask you a question?" he asked as they walked back through the orchard. His hands were tucked in his pockets and he limped slightly, frowning down at his feet as they wove through winter–bare trees. "Why did you choose to get into this—sheep–ranching, I mean?"

"Why do you do whatever it is
you
do?" she returned sharply.

He gave her a quick, hard look. "My dad was an Oklahoma wildcatter. I have degrees in geology and engineering. Exploring alternative sources of energy is a new and exciting frontier. My choice of careers makes sense; yours doesn’t. What is it—some kind of rebellion? You have something to prove?"

Delilah wrestled with her temper, subduing it in much the same way she did an obstreperous ewe. "Maybe," she said evenly. "Maybe I just need to prove that I can do what I’ve always dreamed of doing, the same as any man. Raising sheep may be an occupation as old as civilization, but it’s every bit as challenging and exciting as poking holes in the planet’s crust and taking out whatever you find there. It makes sense to be doing what I’m doing, because it’s what I want to do. Does that answer your question?" She had not, of course, been able to maintain that hold on her temper. It had put its nose down and gotten right away from her. She stopped walking and faced Luke, chest heaving, while he gazed stonily down at her, his mouth twisted in a humorless smile.

"Partly," he said quietly. "But why alone? And why sheep? They seem to be almost more trouble than they’re worth."

His calm made Delilah feel churlish and foolish. "I’m alone," she said, struggling to match his self–possession, "because I don’t want partners and can’t afford help. And I chose sheep because I can handle them alone. Physically. Cattle require horses, or the modern equivalent; manpower, strength. All I need is my dog. To assist a laboring cow in trouble requires a special chute, block and tackle, and great big muscles. And then it’s often not successful. With sheep, I can single–handedly deliver a tangled–up set of triplets. Successfully."

"I’ve seen the way you handle your sheep," Luke said dryly. "You don’t have to convince me. That part I can understand." He left the comment unfinished, and turned his head to study the three rams in the small enclosure at his elbow. The biggest of them, a huge gray–muzzled Suffolk with a Roman nose and legs like tree limbs, faced them suspiciously and stamped a warning. Luke jerked his thumb in that direction, his eyes glittering. "You ‘handle’ him too?"

"No," Delilah retorted. "Those are the rams. Like all males, they do pretty much as they please."

Before she stalked off and left Luke standing there, she saw his mouth tighten and his eyes narrow. About halfway to the house it occurred to her that he was actually angry, as she had been. Was still.

And it struck her like a blow to the solar plexus that people did not usually go around having quarrels with casual strangers. Somehow the fact that she had quarreled with Luke MacGregor gave her more of a sense of intimate violation than anything that had happened up to now. Including the strange good–morning kiss. In less than twenty–four hours that man had managed to get under her skin in a way no human being ever had before. If it were not for the fact that he would be leaving soon, very probably for good, she would be terrified.

So why didn’t that thought make her feel better?

** ** **

While Delilah was in the house, Luke put another call through to Pete.

"Mac! Glad you called. Perfect timing."

Through the smoke of a just–lit cigarette Luke said, "What’ve you got?"

"Well, I don’t know how you knew, but Beaumont does have a daughter. Vitals: Age, twenty–five, brown hair, blue eyes, five feet two, hundred and ten pounds. That sound right so far?"

"To a point," Luke said dryly. "Anything else?"

"Yeah…let’s see. Degrees from Cal Poly and U.C. Davis. No record, not even a parking ticket. But a friend of mine in Sacramento tells me the kid is something of a black sheep. Didn’t say why—What’s funny?"

"Funny you should mention sheep. You’ll never believe whose pasture I’m sitting in."

"I give up, whose?"

"Don’t be dense, Pete."

"You’re kidding."

"No, I’m not."

"Delilah Beaumont raises
sheep?"

"Yup. She owns this place—bought it outright with some federal Indian money. Did you know Beaumont’s wife was a quarter Navajo?"

"No kiddin’? Mac, you realize we may have something here? This could be the break we need."

"I thought of that. We might be able to charge bias, with a member of the judge’s immediate family owning property here, but it’s shaky."

"Yeah. Hey, I don’t suppose there’s any way you could marry this chick between now and the seventeenth? I know it’s short notice, but I’ve seen the way you operate. Maybe—"

"Forget it. This girl has something against men. She’s got a thing about her independence. Headstrong as the devil."

"Sounds like a chip off the old bench to me. Well, we’ll do what we can with this property angle. When’re you comin’ home, old buddy?"

Luke was staring through the windshield, his eyes squinted thoughtfully against the sting of cigarette smoke. "How are you doing up there?" he asked casually. "Holding down the fort okay?"

"Shoot, man, we’re a ghost town around here, with that drilling moratorium in effect. Angie mans the phone and does her nails, and I hang around just to keep up appearances. Why?"

"Oh, I thought I might take a little leave of absence."

"Mac." The grin came over the wire as vividly as if it had been a video feed. "You got something in mind?"

"Let’s say I have an idea that might keep me around here for a while longer. Never can tell what kind of useful information might turn up."

"Well, I sure wish you luck. We need a bit. Hey—you take care of yourself, you hear? That girl’s got the blood of Indians and French–Canadian trappers in her veins. You could wake up without your scalp.
Now
what’s funny?"

Luke fingered the stitches in his head. "She’s already had her chance at my scalp."

Pete snorted. "Just remember what happened to Samson!"

** ** **

Delilah was standing over the sink, sullenly eating cold oatmeal straight from the pot, when Luke came in carrying a flight bag, a zippered plastic suit bag slung over his shoulder. He gave her a quizzical look and she glared back at him over the pot, daring him to make a remark about her eating habits. But he only gestured toward the bathroom with the suit bag and said politely, "May I?"

"Be my guest." She waved her spoon with what she knew was a deplorable lack of grace, considering who he was and his reason for being in her house.

She had put the pot in the sink and filled it with water, and was on her way to her bedroom to change her clothes, when she heard a car drive up. She turned back to peer out the window. "Oh, damn," she muttered, feeling the ominous weight of what could very well be the last straw.

"Hello, Amos," she said without warmth as she opened the door to her neighbor, adding––with blatant insincerity, "How nice to see you."

Subtlety was wasted on Amos Chappel. The rancher had always reminded Delilah of John Wayne—with all of the mannerisms and none of the charm. He walked with the same bent–forward–at–the–hips, rolling–sideways swagger, the result of having spent too much of his youth with his legs curled around bucking livestock. He was a rancher of the old school. He figured women somewhere just above a good cow and just below a good cutting horse in value and importance. And, with the possible exception of country singers and rodeo groupies, he firmly believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen.

Needless to say, he and Delilah hadn’t hit it off.

If basic philosophy had been the only difference between them, there probably wouldn’t have been a problem. Although Amos was her nearest neighbor, their property lines didn’t actually adjoin. The problem stemmed from a century–old homestead grant that gave to the owner of Delilah’s property sole water rights to a creek that flowed down from the Sierra snow pack.

Amos had tried to buy the place from Delilah, offering half again what she’d paid for it. When that failed, he’d tried to buy the water rights themselves, claiming Delilah couldn’t possibly need all that water for such a little bunch of sheep. But his latest idea was by far the most irksome. Having failed to acquire the land or the water, he was now embarked on a determined campaign to acquire Delilah. And was proving unexpectedly hard to discourage.

"Delilah, honey," he drawled by way of a greeting, taking off his hat and resting it and his hand on his hip. He gripped the back of a chair with the other hand and leaned toward her. "You know, darned if you don’t get prettier every time I see you!"

Delilah glanced down at her baggy, grubby sweat shirt and faded jeans. "Thanks," she said dryly.

"Shoot, I damn near forgot why I come. I was downtown this mornin’, and I heard about that plane puttin’ down in your pasture. I see that plane still up there, and I see it’s done some damage, too. Now, I was thinkin’, Delilah, honey, gettin’ that pile of junk outa there is goin’ to be a bigger job than I reckon you can handle. Now, with my A–frame and my flatbed—"

"Amos. That plane is not my concern. It is up to the person who put it there to take it out. Personally, I don’t intend to let it worry me."

"Well, now," Amos went on good–naturedly, "that’s true enough. But you want to be careful of these big ol’ corporations, you know. They’d be apt to take advantage of a little bitty gal like yourself, honey. They got their insurance and their tax shelters. Well, shoot, they’ll probably declare it a total loss and leave it lay."

"If they do," Delilah said airily, "I’ll use it for a hay manger. Look, Amos—"

She broke off as he rested a big brown hand on each of her shoulders and squinted down at her in a superior way. "Hon, now, are you gonna go and be bullheaded about this? I can have my boys over here tomorrow, have that contraption out of your hair in no time at all."

"Thank you, Amos, but no," Delilah said firmly. His cowboy hat was tickling the back of her neck. "I don’t want—"

"Damned If you ain’t the proudest little thing I ever saw!" Amos gave his head a shake and grinned. "But come on, now, hon, this here’s ol’ Amos talkin’. You don’t need to get up on that high horse with me, ‘cause I know you ain’t got a nickel to spare and more work’n you can handle. Shoot, honey, why don’t you quit bein’ so doggone stubborn and give up this whole damn–fool sheep idea and marry me? There ain’t no money in sheep, and this little ol’ place ain’t big enough to support a jackrabbit anyhow. Now, I got a real nice spread, Delilah, you know that. You can have just about anything you want."

"What I want," said Delilah through her teeth, "is to raise my sheep on my own place. And for you to leave me alone."

The rancher’s prominent jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. "Boy, for pure cussedness, you take the cake. Damnation, gal, it seems to me somebody shoulda taken you in hand a long time ago."

Delilah felt his hands tighten on her shoulders and read his intent. She braced herself, her hands coming up to ward him off, and ducked her head to avoid his kiss.

The quiet voice was a shock to both of them.

"What’s going on?" Luke MacGregor asked.

A
mos dropped his
hands and turned to stare. Over his shoulder Delilah could see a pair of black–fringed eyes, which at the moment were as hard and cold as marbles. When Amos moved so that she could see the rest of that handsome face, she was startled to see a pleasant smile on the lower half of it.

"Luke," she said faintly, aware of an unusual warmth in her cheeks.

"Any problem, darling?"

Darling?

Luke was leveling that curiously flat stare at Amos, who was looking more than usually mulish. Delilah shook her head, unable to think of a thing to say. She moved away from Amos and was shocked speechless when Luke added in a voice husky with implied intimacy, "Come help me with this collar button, will you, love?"

Love?

He was wearing a fawn–colored suede sport jacket, dark slacks, and a textured silk shirt. Locks of his hair, damp around the edges, fell silkily forward as he bent toward her. He lifted his chin to give her clear access to his throat and tugged with exasperated ineffectiveness at his collar. He smiled at her with heart–stopping radiance. "For some reason it keeps eluding me." And he winked.

Delilah drew in her breath in a desperate gulp and reached toward his snowy–white shirt front, appalled to see that her hands were shaking. Behind her she heard Amos ask belligerently, "Hey, who the hell is this guy?"

"Oh, sorry," Luke said. "MacGregor. Luke MacGregor." He grinned pleasantly and reached around Delilah to offer his hand. "That’s my plane out there. Don’t know what I’d have done if that pasture hadn’t been there." He turned that potent dark gaze on Delilah even as Amos absentmindedly and uncertainly pumped the proffered hand. Delilah, thus enclosed in fawn suede and enveloped in a subtle aura of after–shave and shower–heated male, promptly forgot how to breathe.

"Surprised you’re still around," Amos muttered gruffly.

"Yeah…well," Luke murmured. Delilah, the top of her head just about even with his mouth, could feel the warm puff of his laughter.

What is he doing?
Biting fiercely at her lower lip, she slipped her fingers inside his collar and drew the two ends together. His skin was moist and very warm. His pulse hammered against the backs of her fingers, an insistent rhythm that seemed to flow down her arms and into her body, taking over and dominating her own frantic cadence.

"Turned out to be kind of hard to leave, didn’t it, baby?" he said.

Baby?

That was almost too much for her.

Somehow, miraculously, Delilah got that button fastened. She stood back, winded and glaring.

Luke bent his head and gave her a lingering kiss. "Thanks, babe. I’ll be ready in a minute. I’ll just get the rest of my things out of the bedroom." He gave her another eye–crinkling smile that melted her bones, and turned away. About halfway to the bedroom he stopped and turned. "Oh—nice to have met you––I don’t believe I caught your name."