Page 3 of Tender Is the Storm

  Stephanie looked the letters over now. They were attempts to bolster herself by embellishing her good qualities and accomplishments. Why had she lied? There was nothing wrong with her. She would make some man a wonderful wife. Why shouldn't she send at least one of the letters? To stay in New York would be to let her heart go on breaking.

  Stephanie picked up the newspaper clipping again. There was a notice from a rancher in Arizona. She tried to remember her studies. Yes, the Arizona Territory was far away. And a rancher would do nicely. Maybe he was one of those cattle barons she had heard of.

  She read the whole advertisement. She was one year short of the age requirement, but she could fib just a little and say she was eighteen. "Must be strong and healthy." She was healthy, but she had never had any reason to find out if she was strong. "Must bi, able to work hard." Well, she could if she had to, but she would have to insist on servants, half a dozen at the least. "Send picture." Ah ha! So the man wanted to know what he was getting, and he was hoping for something better than a plain girl.

  Stephanie smiled to herself. She withdrew a clean sheet of paper and began her letter to Lucas Holt.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Sharisse entered her father's study. A huge portrait of her mother graced the wall behind his desk. She knew he often turned in his overstuffed leather chair to gaze at that portrait. If ever a man grieved, Marcus Hammond did, refusing to marry again because he claimed no other woman could compare. His friends had long since given up trying to matchmake for him, leaving him to the memories he cherished.

  He sat at his desk, going over some papers. Shar­isse knew very little about his businesses, only that they were diversified, a rubber company, a brewery, a furniture company, an importing firm, dozens of warehouses and office buildings.

  Her father had no intention of turning over the reins to her. She hadn't been trained for it. That was the main reason her husband had to be of his choos­ing. One day that man would control everything Marcus Hammond had built.

  Marcus looked up, and Sharisse smiled. "I didn't mean to disturb you, Father. I was looking for Char­ley. You haven't seen him around by any chance?"

  Clear blue eyes sparkled under dark gold brows. "In here? You know he's not welcome in here. He knows it, too."

  "I only asked if you had seen him, Father."

  "Well, I haven't. And I hope never to again," he re­plied gruffly. "Just keep him out of my way, Rissy."

  "Yes, Father." Sharisse sighed. She left and headed for the kitchen.

  A worthless moocher, her father called Charley. A no-good alley tramp. But Charley had come to mean more to Sharisse than she had ever guessed he would after she'd found him, battered and bruised, and nursed him back to health.

  Sharisse chose an unfortunate time to enter the servants' domain. She heard soft crying and then a loud wail. She opened the door to the kitchen, and the cook went back to her pots. Jenny, who had come down for a cup of tea, gulped the last of it and hurried past Sharisse to run back upstairs. The cook's assis­tant began furiously peeling potatoes.

  Two people stood near the table, Mrs. Etherton, the Hammond housekeeper, and a new downstairs maid Sharisse had seen only once before. It was this small creature who was crying so loudly. At their feet was a broken teacup from the cobalt-blue collec­tion Sharisse's mother had brought with her from her home in France. She and her sister, Sophie, had grown up there. It was one of eight that Sharisse had ordered packed to be taken to her new home, a price­less treasure she'd intended to give to her own chil­dren one day. Sharisse loved the set with its intricate blue pattern and fine gold rims.

  Sharisse bent over to pick up the pieces, sick at heart. The other seven cups were on the counter, a packing box next to them. She sighed. If she hadn't decided to take them to her new house, they would all still be in the china cabinet in the dining room, safe and whole.

  Seeing her expression, the poor maid began to wail again. "I didn't mean to, miss. It were an accident, I swear. Don't let her send me away."

  Sharisse looked at the stern-faced Mrs. Etherton. "I've dismissed her, Miss Hammond," said Mrs. Eth­erton. "I should have done so sooner. If the girl's not breaking things, she's daydreaming and not getting a bit of work done."

  "If she is prone to breaking things, she should not have been told to pack my mother's cups," Sharisse said sharply.

  Mrs. Etherton's face turned a bright red, and the young maid spoke up quickly. "Oh, it were Molly who was to do the packing, miss, but she's been sick these last three days and asked me if I'd help her out so she don't get too far behind in her tasks."

  "So you took it upon yourself to . . . ? My apolo­gies, Mrs. Etherton," Sharisse offered.

  The housekeeper drew on her dignity and nodded to Sharisse.

  The girl turned her woebegone face to the house­keeper and then to Sharisse. "Give me another chance, miss. I swear I'll work harder. I can't go back to Five Points. Please don't let her send me back!"

  "Five Points?" Mrs. Etherton was suddenly out­raged. "You told me you came from a farm upstate. So you lied, did you?"

  "You wouldn't have hired me if you'd known I come from Five Points."

  Sharisse listened with distaste. She couldn't blame the poor girl for being so upset. She had never been near Five Points, but she knew of the area of Manhattan that held the worst slums in the city, in­cluding the notorious "old Brewery," where people were packed together in decrepit, filthy buildings. The annual record of murders, robberies, and other crimes was staggering. No stranger could safely walk those streets. To think that this poor child, who couldn't be more than fifteen, had probably grown up there and was trying desperately to escape.

  "You will give her another chance, Mrs. Ether­ton?" Sharisse said impulsively.

  The housekeeper's face mottled. "But, Miss—"

  "Everyone deserves more than one chance," Shar­isse said adamantly. "Just see that you are more careful in the future."

  "Oh, thank you, miss!"

  "Now, has anyone seen Charley?" asked Sharisse.

  "In the storeroom, miss," the cook supplied.

  "The storeroom, of course," Sharisse said.

  Sure enough, there he was lying on the cool tile next to a piece of pilfered chicken. Without another word to the servants, Sharisse left the kitchen with Charley. The long-haired tomcat was snuggled se­curely in his mistress's arms.

  Chapter 2

  STEPHANIE put down the letter she had just finished reading aloud. She looked defiantly at her closest friend, Trudi Baker. "So now you know that I wasn't just making it up when I said I was getting married. Before the month is over, I will be Mrs. Lu­cas Holt."

  They were ensconced in Stephanie's bedroom, a feminine room with white draperies on the two win­dows, lavender wallpaper, and pink and white bed canopy and table covers. The settee where Trudi was sitting was rose pink brocade and nearly matched her afternoon dress.

  The two young girls were of a similar height and coloring, but Trudi's eyes were green. She was six months older, a great difference in her opinion. She also had a more aggressive personality. Both girls acknowledged that she was the daring one, and that was why she was having such difficulty accepting all of this.

  If she hadn't seen the coach and train tickets with her own eyes, she would still have thought her best friend was pulling her leg.

  "Well?" Stephanie demanded.

  Trudi tried to address the matter she felt was most important. "He won't be handsome, you know. He's probably so ugly that no woman out there will have him. That's why he had to advertise for a wife."

  "Nonsense, Trudi. It could be just the other way around. He couldn't find a girl pretty enough to suit him, is all."

  "Wishful thinking, Steph! You sent him a picture of you, so why didn't you ask for one of him?"

  Stephanie bit her lip. "I did," she admitted. "But he didn't send one or say anything about it."

  "You see! He's old and ugly and knew he would never have a chance with y
ou if you saw what he looked like."

  "He probably just doesn't have a picture of him­self."

  "Steph, why don't you just admit you didn't really think this through?"

  Stephanie began to look even more obstinate, and Trudi rushed on, "Why him? There are a dozen men right here who would jump at the chance to marry you, men you know, men who aren't strangers. Just because Lucas Holt sent the tickets and is expecting you doesn't mean you have to go. Send the tickets back. What can he do?"

  Stephanie looked miserable. "You don't under­stand, Trudi. The only man I want is going to marry my sister. I have to do this. Sharisse's wedding is next week. I don't intend to be here to see it."

  "So you're running away."

  Stephanie looked at the floor. "If you want to put it that way, yes, I'm running away."

  Trudi's brow creased. "Doesn't it matter that you may be miserable the rest of your life?"

  "I have resigned myself," Stephanie sighed.

  "Haven't you done anything at all to change things? Have you talked to your father? Have you told your sister? Does anyone know besides me?"

  "No, no, and no. What difference would it make ex­cept to humiliate me? My father doesn't take me se­riously. He still thinks of me as a child. And I can't bear for Sharisse to know. I won't have her pitying me."

  "She's your sister, not your enemy. She loves you. She might help you."

  "There's nothing she can do."

  "How do you know? You might be afraid of telling your father, but maybe she isn't."

  "She wouldn't dare," Stephanie gasped. Trudi didn't really know Marcus Hammond.

  "She's worldly, Steph, and she doesn't let things get to her the way you do."

  "She only pretends she doesn't," Stephanie said knowingly.

  Trudi tried another approach.

  "What if Sharisse refuses to marry Joel? She doesn't seem to love him."

  Stephanie smiled wryly. "Nobody dares defy my father, certainly not Rissy or I."

  "Honestly, Stephanie Hammond, you're deter­mined to not even try, aren't you?" Trudi said an­grily. "You wouldn't catch me giving up without a fight. I would do anything possible to get what I wanted."

  Stephanie just shrugged.

  "All you have to do is tell your sister the truth. It's not as if she loves him or would really be giving up anything. You said that she doesn't care, that she's been treating her own wedding as if it were just an­other party to attend this summer. I've seen her with Joel myself. She treats him like a brother. If she loves him, she hides it very well."

  "No, she doesn't love him. I'm sure of that."

  "Then why shouldn't she help you?"

  "Trudi, stop it. There's nothing she can do."

  "Maybe. But what if there is? What if she man­ages to call off the wedding and you end up with Joel? If worse comes to worst, let her be the one to run away. At least then the wedding won't take place."

  "That's crazy, Trudi," Stephanie said angrily, but it was anger at herself because she wished it were Sharisse who was going away. Lucas Holt was proba­bly ugly and old, and she really would be miserable with him. She had made such a mess of things. She felt tears begin.

  "Well, I suppose I could at least tell Rissy how I feel," Stephanie said hesitantly.

  "Now that's the first sensible thing you've said all day." Trudi smiled at her, a little bit relieved.

  "Good night, Rissy."

  "Good night, Joel."

  Sharisse closed her eyes and waited for the us­ual perfunctory kiss, hoping desperately she would feel something this time. She didn't. There was no strength in the hands that gripped her shoulders, no enthusiasm in the lips that brushed against hers. He had never held her close to him, and she realized she didn't know what it was like to be swept into a man's embrace. Antoine Gautier had never held her pas­sionately, either. He had made love to her hands, in the Frenchman's style. Even so, the brush of An-toine's lips against her palm had done more to stir her passions than anything Joel had done.

  She couldn't blame Joel. After being humiliated by Antoine, she had sworn never to love again—and her heart had taken her seriously. It was just as well. She could never be hurt that way again. So she told herself to stop hoping for something more than tepid affection.

  Sighing, she stood by the front door and watched Joel skip down the stairs and get into his carriage. He was so handsome. His complexion was nearly as creamy white as her own. His little mustache was al­ways neatly trimmed. His slim physique wasn't at all intimidating, like her father's well-muscled form. There was no arrogance in him, either, which was important to her. Her father had supplied all the overbearing arrogance she needed for one lifetime.

  Joel was good-natured, with a devil-may-care charm. What more could she ask for?

  Who was she kidding? It wasn't at all flattering when a man couldn't even pretend he found you de­sirable. At least Antoine had pretended. No, she wouldn't compare them. Joel wasn't at all like the deceitful Antoine. She was just wanting, was all. Her height put most men off, and her slim, boyish figure deterred the rest. She just wasn't feminine, and she didn't have what it took to stir men's passions.

  Oh, some men looked at her with unconcealed lust, but she was wise to them. They were like Antoine, men who were merely titillated by the thought of spoiling a woman's innocence. That was all they wanted. At least she wouldn't have to put up with that anymore, once she was married.

  Next week. She would be Mrs. Joel Parrington next week. Yet he didn't love her and she didn't love him. It didn't matter. She was never going to love again, so it didn't matter.

  Chapter 3

  MARCUS Hammond's blood pressure was rising. He glared across his desk at his elder daugh­ter, but for once his displeasure was not making her cower. There she sat in her night rail glaring right back at him. He couldn't believe it. She reminded him so much of his wife. But he wasn't going to stand for this rebellion.

  "Go to your room, Sharisse!"

  Her large amethyst eyes rounded even more. "You mean you won't even discuss this with me?"

  "No."

  Her chin raised stubbornly, and she sat back in her chair as if settling in. "I won't go to bed until this thing is settled."

  "You won't? You won't! By God-"

  "Will you just listen to me?" Sharisse's voice turned pleading.

  "Listen to more nonsense? I will not!"

  "But don't you see? I can't marry Joel now. How can I when I know Stephanie loves him?"

  "Stephanie is a child," her father blustered. "She's too young to know anything about love."

  "She's seventeen, Father," Sharisse pointed out. "Wasn't Mother seventeen when you married her?"

  "You leave your mother out of this!" Marcus warned furiously.

  Sharisse backed down. "If you'll just listen to what I'm saying ... I don't love Joel, but Steph does. So why should I have to marry him, when she wants

  to?"

  "This should have been brought up when it was settled that you would marry him, not now, with the wedding a week away. You were perfectly willing to marry the boy before your sister made her ridiculous confession to you. It's too late now, Sharisse."

  "Oh, I could just scream!" Sharisse cried in frus­tration, shocking her father further. "It's not as if we aren't intimately acquainted with the Parringtons. Joel's father is your best friend, has been since be­fore I was born. If the situation were explained to Ed­ward, he would certainly understand."

  "Like hell he would," Marcus growled, appalled at the thought of telling his friend he wanted to substi­tute daughters at this late date. The very idea! "I will hear no more about this."

  "But, Father-"

  "No more I say!" He rose from his chair to his full intimidating height, and Sharisse paled. "You're not too old to take a strap to, Sharisse Hammond, and by God, that's exactly what I'll do if you so much as mention this nonsense to me again!"

  Sharisse didn't answer. Her courage fell, and she ran from the room. At the
top of the stairs she stopped, her heart hammering. Had she ever been so frightened before? How she'd got the nerve to defy her father, she didn't know. To go against him after that last horrible threat . . . impossible. She had known it wouldn't be easy telling her father, but she hadn't thought he would refuse her so furiously. And to threaten her with a whipping! She shuddered.

  Sharisse found Stephanie in her room, sitting anx­iously on the edge of the bed, waiting. "I'm sorry, Steph," was all she had to say.

  The younger girl started to cry. "I knew it wouldn't do any good. I told Trudi so, but she was so sure you could do something."

  Sharisse moved to the bed and tried to comfort her sister. "Please don't cry, Steph. Maybe after Father thinks about it awhile ..."

  "If he told you no, he won't change his mind." Stephanie sobbed harder. "I shouldn't have told you at all. I should just have left here the way I planned."

  "Leave?" Sharisse wasn't sure she had heard cor­rectly. "What do you mean?"

  "Never mind." Stephanie sniffed.

  "You don't have anywhere to go, Steph."

  "Don't I?" Stephanie said angrily, thinking Shar­isse was feeling sorry for her. "For your information, I have a man waiting to marry me—right now, in Ar­izona. I have the tickets to get there. I might even be married before you are," she added, not knowing how long it took to get to Arizona.

  "But where did you meet this man?"

  "I ... I haven't actually met him. We corre­sponded through the mail."

  "What?"

  "Don't look so shocked. It's done all the time. There is a shortage of women in the West, you know. How else are those brave men to get decent wives?"

  Stephanie was saying whatever sounded logical, defending herself. Actually she knew as little about the West or about mail-order brides as Sharisse did. But she didn't want her sister to know that, or to know that she was dreading going to Lucas Holt.