Page 5 of Tender Is the Storm

  Sharisse got hold of herself and remembered that she wasn't out to make a good impression. It was just as well if she looked as bad as she felt. Years of proper behavior, however, made her put her jacket back on as soon as she got Charley into his basket. She managed to get the last button fastened just as the stage pulled to a stop.

  A giant appeared out of the scattered dust to assist the passengers from the stage. Sharisse gaped at him, then quickly looked away when she realized she was staring. By the time she accepted his hand to step down from the stage, she did it absent-mind­edly, wondering which of the men standing around was Lucas Holt.

  "Well, I'll be damned."

  Sharisse turned back to the giant. He wouldn't let go of her hand. "Will you, sir?" she said haughtily.

  He had the grace to look disconcerted. "A figure of speech, ma'am."

  "I know," she replied coolly, and was surprised to see him grin.

  Standing on the ground, she was even more amazed by his size, so tall and broad-shouldered. He made her feel downright tiny, something she had never felt before. Her father was tall, but this man would dwarf him. Was this a land of giants? But no, a nervous glance around showed the kind of men she was accustomed to seeing. It was only this man, this man looking her over with a stamp of possessive ownership on his face.

  Her heart skipped a beat. This couldn't be Lucas Holt!

  "You're not-?"

  "Lucas Holt." His grin widened, showing a flash of even white teeth. "I don't need to ask who you are, Miss Hammond."

  In her wildest dreams Sharisse wouldn't have pic­tured Lucas Holt like this, so ruggedly male, so hard-chiseled and powerfully built. She sensed a quiet arrogance about him, and, oh, dear, he reminded her of her father. Immediately she decided she couldn't risk telling him the truth, not if he was like her fa­ther.

  She tried to look beyond the raw strength that frightened her. At least he was young, perhaps twenty-five or -six. And she couldn't call him ugly. Some women might even find him terribly attrac­tive, but she was used to impeccably clean, fastidious men. He wasn't even wearing a jacket. His shirt was half-open, and he smelled of horses and leather. He even sported a gun on one hip! Was he a savage?

  He was clean-shaven, but that only drew attention to his bronzed skin and unruly long black hair. His eyes were extraordinary. The color made her think of a necklace of peridots she owned, with stones of yellow-green, clear and glowing. And his eyes seemed even more brilliant next to that dark skin.

  Lucas let the girl look him over. It was her, the girl he preferred in the picture. She was a bit wilted, but that only gave her an earthy quality. Damn, but she looked good. It almost seemed as if he had wished her here, and here she was.

  "I guess I'd better get your things, ma'am."

  Sharisse watched him saunter to the back of the stage and catch the trunk and portmanteau the driver tossed down to him. He was grinning. Why did he seem so delighted? She looked a fright. He should have been appalled.

  He returned carrying the trunk on his shoulder and the small case tucked under one arm. "The bug­gy's over here."

  She looked around, saw the hotel. "But I thought ... I mean . . ."

  Lucas followed the direction of her eyes. "That you'd be staying in town? No, ma'am, you'll be staying out at the ranch with me. But you don't have to worry about your reputation. We won't be alone at the ranch."

  She supposed it had been too much to hope that he would pay for her room and board, when he probably had a huge ranch house with an army of servants. She followed him to the buggy and waited while he settled her trunks.

  "Do you need anything before we leave town?" Lu­cas asked.

  Sharisse smiled shyly. "The only thing I'm in need of, Mr. Holt, is a long bath. I'm afraid I haven't had a decent one since I left New York. I suppose it will have to wait until we get to your ranch."

  "You didn't take lodgings on the way?"

  She blushed, but it was just as well he knew the truth. "I didn't have enough money. I used all I did have just for meals."

  "But your meals were included on your tickets."

  Sharisse gasped. "What?"

  "The arrangements were made. But it looks like that was money wasted." He looked at her speculatively. "So you don't have any money at all?"

  Sharisse was furious with herself. Why hadn't she looked more closely at those tickets? Why hadn't the conductor said anything? Why hadn't Lucas Holt said something about it in his letter?

  Her anger carried into her flippant tone. "Is that going to be a problem? You weren't expecting a dowry, were you?"

  "No, ma'am." He grinned. Good, so she was com­pletely dependent on him. She didn't have the wherewithal to leave any time she wanted to. "But then, I wasn't expecting you at all."

  "I don't understand." Sharisse frowned.

  Lucas dug the picture out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Your letter said you were the girl on the left."

  Her eyes widened. So Stephanie had lied about that so Sharisse would have no qualms about coming here. She was mortified. Here he was, expecting Stephanie and getting her instead.

  "I... I see I should have been more specific. You see, I sometimes get my right and left mixed up. I am sorry, Mr. Holt. You must be terribly disappointed."

  "Ma'am, if I was terribly disappointed, as you put it, I would be putting you back on the stage. What's your first name, anyway? I can't keep ma'aming you."

  His smile was engaging, his voice so deep and reso­nant. She had expected to be nervous on this first meeting, but not this much.

  "Sharisse," she told him.

  "Sounds French."

  "My mother was French."

  "Well, there's no point in us being formal. Folks call me Luke."

  Just then someone did. "Who you got there, Luke?"

  It was a squat little man standing in the doorway of a store, Newcomb Grocery. The building housed only that one store. Most buildings in New York con­tained dozens of offices and businesses.

  Her attention returned to the man as Lucas intro­duced them. She was surprised when he added, "I knew Miss Hammond before I came here. She has fi­nally agreed to be my wife."

  "Is that a fact?" Thomas Bilford smiled, delighted. "I guess congratulations are called for. Will your brother be coming to the wedding?"

  "I hadn't planned on any big affair, Thomas," Lu­cas said. "I'll just catch the preacher when he comes through town."

  "Folks will be disappointed."

  "Can't help that," Lucas replied, this time with an edge to his voice.

  "Well, good day to you, Luke, ma'am," the grocer said uneasily now, and quickly went back inside his store.

  Sharisse remained thoughtfully quiet as they drove out of the small one-street town. When the last building was behind them, she finally asked, J "Why did you tell Mr. Bilford we knew each other i back East?"

  Lucas shrugged. "No one would believe you were a mail-order bride. Of course, if you'd rather—"

  "No! That's quite all right," she assured him.

  Sharisse fell silent again and averted her eyes. A change had taken place in the man sitting next to her. Without that boyish grin he could be coldly un­approachable. He seemed to be brooding. Was it something she had said?

  "Why are you here, Sharisse Hammond?" he asked abruptly.

  She glanced back at him. He was looking straight ahead at the dirt road. Well, she had anticipated the question days ago.

  "I am recently widowed, Mr. Holt."

  That got his attention, but she paled as his eyes pierced her. She hadn't thought of that! Was a virgin a requirement of his? Being an impoverished widow had seemed the perfect story, a good excuse for being a mail-order bride.

  "I'm sorry if you were expecting a young inno­cent," Sharisse said softly. "I will certainly under­stand if you—"

  "It doesn't matter." Lucas cut her short.

  He looked back to the road, furious with himself for reacting that way. It really didn't make any dif­ferenc
e. Hadn't he considered the possibility that she might not be virgin? So why did it bother him?

  "Was he the man in the picture?" Lucas asked af­ter a while.

  "Was he . . . ? Good heavens, no. That was my fa­ther."

  "Is your father still living?"

  "Yes. But we're—estranged. My father didn't ap­prove of my husband, you see. And, well, he's not a very forgiving man."

  "So you couldn't return to him after your husband died?"

  "No. There wouldn't have been a problem if my husband hadn't left me destitute. Of course, I wouldn't have married him if I'd known he was so heavily in debt," she added primly. "But . . ." She sighed. "I come from a wealthy family, you see. It wasn't as if I could work to support myself when I saw how bad things really were. When I saw your ad­vertisement, it seemed the very solution."

  "You're leaving something out."

  "No, I don't think so." She began to panic.

  "You're not exactly what anyone could call a plain-looking woman," he told her pointedly. "If you felt you had to marry again, why go so far away? You must have had offers closer to home."

  Sharisse smiled at the assumption. Of course there had been offers of marriage, many offers, ever since she'd turned fifteen. But they were all made by men who coveted her wealth or who were otherwise unac­ceptable.

  "Yes, I was approached by several men."

  "And?"

  "They weren't to my liking."

  "What is to your liking?"

  Sharisse squirmed.

  "I don't like arrogance in a man, or rigidity. I ap­preciate sensitivity, a gentle nature, good humor, and-"

  "Are you sure you're describing a man?" Lucas couldn't resist.

  "I assure you I have known such men," she said in­dignantly.

  "Your husband?"

  "Yes."

  Lucas grunted. "You took quite a risk, settling on me. What if I don't possess any of those qualities?"

  She groaned inwardly. "Not even one?" she said faintly.

  "I didn't say that. But how were you to know?"

  "I ... I'm afraid I wasn't thinking along those lines. I just felt anything would be better than the choices I had at home." She gasped. "I didn't mean to imply ... I mean, of course I hoped for the best."

  "Are you disappointed?"

  "You certainly can't expect me to answer that so soon." She was becoming more and more distressed.

  There was amusement in his voice. "Honey, your first look at me told you whether you were disap­pointed or not."

  "Looks do not make the man," Sharisse heard her­self say primly.

  She was appalled to find she had defended him, complimented him without meaning to. She had wanted him to feel her disdain.

  There he was, grinning again. And she realized that even though they had talked for quite a while, she knew nothing about him. She dared a direct question of her own. "You aren't arrogant, are you?"

  "I don't like to think so."

  She went further. "Domineering?"

  He chuckled. "Me? Ride roughshod over a pretty thing like you? I wouldn't dream of it."

  Why did she have the distinct feeling that he was teasing her? She fell silent, giving up for the mo­ment.

  Chapter 6

  WILLOW leaned against the frame of the open door and stared at the cloud of dust in the dis­tance. Her house, a one-room structure, was small by white standards. But she was used to a low-domed wickiup made of brushwood and grass, a home that could be burned when it was time to move on, so this house of sturdy wood seemed huge. She had got used to it in the two years since her husband had brought her here to live, away from her tribe and family.

  Willow was only a quarter White Mountain Apache. Another quarter was Mexican. The other half, thanks to a bastard who had raped her mother, was some unknown mixture of white. Yet she ap­peared full-blooded Apache, and she took a deep sense of pride from this.

  "He comes, Billy," Willow said in her soft, melodi­ous voice.

  Billy Wolf came up behind his wife to watch the cloud of dust as it got closer to the ranch. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her, over her pregnant waist.

  "Do you think he's got her with him?"

  Willow sensed Billy's grin. She had seen it too often lately.

  "You still think it is amusing that you talked him into getting married?"

  "I think it's just what he needed. He's getting fed up over how long it's taking to bring the big man to his knees. Another month and he would have let Slade handle it—Slade's way. Luke needed some kind of diversion. Why not a wife?"

  "But he may not like her."

  "Like her?" Billy chuckled. "Hell, he can hate her for all I care, as long as she's diverting."

  "You had no thought for the girl in this," Willow accused him tartly.

  He didn't look at all contrite. "Taking care of friends comes first. That's what I'm here for. Now come inside before they see us. City ladies always get the vapors at their first sight of a real live Indian. You know that." He chuckled again. "We'll give her until tomorrow before we make her acquaintance."

  Willow looked at her husband critically. "You're not thinking of frightening her, are you, Billy?"

  "Would I do that to a friend's bride?"

  No, of course he wouldn't, she told herself know­ingly, not her fun-loving husband.

  Sharisse closed her eyes, trying to imagine that the ranch house wasn't actually small, only . . . quaint? She couldn't do it. It was a simple square building, not even painted. A cabin. And she was supposed to live there? There was a barn, too, and it was twice the size of the house, but also unpainted. A large corral with a big old cottonwood casting shade over it was behind the barn. Half a dozen horses lazed inside the corral. A hundred feet or so beyond the corral was another cabin, even smaller than the first.

  "I imagine you're used to grander accommoda­tions," Lucas said smoothly as he helped her down from the buggy.

  Sharisse didn't answer. He wasn't exactly apolo­gizing, so what could she say? That her home on Fifth Avenue was a colossal mansion? It wasn't nec­essary for him to know that.

  Her expression said it all, anyway, and Lucas grinned, knowing how shocked she was. What had she anticipated? Probably a house like Samuel New-comb had erected as an ostentatious display of his wealth, two stories of grand rooms and luxurious fit­tings. Well, Lucas's house served its purpose, and he had been in worse. In better, too, but all he had needed here was a roof over his head. It wasn't as if he meant to stay. Oh, he supposed he might have fixed it up a little for her. Then again—his grin widened—she didn't have to know that he hadn't.

  He watched her covertly as she looked around, holding her basket as if it offered protection. She looked so dismayed. She'd had that same look when she first realized who he was, and she had been as nervous as a skittish colt ever since. Did he really frighten her, or was she always jittery? She might have found his size intimidating. Most women did. On the other hand, she probably considered herself too tall for a woman. But from where he stood, she was just about right.

  Lucas opened the front door and waited there for Sharisse to finish her survey. The afternoon sun burned down on the cactus scattered around, the grassland that stretched as far as the eye could see, and the mountains.

  He imagined it wouldn't be long before that creamy white skin of hers was a ripe, golden color— once he got her working in the garden out back and wearing less clothing. She had to be baking in that heavy traveling suit. The sooner she got if off ...

  His every thought was stripping her. "Sharisse?"

  She started, having almost forgotten his presence. He stood at the open door, waiting for her to enter his house. What would she find inside? The same sever­ity?

  With a sigh, Sharisse went inside, careful not to let her skirt brush against his long legs as she passed him. The light inside was muted by closed curtains, and there was no time for her vision to adjust before the door closed and she found herself swung around and caught fi
rmly against Lucas Holt's hard chest. She squealed in fright, or started to, but the sound was smothered by his lips over hers.

  Shock struck her system, Charley hissed, and sud­denly she was standing alone, shaking, staring wide-eyed at Lucas. It was difficult to tell which of them was the more surprised.

  "I always thought it was just a figure of speech," Lucas said. "But I guess a female really can hiss like a cat."

  "I imagine it is just a figure of speech, Mr. Holt. It was a male hissing, and he really is a cat. I hope you don't mind, but I couldn't leave Charley behind."

  She set the basket down to open it and lift Charley out. Lucas found himself staring at the longest-haired cat he'd ever seen, short and compact, a golden orange color that nearly matched the girl's hair. He'd seen cats by the dozens back East, but never one that looked like this one.

  At that moment, Mack came in from the back of the house. "What the hell is that?" he cried. "Not you, ma'am," he was quick to amend. "But that thing you're holdin'?"

  Sharisse stared at the little man with a chin full of gray stubble, lively blue eyes, and a hat with a slouching rim. Lucas quickly made the intro­ductions, explaining Mack's many jobs around the ranch. But Mack wasn't paying a bit of attention to Sharisse. His eyes were on Charley.

  "What is it?" he repeated.

  "My pet, Charley."

  "You keep that wild critter for a pet?"

  "He's not wild," she assured him. "He's a Persian cat. I saw quite a few of them when I was in Europe. They're rare in America, though. In England, they even hold cat shows where rare breeds like Charley can be shown to the public."

  "The only cats we got here is predators," Mack remarked. "This little one don't bite?" He reached out a hand tentatively to pet Charley and received a low growl for his trouble.

  "You'll have to forgive him," Sharisse apologized. "I'm afraid he doesn't take too well to strangers. I'm about the only one he really tolerates."