Page 8 of Tender Is the Storm

  Lucas grinned to himself. Pity the man who saw her looking her best, then. Ladies and their endless array of clothing ensembles, each suited to a particu­lar part of the day! With all the changing they did, it was a wonder they found time for anything else. But then, a lady's day did not include work. This one was finding out about that the hard way.

  He felt a twinge of guilt over putting her through this. It wasn't as if he couldn't afford servants. But a rich, idle rancher was not the image he was in New-comb to promote. He was simply an Easterner who had cashed in his chips, yearning for the quiet life the West offered. He wanted no one to suspect how wealthy he really was.

  Lucas moved up behind her, the urge to touch her almost overwhelming as he picked up her subtle scent. But he grabbed the dish towel instead.

  "I'll help you finish."

  He surprised himself with that offer. He didn't want her overburdened, though, not yet, anyway. And her smile of thanks was worth the effort. She was so lovely when she smiled.

  The last dish put away, they returned to the table, Sharisse bringing the coffee pot with her. Lucas de­clined any more of the weak brew and gathered a bottle and glass from a shelf before he sat down.

  Sharisse frowned. "Do you do that often?" she asked hesitantly, looking at the whiskey.

  "I can safely assure you I'm not a drunk if that thought is crossing your mind."

  "I'm sorry." Sharisse lowered her eyes to the table, embarrassed by her own effrontery. "It was an impertinent question."

  "You're entitled to know."

  Her eyes met his again. "Then perhaps you're ready now to tell me all?"

  He leaned back thoughtfully, the glass of whiskey in his hand. "We were born in St. Louis, my brother and I. The family on our mother's side was one of the more prominent in the city. She died, and after that, our father, Jake, wanted nothing more to do with her family. He brought us out here to Arizona. Gold drew him, and the promise of his own wealth."

  "He was a prospector?" Sharisse was surprised, though she knew she shouldn't be. Gold had drawn thousands of people west since the early '50s.

  Lucas nodded. "My brother and I were stuck in a boardinghouse in Tucson while he prospected the surrounding mountains for gold. The trouble was, he found it. A big strike. It led to his death. That was in '66."

  "You mean he was killed?"

  "Killed for his claim." He nodded.

  "But wouldn't his claim have gone to you boys?"

  "By rights, yes, so we had to be disposed of, too."

  She couldn't believe how casually he was saying it all. "What did you do?"

  "Hightailed it out of town." Lucas looked away, then continued. "Sloan, the man who shot our fa­ther, was hot on our trail so he could tidy up the loose ends, you might say."

  "My God! What kind of monster was he, to hunt down children? You couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve."

  "Ten, actually," he said grimly. "He was a hired gun, a man who kills for money without asking for reasons. The West has quite a few of that indiscrimi­nate breed."

  "You got away from him?"

  "Not exactly. Shots were fired, and my brother went down a rocky gorge. With Sloan right behind me, I couldn't go back for him. I had to ride on. But after I finally lost Sloan, I was lost myself. It took me several days to find my way back to where Slade had fallen, and by then there was no sign of him. There was nothing left to do but make my way to St. Louis, hoping he had done the same."

  "You found him there?"

  "He never did show up." There was a silence. "I stayed in St. Louis with an aunt, thinking Slade was dead. It hasn't been all that many years since he fi­nally found me."

  "Why did he wait so long?"

  "He had a sort of amnesia. He was clear enough on most things but couldn't remember that we had fam­ily in St. Louis or what had happened to me. He didn't know if I was dead or alive, or where to begin to search for me. And then, too, there was the prob­lem of Sloan—having to stay clear of towns for fear Sloan would see him."

  "What did he do?"

  "Lost himself in the wilderness. He shared the mountains with the Apache from here to the bor­der."

  "You're joking." She was aghast.

  "No. He lived alone in the mountains for eight years. But when he was nineteen, something hap­pened that brought back his memory, and he was able to find me."

  Sharisse was listening intently. "You don't sound happy about it."

  He smiled sadly. "He wasn't the same brother-1 re­membered. We had always been exactly alike. Now we're not. Those years he spent alone had a profound effect on him." Then he shrugged and grinned. "If we had a large family, which we don't, he would be what's called the black sheep."

  "That bad?"

  "Some people think so."

  He didn't elaborate, and she didn't press him.

  "Whatever happened to your father's gold mine?"

  "It was never found. Ironic, isn't it?"

  "For your father to have been killed for nothing? I should say so! And the man who shot him, was he ever brought to justice?"

  "Sloan's dead." A harsh note entered his voice. "But the man who hired him is still around."

  "You know who that is?"

  "Yes, but there's no proof. There's nothing I can do except call the man out. And he's no good with a gun, so it would be plain murder."

  "Oh," she murmured. "It must be terribly frus­trating for you, to be able to do nothing."

  "You could say that," he replied bitterly.

  She switched to another subject before Lucas got fed up with her prying.

  "Why did you come back to Arizona?"

  "For one thing, I got tired of city life. But it was more than that. Slade wouldn't settle in St. Louis, so I decided to move closer to him."

  "He lives in Newcomb?"

  "Slade never stays in one place too long, but he passes through Newcomb from time to time. I get to see him occasionally, 'cause he travels near here."

  She thought about that for a moment. "You must love him a lot to make such a sacrifice."

  Lucas laughed delightedly at her reasoning.

  "Honey, I don't look at it as a sacrifice. I happen to like it here."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply . . . well, any­way, I'm glad for you that you've found your brother and have grown close to him again. It must have been terrible, those years of separation."

  "What makes you think we've grown close?"

  She was flustered to see him grinning at her. "Well, I only assumed. . . ."

  "You can't get close to Slade, Sharisse. No one can, not even Billy, who knew him in those years he lived in the wilderness. We're not as close as we were as children, twins or not."

  "You mean you're look-alike twins?"

  "That's right."

  "My goodness. There were a couple of twins at school who looked alike. They even dressed the same, and it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Is it that way with you and your brother?"

  "Well, we don't dress alike, but I guess if you stripped us down you couldn't tell us apart."

  "Oh, dear," she said. "I guess I can be thankful then that he doesn't live here. I have enough new things to cope with without having to worry about which of you is you."

  His expression turned inscrutable. "Oh, I don't think you'd have any trouble telling us apart. We look alike, but we're as different as night and day."

  "I don't see how—"

  "If you meet him, honey, you'll know what I mean," he replied cryptically, closing the subject. "Is there any other bit of curiosity I can satisfy for you?"

  "Not at the moment," she said, smiling her thanks. She stretched. "After such a long day, I think I'd like nothing better right now than a nice warm bath before I retire."

  "The buckets are over there." He nodded toward the sink.

  "But—" She was aghast. "You mean I have to carry them?"

  "If you want a bath."

  "But yesterday-"

  "—I took p
ity on you because you were exhausted after your long trip. But you can't expect me to con­tinue carrying water for you. That's women's work."

  Her shoulders sagged in defeat. "I see."

  "You might want to move the tub in here," he sug­gested. "It's closer."

  "A bath is no longer quite so appealing," she said in a tiny voice.

  It was all Lucas could do to keep a straight face. She looked so forlorn. He almost took pity on her again, but it would defeat his purpose to pamper her, even if he wanted to.

  "I think I'll just heat some water for the washbowl and go on to bed," Sharisse sighed. "Can I heat some for you, too?"

  "I washed up in the barn. But I'd appreciate some hot water in the morning, if you get up early enough."

  Another of her chores? She nodded woodenly, then rose and went to the stove. Lucas finished another shot of whiskey, his eyes following her thoughtfully.

  "You know, Sharisse, there's a pool up in the mountains about four miles from here. The water there should still be pleasantly warm. We've got a full moon. Care to go for a moonlight ride?"

  How wonderful that sounded! But it was cruel of him to suggest it.

  "I told you I don't ride," she said.

  "Not even double?"

  "Not any kind of way. I've never been on a horse in my life."

  "It was just a thought. It's still early, after all. But you'll have to learn eventually, you know. There's no way out of this ranch except on a horse."

  "You could purchase a buggy."

  The hopeful note in her voice touched his heart­strings. But he held firm. "I'm not known to waste money, and it would be purely a waste to buy a buggy when I've got half a dozen mares all gentle enough for you to ride."

  "I'll think about it."

  She turned stiffly and flounced off into her bed­room with the kettle of water. Lucas was waiting at the stove when she returned with the kettle.

  "Good night, Lucas."

  "Just good night?" He quirked a brow. "Surely a good-night kiss is in order?" He added with a grin, "You might as well get used to it. I like kissing."

  "So I gather," she replied dryly. Resigned, she sighed, "Oh, very well."

  She leaned forward, intending to bestow on him the kind of kiss she would give her father. But the moment her lips touched his, his arms wrapped around her, keeping her from pulling away.

  He kissed her with incredible tenderness, his lips moving softly over hers, bringing a delicious languor to her limbs. She felt ridiculously weak. Strangest of all, she didn't want to pull away. She was enjoying the sweet exploration of his lips. Even the tangy taste of whiskey on his breath was enticing.

  His hands began to move along her back, sending tingles down her spine. Then he was suddenly ca­ressing her neck. The hand moving slowly down­ward. Her heart began to hammer. She knew what he intended, but she couldn't find the will to stop him. When his hand finally pressed boldly against her breast, she thought she would faint from the sheer wickedness of it.

  It was madness. She knew she couldn't let him continue, but the sweet sensations he was stirring overtook her completely. When his lips moved along her cheek to her neck, she was finally able to find her voice.

  "Lucas."

  It sounded like an endearment, but she meant to admonish him. Her hands had no strength to push him away. His lips were at her ear, and excitement intensified until she could hardly bear it.

  His tongue slipped inside her ear, and she thought she would faint.

  "I want you, Shari. You know that, don't you? Let me make love to you." His voice became even huskier. "If we were married now, it's what we would be doing for the rest of the evening. It will take hours to love you properly, and I intend to love you properly, Shari."

  His words were intoxicating. She had to fight him. Even the way he whispered her name made her tingle, pronouncing it as the French chert

  "You can't ... we aren't . . . Lucas! Please!" She was pleading for his help because she had lost the strength to resist.

  He leaned back so he could gaze into her eyes, but his arms still pressed her close. There was a smol­dering heat in his eyes that pierced right to her soul.

  "You're not an innocent anymore. Why do you re­sist? You know it will be good. Now or later, it doesn't matter. And even if we don't marry, it makes no difference. Don't fight it, Shari."

  It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it in­stantly, seeing in her amethyst eyes the sparks that turned them a deep, dark violet.

  "Only a man would say it makes no difference. It obviously means nothing more to you than a mo­ment's gratification. But for a woman there has to be more."

  "You talk like a virgin," he said accusingly. "Who does it hurt if you and I make love?"

  Sharisse stopped breathing. How could she answer when all she had were a virgin's answers? Was it permissible for a widow to be promiscuous? How could she know?

  "I don't know why I'm even discussing this with you," she said defensively. "There will be no mar­riage rights before the marriage."

  "Will you force me to fetch the preacher then just to ease my pain?"

  Her belly tightened. "What pain?"

  He frowned. "Don't play with me, Sharisse. You can't have been married and not know any more about men than that. You feel this." He pressed her hips firmly to his, and she gasped. "You think that doesn't hurt if I can't do anything about it?"

  "I ... I ..." Her face flamed red, and she tried with all her might to push away from him. "I'm sorry, I—"

  "All right." He cut her off sharply and let her go. Then he cursed himself, seeing the fear in her eyes. "I'm the one who's sorry, Sharisse. I know I'm rush­ing you, and I apologize. But you're so damn desir­able."

  "You . . . you're not going for the preacher, are you?" she asked hesitantly.

  Is that what had frightened her? "How the hell should I know?" His voice rose again. "Damn, you frustrate me, woman!"

  He turned on his heel and left the house. Sharisse ran to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  What was she going to do? She couldn't go through that again. What on earth was she going to do?

  Chapter 9

  LUCAS tied his horse outside the saloon and saun­tered inside. Only a few men looked up, but those who did watched curiously as he moved to the long bar and ordered whiskey. It wasn't often that Lucas Holt came to town, even less often at night.

  Lucas finished a glass of whiskey, and when Ben offered him another, he grabbed the bottle without a word and moved to an empty table. He surveyed the room slowly, but it was just the usual crowd that hung out at Whiskers's place—expect for Leon Wag­goner, sitting in on a card game. Lucas watched the Newcomb Ranch foreman, and, as he watched, he drank from the bottle.

  He had never liked Leon. The man just rubbed him wrong. Too, Newcomb was a king in the town he had founded, so anyone who worked for Newcomb was treated with near-reverence, and it had gone to Leon's head from the start. Now he was what you might call the town tough, and he had the weight and build to carry it off. No one messed with Leon. Too bad he always managed to make himself scarce whenever Slade came to town, Lucas thought cyni­cally.

  Leon was blissfully unaware of the cold green eyes boring into his back. He was on a winning streak, and the three regulars he was playing with weren't taking it too kindly. Yet not one of them dared pro­test. They knew his temper and weren't likely to provoke it. He was in a good mood, but it would just take one of them trying to leave the game to put Leon in a bad mood. It had happened before. Will Days had got a broken nose once for doing just that.

  Henry Foster, sitting across from Leon, was get­ting desperate. He had already lost more than he could afford to. In another hand or two he would be dipping into the mortgage money, and his wife would kill him. They owned the only gun store in town, but the town wasn't big and business had never been good. They had ended up getting deeper and deeper into debt with the bank, and it didn't look like they would ever get out. And there he was,
gambling. Would he never learn? If only Leon would decide to call it a night.

  Henry had seen Lucas Holt come into the saloon. It wasn't to his credit, but Henry had always been in­timidated by men of Holt's caliber. The quiet ones were worse than the braggarts like Leon. He didn't know Lucas personally and didn't want to. It was enough that he had sold ammunition to his brother once and liked to sweat a bucketful before that man left his shop. That was the kind of man, well, you just stayed out of his way, period. Who was to say Lucas wasn't just like him? He certainly didn't look friendly.

  A thought occurred to Henry. Anything to get this game over with without looking like he meant to get out.

  "You know, Leon," Henry began, clearing his throat nervously, "Mr. Holt has been showing a mighty keen interest in you ever since he came in."

  "Which Holt?" Leon swung around until his eyes met Lucas's. Then he turned back with an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, that one." He raked in the pot, but without much enthusiasm.

  Henry persisted. "I wonder why he keeps staring at you?"

  "Maybe he admires the cut of my clothes," Leon growled. "Shut up and deal."

  It hadn't worked. Henry swallowed hard. He just couldn't go on. He had to risk Leon's anger by bow­ing out. Better now than later, after he was really broke.

  "You've cleaned me out, Leon," he said. He rose, hoping for the best. "I've got to call it a night."

  Before Leon could tell him to dig deeper into his pockets, the other two men both rose quickly and chimed in with the same excuse.

  "What kind of chickenshit is this?" Leon de­manded belligerently. "Just because I won a few hands . . . oh, go on then," he finished testily. He be­gan stuffing his winnings into his pockets.

  All three men were quick to leave the saloon. Leon Waggoner didn't give them another thought. It had been a good night. He was glad he had decided to come into town instead of waiting for Saturday night, when he joined the ranch hands for their weekly hellraising. He planned to stay the night, making use of Sam's private suite at the hotel. He might even get one of Rosa's girls to spend the night with him. They shouldn't be too busy on a week night, and they would appreciate the luxury of Sam's suite as a nice change from the whorehouse.