Delilah's Weakness (11 page)

She’d always loved pretty, lacy things. As a motherless child raised by a stern father and no–nonsense housekeepers, though, she’d been dressed "sensibly," with an eye to practicality and minimum upkeep. Her hair had been low–maintenance short. Her clothes, including her underwear, had been serviceable, machine–washable, no–iron cotton blends. It had never occurred to Delilah to ask for what she wanted—she was much too proud for that—and so she had secretly coveted the ruffles and frills her friends wore to one another’s birthday parties, and had taken to daydreaming over mail–order catalogs. When she was in high school she’d saved enough money and sent off an order, the first of many. Long after she’d accepted the fact that she was never going to be the ruffles–and–lace type, she’d continued to take a secret measure of reassurance and confidence from the knowledge that underneath her defensive, tomboy exterior, under her jeans and funky T–shirts, she really was a girl.

It was a side of herself she guarded jealously. Of her current circle of acquaintances, only Mara Jane knew. And now there was Luke, the last person in the world she’d have wanted to possess such a potent weapon. She felt stripped and violated, more vulnerable than she’d ever felt before in her life.

Luke had come to stand in the doorway, hands on his hips, head tilted quizzically. Delilah turned slowly, hugging her burgeoning anger close, trying desperately to keep him from seeing how important it was to her.

"What gave you the right to do this?" she asked.

He lifted his hand to his scalp, looking incredulous and utterly bewildered. "The right? I was trying to help."

"Yeah, well, do me a favor—don’t help me," Delilah said tightly, moving to brush past him. His hand gripped the doorframe, making a barricade of his arm. She stared at him, tight–lipped and tense with unreasoning resentment.

"‘Lilah," he said softly, "I have a sister."

"I’m not your sister!"

"I know."

There they were again, those crazy dissonances that seemed to rasp across every nerve in her body, raising bumps and shivers that cried out to be stroked and soothed, held and comforted.

Just two words:
I know.
And his eyes, dark and unreadable, dropping, as if compelled, to the front of her sweat shirt.

He did know. He was Superman, he had X–ray vision. He could see right through her baggy clothes to her satin chemise, and beyond that to her skin, which just now was no doubt flushing a deep dusty rose with mortification. And every time he looked at her from now on he would know.

The silent interval lengthened. Delilah didn’t know whether she felt more like shouting at him or bursting into tears. After a long moment Luke shook his head and let his arm drop, and she slipped past him.

"I’ll be through with the chores in an hour," she said jerkily as she snatched up her windbreaker and gloves. "Please be ready to leave."

When she lurched back out the door she found Luke where she had left him, lounging against the frame, thumbs hooked in his hip pockets. She doubted he’d even heard her last statement. As he basked in the early–morning sunshine his eyes were focused on the clothesline, and his lips were curved in a smile of rapt fascination. Her underthings, it seemed, didn’t share her reservations. Stirred by the ever–present breezes, they flirted outrageously, undulating coyly and with an unbridled sensuousness they certainly never enjoyed when she was wearing them.

Delilah put her head down and stomped up to the barn, blotting out the sight by visualizing hideous medieval tortures featuring the handsome president of Thermodyne, Inc.

** ** **

"I can’t understand it," Delilah said for the fourth time. "It’s never done this before. I’ve never had a bit of trouble with it."

The pickup’s starter growled ineffectually a few more times, gave a dispirited
clunk
, and lapsed into silence.

"Maybe it’s flooded," Luke offered helpfully.

She shook her head and reached for the door handle. "It’s never flooded before. I’m going to take a look."

"Stay there. I’ll look while you try to turn it over."

"Do you know anything about engines?"

"I’m an engineer," he said loftily, climbing out of the cab. A moment later his voice came from under the hood. "Try ‘er now." And then, "Okay—now." And still later, "How’s this?" He came walking back to the cab, dusting his hands and shaking his head. "Might be your starter." He sounded dubious.

Delilah hoped her expression told him what she thought of his mechanical aptitude. "It’s probably flooded," she muttered as she reluctantly abandoned the fight and climbed out of the truck, giving it a look of reproach as she slammed the door. "The way my life’s been going lately, it figures."

"You can try it after a while," Luke said soothingly. "After you’ve—I mean,
it’s
cooled down."

She threw him another blistering glare and stalked up the hill toward the pasture. It isn’t fair, she thought.
I’ve been invaded by an alien.
First her pasture, then her house, her
bed, for God’s sake,
her kitchen, and now the most personal, private place of all—her fantasies.

What next? Is there no sanctuary from this man?

"So," Luke asked cheerfully, striding buoyantly along beside her, "what’s on your schedule for today?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might as well give you a hand. I’ve got nothing better to do while I’m waiting. And," he added, holding his arms out wide just in case she might not have noticed his brawny arms and khaki–clad chest, "I’m even dressed for it."

Delilah postponed her answer by climbing deftly and unhesitatingly over the pasture fence. After one doubtful look at the strand of barbed wire along the top of the fence, Luke followed. Delilah heard his muffled oath and grinned, her spirits beginning to rise a little. She paused to allow Luke, muttering profanely and rubbing his thigh, to catch up.

"I still have to sort those ewes," she told him, plowing steadily across the corner of the pasture toward the holding pen, purposely choosing a shortcut that would take them over yet another fence. She gave him a considering look. "I guess you could be of some help at that."

He folded his arms on his chest, an unconsciously macho stance, full of self–confidence. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

She pursed her lips to hide a smile and nodded. The day was definitely improving as it went along. "Okay," she said agreeably. "All the ewes will lamb over a period of about three weeks. It’s hard to keep a close watch on so many, so to cut the odds, I divide them into groups—first week, second week—"

"Okay, I got that." He gave her a sideways glance. "You, uh, don’t figure this out by the sort of hands–on examination I witnessed yesterday? I hope?"

She shook her head. "No, that’s for the final sorting. I go by the numbers. Breeding records." She took a folded piece of notebook paper from the pocket of her windbreaker and held it out to him. "Those are the numbers of the ones I’ll separate out today. They should all lamb during the first week."

"Numbers?" Luke was scanning the list. "What’s this red 104? Purple 9l2?"

"Ear tags." She climbed the fence, and paused with one leg over the top to look down at him. "Coming?"

He gave a pained sigh and followed, but took more time and care. When he landed lightly in the dusty pen, several ewes lying in the immediate vicinity chewing their cud lurched to their feet and stood stamping at the intruder in their midst.

"You can man the gate," Delilah told him as she moved off through the milling flock. She could feel him following, moving gingerly.

"Can you be more specific?" he asked.

She explained with exaggerated patience that he was to hold the gate to the pasture, opening it to let out unwanted animals, and closing it to thwart the escape of the ones she chose to keep.

"Think you can handle that?" Okay, she knew she was deliberately taunting him, but in fact the job wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She was beginning to look forward to the morning’s work.

"I think so," Luke said dryly, refusing to be goaded. He handed her the list.

"You keep it. I’ll call out the ear tag numbers to you, and you can tell me whether they’re on the list or not."

"Okay, sure."

"Ready?"

He lifted his shoulders and grinned. Delilah grinned back. "Okay, city boy—let’s see how it goes."

It went well. Surprisingly and disappointingly well.

Luke had good reflexes and enough strength to wield the heavy wooden gate with a degree of precision that Delilah couldn’t have managed. Time after time she would shout, "Let that one go!" and watch the gate swing open at just the right moment, only to slam back in the nick of time to frustrate the head–down escape run of the animal right behind. By midmorning she was covered with dust and sweat and was thoroughly out–of–sorts, and Luke was lounging against the gatepost looking as gorgeous as ever and handling his job with his usual grace, and even with a certain flair.

Delilah kept throwing him glances, more of frustration than of grudging admiration. His comeuppance was not proceeding as planned.

Just before noon, with only a few animals yet to be culled from the flock in the holding pen, Delilah paused, frowning, to wipe sweat from her forehead with her shirtsleeve.

"What about 907, Luke? Is she on that list?"

"Yeah. With a question mark."

"Right. I remember now. I don’t have a date on her, but when I checked her yesterday I thought she seemed to be showing some development. I’m going to check her again, just to be sure."

But the canny Suffolk had learned something from the previous day’s experience. Once Delilah had a grip on her, she displayed a degree of intelligence rare in sheep, and directed her charge straight into the heart of the milling flock. A short, placid Hampshire set a perfect screen, and Delilah, trying to maintain her grip on one animal’s neck while leaping over the other, tripped and fell face down in dust and well–trampled sheep manure.

Sheep are very sure–footed. Delilah wasn’t trampled, and nothing was hurt except her dignity. Before she could even shake herself, she felt hands on her waist, back, shoulders, hair; heard Luke’s voice, taut with alarm.

"‘Lilah! ‘Lilah, are you all right? Come on, Blue Eyes, say something."

He rolled her over and, to her absolute astonishment and dismay, picked her up out of the dirt and cradled her in his arms like a helpless child.

"Dammit, Luke!" she hollered. "Get the gate!"

She struggled briefly, but it was already too late. Number 907 had bulldozed her way through the untended gate and was bounding across the pasture like an obese antelope.

Delilah folded her arms and glared up into Luke’s face. "Well, I hope you’re satisfied."

Luke looked slightly dazed. His eyes followed the escapee, then came back to hers, dark and unreadable. "Look—" His voice was rusty. "I thought you were hurt."

"Well, I’m not. So put me down. Please."

He hesitated for what seemed to Delilah a completely unnecessary amount of time, then set her feet on the ground. She lurched awkwardly and had to clutch at him for balance. His hands closed on her arms, just above the elbows.

"‘Lilah, I’m sorry about the ewe," he said softly. "What can I do to help?"

She almost said, "What ewe?" She wondered if she’d been trampled after all, because it sure felt as if an unruly ewe had run roughshod over her chest.

Luke was too close. He always seemed to be too close. She felt crowded, half–suffocated. She licked her lips and tasted dust.

If he just wasn’t so damn good–looking, she thought. If only he wasn’t always so…so
together,
so in command. He made her feel surly and childish, grubby and—

Oh, Lord, what must I look like?

"It’s no big deal," she mumbled, addressing the middle of his chest. "I’ll get her tonight or tomorrow when I feed them." She wiped a hand across her face in a futile attempt to remove some of the dirt. She was angry with him for standing there smiling at her with his lethal eyes, angry with herself for caring what she looked like. Angry because for the first time her life seemed to be out of her control. Dammit, her life was planned! She guided her own destiny. She
did
things, things did not
happen
to her.

But all of a sudden it seemed as though life had its head down, and all she could do was hang on.

Luke chuckled softly, intimately, and began to wipe her face with his hands. After a moment he said, "I’m afraid it’s beyond me. Aren’t we about finished here?"

Delilah was absolutely incapable of speech, but managed to nod.

"Tell you what," he murmured, still holding her face in his hands, "why don’t you go clean up while I fix us some lunch?" Before she could respond, he kissed her, dirt and all. "Hmm," he said judiciously, licking his lips, then laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

Delilah yanked it angrily away, but after a moment followed him out of the pen and down the hill, like a lamb trotting meekly at its mother’s heels.

** ** **

"You know what you need?" Luke said, chewing thoughtfully and gazing at some indeterminate spot in the middle of the orchard. "A runway. Some kind of loading chute connecting this door with your holding pen."

Delilah snorted ambiguously. She was still smarting from the morning’s humiliating turnabout, but his perceptiveness surprised her. A runway was exactly what she needed. She hoped to build one with some of the money from this year’s lamb crop.

"Thanks," she said dryly. "I never would have thought of that. "

He threw her an unrepentant grin. "I can’t help it—I’m a problem solver. Show me a problem and I try to figure out a solution. It’s a reflex."

"A problem solver—is what you call yourself? I’d call you a buttinski."

She was sitting on an overturned barrel beside the barn’s back door. During lambing she would use the barrel for water, but now, warmed by the sun, it made a good spot for a picnic lunch. The lunch consisted of sandwiches—sweet–smoked and baked dell ham on pungent rye, with mustard and mayonnaise, crisp, fresh dill pickles, and thick slices of tomato—as sumptuous a feast as could be served up between two slices of bread. Luke was a few feet away, lounging against the barn’s cement–block wall, looking completely at ease and unexpectedly natural in the rustic setting.