Delilah's Weakness (3 page)

Half an hour later the ewes were once more shut securely in the holding pen, where open–sided shelters would provide escape from the worst of the wet spring snow.

Satisfied that for tonight the animals were secure, Delilah whistled for Lady and turned wearily toward the house. The heavy boots dragged at the muscles of her legs; the socks on her left foot had worked down and were bunched uncomfortably around her instep. Her nose was numb and her eyes were streaming from the cold; her fingers and toes ached with it. And worst of all, she itched.

And she still had to figure out what to do with the man who had fallen out of her sky.

H
e was sitting
where she’d left him, the towel perched at a rakish angle over his left eye, his arms folded across his chest. The bleeding from his scalp wound seemed to have stopped. He watched her take off her cap and run her fingers through her short dark hair, then peel off the outer layers that made up her wintertime chore clothes: soaking–wet windbreaker, down–filled vest, waterproof boots. She was tucking the tail of her plaid flannel shirt into the waistband of her jeans, her movements pulling the shirt taut across her breasts, when she saw him purse his lips and nod his head. The bloodstained towel tumbled into his lap, and he caught it and tossed it onto the table.

Thought so," he said without preamble. "Why didn’t you set me straight?"

"About what? Delilah avoided his eyes, for all the good that would do.

She had guessed he might be attractive; she was not prepared for beautiful. Cleaned up, his face was almost painfully handsome, though not the least bit pretty. It should have been a joy just to look at him, but when she did, she felt a surge of emotion she had decided must be anger. It certainly felt like anger. It quickened all her vital signs and made her fingers and toes tingle with adrenaline and her chest feel tight. In her experience, only rage had ever produced that particular constriction in her chest that made her want to shout at someone—anyone—just to relieve the tension.

"That you are neither a kid nor anybody’s son," the man said softly.

Delilah shrugged, and dropped her soggy windbreaker across the back of a chair to dry. "At the time it didn’t seem important. What difference does it make? You needed help and as I said, I’m the only one here." She had moved to stand beside him, leaning over him to peer at his scalp. She felt rather than heard his chuckle as his shoulder bumped gently against her stomach.

"What difference?" he said. "
Vive,
as they say,
la difference!
Ouch." He had tried to turn his head to bring his eyes in direct line with her bosom. Her fingers, tangled in his hair, restrained him none too gently.

"Hold still," she snapped, almost suffocating with that strange emotion. He had apparently washed his hair in the sink while she was outside. It was wet, but no longer sticky. "That cut needs attention." She frowned as she stepped away from him and picked up the stained towel. He had bled quite a lot. "You really ought to see a doctor." She gazed at him, chewing perplexedly at her lower lip.

And he looked back at her, as relaxed and comfortable as if he had dropped in for coffee. He reached inside his jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes, and Delilah made a quick, involuntary motion of protest. She stifled it instantly, but he noticed it anyway.

"Sorry," he said as he tucked the cigarettes back into his jacket. "I won’t if it bothers you."

Delilah shrugged ambiguously, guilt struggling with gratitude and the grudging beginnings of liking. She hated the smell of cigarettes. It clung to the wool in her rugs and blankets and was impossible to get rid of. But on the other hand, he was a guest in her house, and injured, and she was denying him his own comfort. And his sensitivity and courtesy were oddly unnerving.

She gave a soft laugh and rubbed her palms nervously on her upper arms. "Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do with you. I’m not very experienced at dealing with the victims of plane crashes—"

"Please. That was a perfectly executed emergency landing."

"—in my pasture.
Emergency landing?
Well, couldn’t you have found a less populated place? You could have wiped out my flock! Everything I own––" The last word was a choking sound; she hadn’t known she was going to cry. Her voice had simply escalated with each sentence until she was very close to that tension–relieving shout she had longed for. The tears seemed to go along with it.

The man’s dark eyes crinkled sympathetically. "I’m sorry. From up there it looked like the best place. Are they okay?"

"Yes." She sniffed grudgingly, touching her nose with the back of her hand and then reaching absently for a tissue. "I think so. I’ll have to check more closely in the morning. They’re only a week or so away from lambing," she explained in muffled tones, beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of herself.

His straight, dark brows dipped, and he made a low whistle. "I don’t blame you for being upset. Do you really live here all alone? Run this place by yourself?"

"I own it," Delilah said stiffly.

Again that low whistle. The brown eyes seemed to be laughing at her, though the beautifully shaped mouth was carefully somber. "Big job for a little bit of a girl."

Genuine anger coursed through her, wiping out the other, more confusing emotions. "In the first place, I’m not a
girl,
I’m a woman. And if I hear one more arrogant, insufferable man tell me a woman can’t make a go of it in the sheep business, I’ll––"

"Hey, take it easy." He was laughing at her, but sympathetically and without a trace of arrogance. "I didn’t know I was probing an open wound. Speaking of which—"

"How did you figure it out?" she interrupted as a much–delayed thought occurred to her.

"What?"

"That I wasn’t ‘anyone’s son’?"

He smiled, the same heart–squeezing smile he had bestowed on her through rivulets of blood. On a clean face it had an almost angelic beauty. She suddenly found it a chore to remember to breathe.

"Instincts," he said, his voice acquiring a new resonance that raised goose bumps on her arms. Then he chuckled, releasing her from the magnetic pull of his personality as if he’d turned off a switch. "Of course, once I went exploring and saw—"

"You went exploring?" Her voice was a squeak of outrage. "In my house?"

"Don’t get excited. I’m not planning to rip you off. I was looking for a bathroom, a telephone, and an ashtray, in that order. I found the bathroom. I think." He shook his head in disbelief. "I’ve never seen more primitive amenities indoors. Do you really shower in there, on that cold cement floor? Without heat?"

"Sorry," Delilah said faintly, thinking of what was hanging on the curtain rod in the bathroom, then flared, "If you don’t like the accommodations you can always try the motel down the road."

"I apologize," he murmured, but it was Delilah who felt remorse.

His long lashes swept down for an instant, and she noticed he’d taken on a grayish pallor, and the delicate skin under his eyes looked bruised.
He’s injured, he’s been through a harrowing experience, and all I’ve done so far is fence with him.

She spread her hands. "I’m sorry, I don’t have a telephone."

"No phone." He didn’t comment, but gave her a look that clearly said:
The twenty–first century. You’re kidding me, right?
He took a deep breath. "I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could give me a lift to the nearest town? Preferably someplace with a hospital? And a telephone. There’s one—"

He stood up abruptly. Delilah wasn’t watching him at that moment—her eyes were focused on nothing as she chewed her lip and contemplated the prospect of putting chains on her Navy surplus pickup in the cold, muddy darkness. So she was completely unprepared when he did, at last, pass out at her feet.

He went down like a bag of bricks, not in graceful slow motion, as people do in the movies. He hit the floor with a sickening thud and then sort of flopped, full length and face down.

"Oh…no," Delilah breathed, and dropped to her knees beside the inert body. Overcoming a strange reluctance to touch him, she put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. She almost changed her mind about allowing herself to panic. Fear clutched at her throat, but she wrestled gamely with it and fought it off. He’d jumped up too quickly, that was all, she told herself.
He lost so much blood, and it’s warm in this room, and he stood up too fast. He’s weak and needs rest. He’s going to be all right.

She shifted her position, braced herself, and rolled him over, surprised at how heavy he was now that he was dead weight. Moving him wasn’t going to be easy. Sitting back on her heels she contemplated the face of the man who was making such a hash of her already precarious existence.

Even slack in unconsciousness the features were remarkably fine. It was in the bones, she decided. He would be a handsome man even when he was old. Right now, though, there was a dark stubble on the lower half of his face, a shiny film of sweat on the upper half, and purple smudges just below the fringe of dark lashes.

Oddly, he seemed both more and less disturbing like this, without the force of personality behind him. He wasn’t nearly so potent an assault on her senses, but with her guard lowered he seemed to be launching some sort of clandestine flank attack on her heart.

With a gentleness that would have amazed most of the people who knew her, Delilah smoothed the hair back from his forehead. Her fingers went automatically to the laceration in his scalp and came away stained with blood. The fall must have started it bleeding again. When she got to her feet and opened the cupboard that held her store of veterinary supplies she knew she had made a decision. This man, whoever he was, was in no condition to go anywhere tonight.

A few minutes later she had settled herself on the floor with his head in her lap, a small assortment of objects arranged at her elbow. As she poured hydrogen peroxide into the wound and watched it foam and fizz, she considered alternatives for dressing it. It was in an awkward place. The only possibilities seemed to be to shave a big enough patch on his scalp to stick bandages to.

Or, to sew the torn edges together.

She knew she would never be able to bring herself to cut a hole in that thick chestnut hair. Resigned, she fished out of a little dish of alcohol a needle already threaded with dental floss, took a deep breath, and began.

It took seven stitches to close the wound. He woke up in the middle of the third one. Delilah saw his eyelids flutter and felt tension return to his neck and shoulder muscles, but she clamped her lower lip firmly between her teeth and finished the stitch. The brown eyes flew open.

"I’m on the floor," he said thickly.

"Right," Delilah confirmed absently. "Hold still, please."

He wrinkled his forehead, trying to see her face. "What’re you doing?"

"Sewing you up. Please don’t make me nervous. I’ve never done a human being before."

"Never…done…a human being?"

"Just sheep and dogs. But I’m pretty good, and I have antibiotics, if you’re worried. Are you up on your tetanus shots?"

"Uh…yeah. Listen—"

"Hush." Delilah clipped off the next stitch. "You passed out. You are in no condition for a thirty–mile run to town in a snowstorm. You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll get you to a phone, I promise. I’m as anxious as you are to get that plane out of my pasture. But right now, please be still, before I lose my nerve completely. Better yet—go back to sleep."

A slight smile flickered over his lips, and he closed his eyes. "Right, doc." He sounded groggy.

Delilah sucked in her breath and completed another stitch. He didn’t flinch. She finished the job and dropped the needle back into the dish.

"All done," she said huskily. She couldn’t resist passing her hand across his forehead once more, her fingers combing back an errant lock of hair.

His eyes opened and found hers. "Feels good," he murmured.

"Having your head sewn up?"

Again that faint smile. "Having your satin fingers soothe my fevered brow, Florence Nightingale. You have a nice touch."

His voice was soft and musical, with a slight rasp to it that stirred odd harmonics deep inside her. She cleared her throat and took his head in her hands to lift it from her lap. His hand came up to catch at her wrist.

"I–I’ve got to get up," she stammered. "Fix you a bed—"

"I’d just as soon stay right here." he muttered, holding her hand against the side of his head. She felt her fingers curl into the crisp silk of his hair.

Lilah—what’s the matter with you? You don’t even know this guy’s name. Get up, you idiot!

"Let me up," she said, more harshly than she’d intended, and slid out from under him, out of his grasp, away from the insidious warmth that was invading her body.

He sighed and slowly raised himself to a sitting position, feeling gingerly for his injury.

"Leave it alone," she snapped. "You’ll infect it."

He gave a soft chuckle and leaned back against the table leg. Delilah felt his gaze follow her into the cold bedroom, but when she went back to the kitchen his eyes were closed. She wondered if he had dozed off, wondered if she should be trying to keep him from sleeping. But no—wasn’t that for concussion? His injury wasn’t from a blow. It was a cut, with considerable loss of blood. Sleep was what he needed.

"Come on," she said. "I’ve a bed ready for you."

He held onto the table leg and managed to regain his feet, but he seemed dazed and unsteady as he followed her into the bedroom. He sat heavily on the edge of her double brass bed, and she saw again the ominous gray under his tan, the faint sheen of moisture on his forehead.

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked.

"No," he said, and keeled over sideways onto the pillows.

Delilah made a small whimpering sound of exasperation and pondered the fully dressed form of the man—a total stranger, for Pete’s sake. Then she sighed and reached for a booted foot. There was no way she was going to put all that mud and blood onto her clean sheets.