Delilah's Weakness (6 page)

He thoughtfully fingered the neat dental–floss stitchery in his scalp and began experimentally pushing buttons. Something in the electrical system, he thought. Shouldn’t be too difficult to pinpoint. That and the landing gear. With some welding equipment he could have the plane ready to fly again in no time at all. The trick would be to get it airborne from this pasture. He was no stunt pilot.

He gave his head a somber shake and reached for the phone. In a few minutes he was putting a call through to Mammoth.

"Mac! Hey, old buddy—" Pete’s thin, distant voice cracked, and there was a slight pause. "Hey, how the hell are you? Where the hell are you?"

Luke chuckled and settled back, amazed at the sting of emotion behind his own eyes. "I’m fine, Pete. Just fine. You wouldn’t believe it. Call it the luck of the MacGregors, I guess."

"Well, where are you? We got the call from the county mounties last night, but all they said was that you had made, quote, a successful emergency landing, end quote, and were okay. Why in hell didn’t you call?"

"I didn’t call because I was out cold—"

"What?"

"—and because this pasture doesn’t have a phone. At least it didn’t until
I
put one in it. I’m calling from the plane."

"You’re kidding. You spent the night in the plane?"

Luke laughed. "Hardly. Listen, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Any news?"

"Yeah. Good and bad. The bad news is, no dice on getting the drilling moratorium lifted. The good news is, we’ve finally got a hearing date—April seventeenth. Now, if we could just get a change of venue, or at least a different judge, we might have a chance. The way I see it, with Beaumont presiding again we might just as well pack it in."

"Maybe…" Luke said slowly. "Maybe not. Do me a favor, will you, Pete?"

"Another one? By the way, I hope you didn’t wipe out any sheep. Our policy doesn’t include sheep–collision insurance."

"Forget the blasted sheep. Just find out if Judge Beaumont has a daughter, will you?"

"Right––A what?"

"
Daughter
. As in female offspring."

"Gotcha. I think. What do I do when I find out?"

"Sit tight. I’ll be in touch."

"Okay. Oh, by the way, Glenna says to tell you she’s put away a bottle of champagne, and John saved the garter for you. He says he doesn’t know anybody who deserves it more."

Luke grinned. "Fat chance. So long, Pete. I’ll be talking to you."

He cradled the receiver and sat a few minutes longer, smoking and thoughtfully watching a small dark–haired figure in a red windbreaker clumping along the fence line in heavy rubber boots.

** ** **

An hour later Delilah was teetering on the next–to–last rung of a very old, very weathered wooden stepladder, her shins braced against the flat top step more for reassurance than for balance. She was trying to screw a large steel hook into the two–by–four that ran around the top of the outer cement block barn wall, under the eaves. It was proving unexpectedly difficult. Perspiration kept trickling into her eyes, stinging just enough to add one more aggravation to her general discomfort and irritability.

She was out of sorts and depressed, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to understand. Was it anger toward Luke MacGregor she was feeling, or was it fear? Fear of failure, maybe? Or fear that it wasn’t going to be worth it after all—that she would wake up some morning and find she’d been chasing the wrong rainbow?

"What are you doing now?"

The voice from below shot through her like a bolt of electricity, startling her so badly that she tottered and clutched wildly at the roof's overhang.

"Lord…" she muttered under her breath, and closed her eyes briefly. "Don’t sneak up on a person standing on a ladder!"

"Sorry. I didn’t know I was sneaking. I made enough noise, but you must have been a million miles away. What were you thinking about?" His smile was seductive.

Probably habit for him, she thought, and damned unnerving in the middle of a bright and windy March morning. Or was it still morning? Her stomach had begun to churn again. She pressed her fingers to her lips and cleared her throat.

"I was trying," she said carefully, "to think of a way to get electricity into this barn." She gave the hook another quarter turn, then abandoned the effort and turned around to sit on the top of the ladder, hugging her knees to her chest. Looking down at him from this height made her feel safer. And also made her conscious of her vulnerability.

His smile had slipped sideways into a wry grin, almost as if he’d followed her train of thought. Delilah gave herself a vigorous mental shake and started warily down the ladder. To her great relief, Luke stayed where he was, a few feet away, his arms crossed on his chest, not moving to steady the ladder for her descent.

"I’m curious," he said when she was back on solid footing, both physically and emotionally. "Why do you want electricity in a barn, when you don’t even have heat in your bathroom?"

"It’s my lambing barn," she explained, brushing splinters out of the seat of her pants. "It’s hard to hold a flashlight and assist a ewe in labor at the same time. I could also use a heat lamp to dry the lambs. The weaker ones can get chilled on especially cold nights."

"I would have thought lambs were bred for that sort of weather," Luke commented. "Whereas you weren’t. Don’t you get cold?"

"I’m not generally wet. You’d be surprised at how much moisture a coat of lamb’s wool can hold. And you’d be surprised how warm a barn full of sheep can get. Even with the windows open on the coldest nights it can be like a sauna. That’s another reason I’d like electricity—I’d install a fan to circulate the air."

"Sounds like your sheep will have it better than you do," he said dryly. "Can I see inside?"

"Sure." She gave him a skeptical, sideways glance, wondering what interest a corporation president could possibly have in her barn. When she looked at him, though, her breath got hung up in her throat.
Darn.
It wasn’t only a beautiful face, it was a nice face, reflecting only cheery curiosity. She cleared her throat and muttered, "Be my guest."

She opened the door and waved him inside. He stopped beside her and his brown eyes subtly changed shape, becoming lethal, black–fringed weapons again. His hand touched the side of her head briefly, almost casually, the tips of his fingers threading through her hair, the heel of his hand resting at the hinge of her jaw. Then he smiled and moved on past her, and strolled down the wide center aisle between rows of stalls, hands in hip pockets, taking in everything with his sweeping, interested glance.

Delilah followed, answering questions without self–consciousness. She was proud of her barn. She’d designed it herself, and even if she hadn’t been able to afford the luxuries of running water and electricity, it was built to suit her specifications.

"Twenty stalls," Luke observed. "You said you have ninety–some–odd ewes. How do you manage?"

"Well, they won’t all lamb at once. I only have three rams. It would be physically impossible."

"Oops." Luke chuckled. "You can tell I’m not a farm boy." He turned away, frowning up at the rafters. "Just how do you propose to bring in electricity, by the way?"

"Nothing fancy. I mean to run a heavy–duty extension cord from the house. I haven’t figured out exactly how, yet, but I’ve still got a week to work it out."

Luke squinted thoughtfully at her and said, "Uh–huh." He moved on down the center aisle to the door at the far end, opened it for an investigative look, then pushed it wide and stood in the doorway gazing out. Delilah knew that vista—it was her favorite. Beyond the pinkish–gray skeletons of the apple trees was the pale greenish brown of the winter pasture, and beyond that the dun–colored hills, just showing the green of new grass and dotted with juniper, sage, and yucca. And the most breathtaking sight of all, the ice–blue backdrop of the Sierras, the eastern escarpment that rises sharply from below sea level to some of the highest peaks on the continent. The sight of her flock grazing peacefully in its shadow never failed to give Delilah’s heart a lift.

"I guess the fattest ones are the most pregnant," Luke said.

"Not necessarily. Looks can be deceiving. Some may be carrying twins or triplets, and some just get bigger than others."

"Then, how do you tell when it’s time to bring them into the barn? I don’t suppose they tell you."

"I keep records, of course." Delilah said, realizing the conversation was going to take a rather embarrassing turn, but not knowing how to divert it. "Breeding records. So I know within a few days when a ewe is due to lamb. But the most reliable method is to check… um, udder development."

"I see," Luke said, absolutely straight–faced. "And how do you accomplish that?"

She drew in a deep gulp of sage–scented air. "As a matter of fact, it needs to be done now. But I thought you needed to get to a telephone. Don’t you want—"

"I’m in no hurry." He tucked his hands in his hip pockets and grinned. "I wouldn’t miss this for anything."

"What about lunch? You didn’t eat breakfast. Don’t you—"

"I went in and made myself a sandwich while you were fixing the fence. I hope it was all right—I didn’t want to trouble you. I found what was left of a chicken."

"Umpf," Delilah mumbled. That chicken would have made two meals for her. "All right," she said with resignation. "I’ll get them into the pen."

As she poured grain in a long, thin trail the entire length of the four wooden troughs in the holding pen, she gave her long, high call. Immediately Lady appeared from nowhere and went streaking off across the pasture. Imperious black heads were lifted and a general stampede toward the pen began, encouraged and controlled by the scurrying little tricolored dog.

As the flock thundered through the gate and spread out along the troughs, Delilah was busy unrolling a length of wire fence–fabric across the end of the pen closest to the pasture. She tied the gate shut with a length of baling twine. There were now about twenty animals in this smaller enclosure. She walked slowly through the busily masticating sheep, checking numbers painted on woolly backs, glancing at numbered and colored ear tags. Singling out one ewe she knew should be among the first to lamb, she hooked an arm across and under the animal’s neck and grabbed the hard bony black head with her other hand, forcing the nose up. The ewe’s angry bolt carried them both a few feet before Delilah managed to brace herself and pull the black nose even higher. Now she could control the direction of the ewe’s flight, and she wrestled her up broadside against the fence, pinning her there with a knee against her flank. Using the whole weight of her body to hold the animal, she leaned sideways, still keeping one arm around the ewe’s neck, and reached back under the round belly to the smaller roundness between the hind legs. A moment later she stepped away, and the ewe dashed back to the trough.

Delilah turned, only slightly out of breath, to find Luke watching her with something close to horror. She felt an unexpected surge of exhilaration.

He coughed and shook his head. "And you go through that ninety–five times?"

"Oh," Delilah said blithely, waving her hand, "not all at once. I only check the ones I know are close to lambing." She was showing off—blatantly. And it was fun.

"Can I help?"

She laughed with sheer delight. "Be my guest! Uh…that one there, with the blue ear tag. Number 907." Number 907 was a big purebred Suffolk two–year–old, and this was her first lambing. She wasn’t used to being handled. Delilah folded her arms on her chest and watched with gleeful anticipation as the president of Thermodyne stepped confidently up to the ewe and placed his arms around the woolly neck.

"Better get her nose up," Delilah said helpfully, but of course it was already too late. Number 907 had put her head down and was charging full–tilt across the pen. Luke swore violently and briefly, and let go. He came hobbling back to the fence, muttering under his breath.

"Damn thing stepped on my foot," he said with a growl, glaring accusingly at Delilah. "What was that, a renegade? I can’t believe you can handle that animal."

Delilah, enjoying herself hugely, calmly stepped into the milling flock, corralled number 907 and pinned her against the fence. After checking her udder, Delilah released her and smiled up at Luke’s incredulous face.

"It isn’t a matter of strength," she told him soothingly. "It would take a bulldogger to stop a Suffolk with its head down. The trick is to get the nose up. That way the sheep can’t get any momentum, and probably can’t see where it’s going, either."

"Well," Luke grumbled, nursing his bruised instep and a more severely battered ego, "this seems like an unnecessary amount of trouble to go through for animals that are supposed to run loose out on the range, holding their own against weather and predators. I can’t believe real sheepmen nursemaid their flocks with custom–built maternity wards."

Delilah felt herself go rigid with anger. "I assure you I am a ‘real sheepman,’" she said coldly. "I can’t afford the thirty–to–fifty–percent lamb mortality rate you can expect under range conditions. Excuse me."

As she opened the gate to let the sheep in the partitioned enclosure back out into the pasture, she was conscious not only of anger, but of bitter disappointment. So, she thought, for all his charm he’s no different from any other man. They were ready with smiles and kisses just as long as their precious egos remained unthreatened, as long as a woman looked harmless and helpless. But let them meet up with a woman whose knowledge and expertise were superior to theirs in one of their male–dominated fields, and bingo! It was attack, no holds barred.
Damn. They’re all alike.

"Finished already?" Luke asked as Delilah began rolling up the makeshift partition.

"I’ll do it tomorrow," she replied shortly and pointedly. "When I have more time. I’m sure you’re eager to get to a
(your)
telephone."

He opened his mouth and closed it again, looking strangely guilty. She wondered briefly what he had meant to say, then put it out of her mind. It had nothing to do with her, and the sooner she got rid of him, the better.