The Gentling (4 page)

❧

On the way home Katy thought about Jane's indignant outburst. She hadn't meant to give the impression that she thought herself inferior to the Barnetts. She didn't. At least not in the ways that mattered. But neither did she fool herself into thinking they were on an equal footing. The Barnetts, and their kind, had a very definite advantage over ordinary people, an advantage they did not hesitate to use—power and influence. Katy had learned, the hard way, that without it you were helpless and vulnerable. She also knew that theirs was a closed society. They socialized only with people within their own circle, and they married only their own kind. And if one of their group was threatened, the other members of the pack closed ranks around them. You didn't stand a chance if you crossed swords with people like the Barnetts.

Katy drove home automatically, her mind occupied with her gloomy reflections. It was not until she turned into the drive that she realized her thoughts had once again strayed to Trace. Stop it! she told herself harshly. Stop thinking about him! The man was becoming an obsession. And why, she didn't know. It had been four days since that evening she had arrived home to find him waiting on the porch.

On the surface, nothing he had done or said that night could be faulted. Not really. Was it all just her imagination? Katy laughed in sudden self-derision. Maybe she was just becoming vain. Had she become so accustomed to fending off men that she automatically assumed every one she met was going to make a pass? Lord, surely she hadn't become as self-absorbed as all that!

No, Katy assured herself firmly as she climbed from the car. That look in his eyes, and the silky, sensuous tone of his voice when he spoke to her hadn't been a product of her imagination. But now that she'd had time to think about it, she realized his flirtatious manner probably didn't mean a thing. She had forgotten, for a while, that Trace and his crowd played by a different set of rules. It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every passably attractive woman he met. It was instinctive, an automatic reflex. It meant no more to him than blinking. Once he had walked out the door, he had probably forgotten all about her. Fool that she was, she'd spent the last four days worrying and fretting over how she was going to discourage him without jeopardizing her father's job, when if she'd just given it a little serious thought, she would have realized that the whole thing was ludicrous.

Katy unlocked the front door and stepped inside, then leaned back against the panel and closed her eyes. So why wouldn't this crawly feeling go away? a tiny voice whispered.

When her father's truck pulled into the drive Katy was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. The sleeves of her blue and red plaid shirt were rolled up to her elbows, revealing the delicate bones of her wrists and forearms. Faded jeans hugged her hips and thighs like a soft second skin. Her raven-black hair was sleeked away from her face and held at her nape by a tortoise-shell clasp.

The front screen door banged against its frame. Katy didn't even look up. "Hi, Dad. I'm out here in the kitchen," she called over her shoulder.

"Whatever you're cooking smells delicious." Tom poked his head inside the kitchen door and smiled coaxingly. "I hope it will stretch to three. I invited Trace home to share our dinner."

It took a moment for his words to soak in. When they did, Katy turned slowly, her eyes wide with shock. She stared at her father, unable to believe what she'd heard. Then her gaze slid past him and collided with a pair of glinting hazel-green eyes, and the color slowly drained from her face.

A mocking, half smile played around one corner of Trace's mouth. His amused expression told her he was well aware of her dilemma.

"I hope this isn't an inconvenience, Katy. If it is, please feel free to say so." His tone was very polite, very proper, but Katy knew he was taunting her. Trace was quite obviously enjoying her discomfort.

"Nonsense, nonsense," her father cut in. Sniffing appreciatively, he stepped over to the stove and inspected the bubbling pots. "Katy is frying chicken, and she always cooks twice what we need. Now, come on. It's all settled." He motioned for Trace to follow as he started toward the door. "I'll show you where you can wash up, then I'll fix us a drink before dinner."

Katy stared at the two broad, retreating backs. How could he do this? How could he? Her father knew how she felt! But more important, he knew perfectly well that a man in his position simply did not invite someone like Trace home for dinner. Why, old Henry would have had apoplexy had he even suggested such a thing!

The small table set beneath the back window drew her eyes, and she groaned. She didn't suppose Trace had ever eaten in a kitchen in his life. Flooded with a feeling of helplessness and frustrated anger, Katy jerked open a cabinet and snatched a plate from the stack. She rummaged through the cutlery drawer for the proper utensils, then marched across the room and banged the items down on the table. Well, if he intends to eat here, he'll have to, she thought angrily. They didn't even have a dining room!

When Trace reappeared, Katy was standing at the stove, gently turning each piece of chicken, exposing the golden brown crust that had already formed on one side. She kept her eyes on the bubbling oil.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barnett, if my father's invitation put you in an awkward position or embarrassed you in any way," she stated stiffly.

There was a short pause before Trace replied. "I'm neither embarrassed nor did I feel any particular obligation to accept your father's invitation. I never do anything I don't want to do." He stared at her coolly, his head cocked to one side. "I would never have thought you were an inverted snob, Katy Donovan."

The needling taunt stiffened her spine. She held her head high and turned to face him. "You must surely know that your father would not even have considered coming to this house for dinner. And if my father had been foolish enough to extend an invitation, I have no doubt he would have been put in his place, very quickly and very firmly." Katy's soft voice was trembling with icy indignation. How dare he call her a snob!

The hazel eyes narrowed ominously. "One thing you'd better learn, Katy, and learn quickly. I am not my father." The low fury in his voice sent a shiver through her. "We saw eye to eye on practically nothing. So whatever preconceived notions you've formed about me, you can just throw out the window. I won't be tarred with the same brush, Katy. I'm my own man."

Confused by the harshness of his words and his determination to make her believe them, Katy mumbled a quick, "I'm sorry," and turned back to the stove. As she opened the oven door and slid in the tray of biscuits she felt his eyes boring a hole in her back. Finally, without a word, he turned and walked back into the living room.

A few minutes later her father bustled into the kitchen to prepare the drinks he had promised. Katy turned on him. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"How could you do this, Dad? You knew I didn't want that man here. How could you?"

The anguish in her voice brought his movements to a halt. He put down the two glasses he had taken from the cupboard and turned to her. Big, paw-like hands cupped around her face to tilt it up for his inspection. Smiling down into her troubled eyes, he saw the fear and anxiety there and shook his head sadly.

"Oh, Katy, Katy." He sighed heavily. "Dariin', Trace won't hurt you. He's a good man. Can't you see that? Why, over the past week he has earned the respect and admiration of every man on the place." Tom's weathered brow creased with worry as he searched her face. Lowering his voice, he spoke to her soothingly, tenderly. "Believe me, sweetheart, if I didn't know I could trust him, I wouldn't let him near you."

Katy swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. Her chin quivering, she stared at a button on the front of his shirt. "All right, Dad. I won't say any more. It's too late now to do anything about it anyway."

The meal, and the rest of the evening, passed very smoothly, despite Katy's jittery nerves. Trace and her father consumed their food with the hearty appreciation of men who have spent the day out of doors doing physical labor. Katy barely touched hers. The talk centered around the farm—which mares were due to foal, which pastures were in need of attention, the cost of grain. It was strictly man talk and she was happy to sit back and let it all wash over her.

After the meal Katy served the men their coffee in the living room, then returned to the kitchen to do the washing up, grateful for the excuse to escape. She washed each dish carefully and slowly to draw out the chore as long as possible. As her hands went about the familiar task she stared past her reflection in the window at the dark shadows of the woods behind the house.

A storm was building up in the distance. Above the bare branches the sky glowed intermittently with eerie flashes of white as lightning streaked downward from a livid line of black clouds. Katy eyed it hopefully. If it moved this way, perhaps Trace would leave.

She sighed as she placed the last dish in the drain rack and pulled the stopper from the sink. What was the reason for his sudden friendly attitude? She thought about his taut anger when she had apologized for her father's presumptuousness in inviting him here. Was that it? Was he trying to demonstrate that he was not a carbon-copy of his father, that he had no intention of following his lead? If so, was he doing it out of sheer obstinacy, a determination to go against his father's wishes? Or did he really want to develop a better working relationship with his employees?

Henry Barnett's haughty lord of the manor attitude had always irritated Katy. Her father liked it no better than she, but he managed to shrug it off. He knew his worth, and he loved this farm and his work too much to be bothered by his employer's social prejudices. Thomas Donovan had a way with animals, particularly horses. He had worked with them all his life, both in Ireland and the states, and his knowledge and experience were unsurpassed. Henry Barnett had not liked him, had thought him too proud by far for a mere working man, but he had been no one's fool. He had known exactly what kind of manager he had in Tom Donovan.

Katy supposed she should be grateful that Trace treated her father with the respect and deference his age and experience deserved. Drying her hands, she hung the towel on the rack in the pantry. The low rumble of male voices drew her gaze toward the living room, and her lips compressed into a bitter line. At least with Henry they hadn't had to worry about him dropping in any time it suited him.

There was hardly a pause in the conversation when Katy entered the room and slipped quietly into a chair. She doubted that either man had even noticed her presence, which, for some perverse reason, annoyed her intensely.

While they continued their discussion about the work schedule and the various changes Trace wanted to make around the farm, Katy took a half-finished needlepoint pillow cover from her sewing basket and concentrated fiercely on the in and out movements of the needle she was stabbing through the canvas. She was making an absolute mess of it. Tomorrow she would have to pick out every single stitch. Tonight, however, she needed something to divert her attention, anything that would keep her gaze from straying to the large, lean man across the room.

He gestured with his hand suddenly and Katy glanced up, her eyes drawn by the movement. She studied him thoughtfully through the long sweep of her lashes. He sat deep in the chair, his long legs stretched out lazily in front of him, one arm hooked casually over the back. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned, muscular forearms, covered with a generous sprinkling of short, light hair, bleached almost white by constant exposure to the sun. Irresistibly, her gaze traveled over his long, powerful body, noting the way his jeans were molded over his narrow hipbones, the curling chest hair visible at the V-shaped opening of his shirt, the breadth of his shoulders. It seemed to her there was a careless sensuality in his every move. When her gaze lifted to his firm, masculine lips an icy shiver feathered up her spine, and she tore her eyes away.

Katy frowned down at the hopelessly knotted canvas in her lap. What was there about Trace? All evening long her gaze had been drawn to him, like steel to a magnet. It was unnerving. Why was she so intensely aware of him? Most men she simply ignored, their presence never penetrating the icy shield she had formed around herself. But somehow Trace had. And she didn't like it. Since that moment in the cemetery, almost a week ago, when she had looked up and met those glittering hazel eyes, her defenses had begun to crack.

It was a little after ten when the rumble of thunder began to make itself heard. The sound drew Trace's attention and he rose, reluctantly.

"I guess I'd better be going. If I don't leave now, I'll be caught in the deluge." At the door he turned back and gave Katy a slow smile. "Thank you again, Katy, for a delicious meal. I enjoyed it." His gaze shifted to her father. "Tom, I'll see you at the stables in the morning."

Katy and her father barely had time to say a quick good night and he was gone. The suddenness of his departure and his casual, almost distant attitude toward her all evening left her slightly bemused, a feeling that was rapidly replaced by relief.

❧

Two hours later Katy lay staring at the ceiling above her bed, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. She couldn't sleep, and she knew why. Every time she started to drift off, she was haunted by a pair of taunting hazel-green eyes, laughing at her. As much as she hated to admit it, Katy knew Trace was responsible for this indefinable, restless longing. For three years her normal sexual urges had been suppressed, anesthetized by shock. In that time she had felt nothing for any man—no pull of the senses, no heady awareness, not even dislike. She had been completely numb. But now, slowly and surely, Trace was pulling her out of that undemanding, unfeeling state, simply by the force of his presence. His raw masculinity was too potent to be ignored. It was awakening in her responses she did not want to feel, making her acutely aware of her own femininity. It didn't help to tell herself she didn't want a relationship with any man. Her healthy, young body simply would not listen.

She raised herself up on one elbow and punched her feather pillow into a soft cloud, but it didn't help ease the tension. Stifling a moan, she rolled onto her side and stared into the darkness. The small mantel clock in the living room had chimed two o'clock before her eyelids finally fluttered shut.