Delilah's Weakness (22 page)

"Luke?" She put up a hand to touch his face and found it wet. Sweat, she thought fuzzily.
It isn’t hot. Why is he sweating?

"Yes, love, I’m here."

"Don’t go ‘way," she muttered groggily. "Don’ want you to leave…"

"I don’t intend to." His words were muffled from the effort as he stood with her in his arms. She wasn’t absolutely certain that he added, "Ever again."

The trip down the mountain was an experience Delilah hoped to forget as soon as possible, but she knew it would probably remain etched in her memory for the rest of her life. She had to sit crossways on the front seat of the pickup, her back against the passenger door and her air–splinted leg cradled in Luke’s lap. He drove as carefully as he could, but her pickup could be counted on to find and magnify every crack, pebble, and pothole in the road. Delilah thought of her ancestors and tried to be stoic.

They recited nursery rhymes, finally, to take her mind off the ordeal. It was Luke’s idea, and Delilah was surprised to discover he could remember a good many more than she could.

"How’d you know that?" she asked after he had finished a ditty about someone who stepped in a puddle up to his middle and never went to Gloucester again. Her head was resting against the cold window glass; she watched him from under eyelids too heavy to open more than halfway.

He glanced at her, as he did every few seconds, as if to assure himself she was still with him. "I don’t know," he mumbled evasively. "Guess I must have picked ‘em up from my sister. Hey—" He threw her a twisted grin. "Here’s one I bet you know. ‘Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool?’"

"‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full,’" Delilah sing–songed dutifully.

She was thinking, though, that he looked awful. She must have scared him to death. Or maybe it was just that he couldn’t stand seeing anyone in pain. Anyone at all…

** ** **

There was a shadow made by a Venetian blind on the wall. Delilah didn’t have Venetian blinds.

"Where am I?" she muttered without much originality, frowning because it seemed very late, long past chore time, and she’d overslept again. She struggled to sit up and encountered resistance. Her left arm was strapped to something and connected by a tube to an upside–down bottle of clear liquid. The tube ended in a needle, which was inserted in the back of her hand and held firmly in place with a crisscross of white tape.

"What’s this?" she asked of no one in particular, and was surprised to get a reply.

"That’s an IV drip," a nurse informed her cheerfully, coming around from behind the bed. "Let’s see…antibiotics and glucose—for infection and fluid replacement. My, you have had a time of it, haven’t you, hon? Looks like you have a compound fracture. But you’re going to be just fine."

"Fine," Delilah said hoarsely. She remembered it all now. How could she be just fine, when there were nearly three hundred sheep up on a mountainside depending on her for food and water? What in heaven’s name was she going to do?
If only Luke was here…

Luke.

She remembered everything about him too. Pain knifed through her, eclipsing even the dull throbbing ache in her left leg.
Oh, Luke… Damn you! Where are you when I need you?

"Your breakfast is here," the nurse said kindly. "Feel like you can eat something this morning?"

Delilah shrugged, and mumbled, "Sure." It was all she could trust herself to say. Tears seemed very close to the surface.

The nurse smiled at her and went out. Soon after, Delilah could hear some sort of commotion taking place outside in the hallway—low–voiced arguing, some scuffling sounds. The nurse came back in, looking flustered.

"You have a visitor," she said, sounding affronted. "It isn’t visiting hours, but he insists—"

"Luke?" Delilah’s heart skittered wildly, and she lifted one hand to her hair in an automatic and purely feminine reaction. But the voice that was raised in indignation and authority was dry and precise, with none of the warmth and spine–tingling dissonances of Luke’s.

"I have come," Andrew Beaumont announced, "to see my daughter. And I mean to see my daughter!"

"Daddy?" Delilah’s voice emerged sounding thin and childish. She stared incredulously at the man who had pushed his way past the stainless–steel breakfast trolley and into her room—a slightly–built man with a nut–brown, deeply lined face and shrewd blue eyes. She swallowed hard, and whispered. "Daddy."

Her heart was pounding. Incredible, she thought. She was a grown woman, had been independent for years. How was he still able to intimidate her like this?

"What are you doing here? How did you—"

"Luke MacGregor called me. Last night. Rather late, as a matter of fact."

"Luke…" Delilah’s throat felt cramped and stiff. She cleared it futilely. "Is he––?"

"He said to tell you he’s gone home." Judge Beaumont passed the message on to her with characteristic precision. "And he also said to tell you not to worry about your sheep. He’s taken care of everything."

"He would," she muttered. "He…um…he said exactly that? That he’d gone home?"

"Exactly." Her father eyed her keenly. "I take it that has some significance for you?"

"Yes," she said, staring miserably at the ceiling. "It does."

So Luke had taken her at her word. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again, and it looked as if she never would. She wondered who he’d found to take care of her sheep.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? Under the haystack, fast asleep.

"Um…would you like to sit down?" she asked politely, indicating the one straight–backed chair in the tiny room.

The judge waved a hand, rejecting her offer. "I’ve been driving all night. I believe I’d rather stand." He folded his arms and regarded her with the critical, measuring stare she remembered so vividly. "You look very well, considering. I understand the sheep business is going well."

"It was." she said with a snort of painful laughter. "This accident pretty well tears it. By the time I pay someone to take care of things, the medical bills––"

Her father lifted his brows. "You’re covered by insurance, if that helps."

"Insurance?" She frowned at him. "I’m not. I’ve never—"

"I’ve always kept you adequately covered," Andrew said in his matter–of–fact way. "You’ve always been so headstrong, it was only a matter of time before you got yourself into trouble."

"You’ve covered me with medical insurance? Why? I’m twenty–six years old."

"Why?" He looked taken back. "Well, because you’re my daughter. I kept you on my policy all through college, of course, and then later… I was quite certain you wouldn’t have your own insurance, under the circumstances—Delilah, what is the matter?"

Delilah was laughing. Not with joy, or humor, but silently and painfully. "Oh, Lord," she breathed, covering her eyes with her unfettered hand. "And I thought I was so self–sufficient. So independent."

"I know. You’ve always tried to be. Even when you were a small child. It has made you somewhat difficult at times, ‘Lilah."

It was the first time he’d ever called her that.
No one calls me that…except Luke.

She slowly uncovered her eyes. Her father was standing with his back to her. His voice seemed strange, almost sad. After a moment he went on, as if delivering a pre–sentencing lecture. "However, I trust someday you’ll learn that no one is ever completely independent."

"Funny," she said, and her father turned to look at her, raising his brows interrogatively. "Someone else told me the same thing recently."

No, she wasn’t an island, and she wasn’t independent. She never had been.

She shut her eyes tightly, but tears squeezed under her lids and trembled on her eyelashes. She heard her father stir restlessly and tried to laugh, knowing tears would scare him to death. But instead of laughter, her voice came out in a watery squeak. "Daddy––"

She felt him move to her bedside, hesitant and stiff. When he patted her hand she clutched his unashamedly, knowing it was probably all she was going to get from him. She was stunned when he leaned over, awkwardly, and kissed her forehead. She gave a startled gasp and held very still, hardly breathing, while an ache she had carried around with her for most of her life faded slowly away. She understood at last. He did love her. He’d never been able to tell her so, or demonstrate it with signs of affection, and he probably never would. But he loved her.

"Daddy," she said with a sniff,  pulling away to stare at him, "you’re wearing a hat."

The judge took the floppy–brimmed blue thing off, looked fondly at it, fingered a few of the flies that decorated its crown, and jammed it back onto his head. And then, to Delilah’s complete amazement, he grinned. "My fishing hat," he explained with a rather touching air of pride.

"Fishing?"

"My dear, you are obviously not aware that you are living in the middle of one of the richest trout fisheries in California."

"No," she said faintly. "I guess I’m not." The idea of her father fishing, or enjoying any form of relaxation, was mind–boggling.

"There has been a recent development," Andrew said with satisfaction, giving his hat a pat, "which has cleared my calendar for a few days. I intend to get in some serious fishing." He tugged the sleeve of his jacket up and peered at his watch. "I’ll be going. I’ve upset the nurses enough for one day, but I suspect I will be allowed to see you again tomorrow––at the proper time."

After her father left, Delilah had the strange experience of weeping copiously and smiling, even laughing a bit, at the same time. She’d never been such an emotional basket case. With all that was going on inside her, she barely noticed the ache of her broken leg.

How ironic, she thought, that she should finally rid herself of an old, old hurt, just in time to have it replaced with a new one. But it wasn’t an even trade. The old hurt had been familiar, dull, like a faithful companion that could be ignored a good deal of the time. The new one was raw and insistent—a vibrant, Technicolor intruder.

Luke, you rat. How could you do this to me? How could you make me love you, and need you so much, and then go off and leave me all alone?

** ** **

"Well. Don’t we look nice this morning." The nurse seemed oddly flustered. "I see we’re all checked out and released. Aren’t you happy to be going home?"

"Yeah," Delilah said without conviction. "Happy."

Why not? Her leg was mending without complications, she’d been okayed for crutches and was learning to get around on them fairly well. Life was a bowl of cherries. Her father had stopped in to see her briefly every day before going off to try some new stream. Mara Jane and Roy had come and brought flowers. They all told her how fine everything was. There was nothing whatsoever for her to worry about except getting well. To Delilah they all seemed evasive and edgy, like lousy poker players with great hands.

"Well," the nurse said, beaming nervously, "I’m glad to see you’re ready to go, because someone’s here already to get you." She opened the door. "You can come in, sir. She’s all ready."

Delilah was wryly amused to know she wasn’t the only one intimidated by the judge.

But it wasn’t her father who walked into the room. She stared in shock at the man, and after a moment the nurse cleared her throat and backed out the door. "I’ll go find a wheelchair," she muttered breathlessly, and fled.

No wonder she’s nervous, Delilah thought. Her own stomach had climbed into her throat and was sitting on top of her voice box. She cleared her throat and swallowed in a vain effort to dislodge the lump.

Dear Lord, he really is beautiful.

At last she managed to say faintly, "Luke. What’re you doing here?"

He was wearing a sweater, some sort of light cable knit, and jeans. He needed a haircut—the thick, glossy chestnut hair was beginning to creep down the back of his neck. She decided she liked it that way.

He stood near the foot of the bed, tapping his fingers restlessly on her bed tray and studying her with a narrowly focused black gaze. "What does it look like?" he said finally, sounding surly. "I’ve come to take you home."

"I don’t understand. I thought my father—"

"The judge has discovered a stock of native Sierra golden trout in your creek. He was kind enough to lend me his car."

"His car?" Delilah said with a squeak, utterly confused.

Luke smiled for the first time, the lopsided way. "Well, I could hardly take you home in the Hulk, could I?"

She shook her head, more to clear it of confusion than in agreement. "My creek? But I thought—Has he been staying at my place?"

"Yes," Luke said, watching her warily. "I gave the judge your bed. After one night on that couch of yours I moved back out to the barn. Of course," he added blandly, "we’ll have to change the sleeping arrangements now that you’re coming home."

"Home," Delilah echoed. "Then… you’ve been taking care of my sheep? Everything?"

"Well, the judge and I have, yeah."

She wondered if she could be having a nightmare. The idea of Andrew Beaumont tending sheep was so fantastic, it was disorienting, even a little frightening, like having normal, familiar objects turn into something weird and alien.

"Why didn’t someone tell me?" she whispered. "I mean—my father, Mara Jane, Roy—they all knew, and they didn’t tell me?"

"Well," Luke said with gravel in his voice, "they probably weren’t sure how you’d take it. The last time we talked, you gave me twenty–four hours to get out of town, remember? You do have a reputation for stubbornness."

"Stubborn! Who’s stubborn? The last time I saw
you
, you were trying to fly a broken–down airplane out of a sheep pasture! Of all the stupid, nitwitted things to do! Almost killed us both!"

"Whoa. The fault for that accident is debatable. If you hadn’t been so ready to jump to conclusions, fly off the handle—"

"Me! What other conclusion could I jump to? What are you hanging around for, anyway, guilt? You got what you wanted. Why in hell don’t you just go!"

"You still don’t get it, do you?" He was bending over her, one hand braced on either side of her pillow, his face dark and angry. "Talk about nitwits! You’ve had all this time to think about it and you still haven’t figured it out?"