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
"‘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
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