Delilah's Weakness Read Free

squarely on their fat woolly backs. And that man wasn’t going to expire in her kitchen, not in the next half hour, anyway.
    Up in the pasture she could see her flock still huddled against the far fence while Lady stood patiently on guard, her jaws stretched in a tongue–lolling canine grin. Delilah squinted at the darkening sky, gauging the time left before full twilight, and went to retrieve her glove from the wheelbarrow. Two more armloads of hay filled the barrow to top–heavy unwieldiness. She gathered her strength and pushed it doggedly uphill to the pasture gate. It was too muddy in the pasture for the heavy wheelbarrow, so she made several trips to deposit the hay in small piles across the lower end of the pasture.
    "Okay, Lady, bring ‘em down!" she called, and added the high–pitched and very distinctive cry she used to call the flock: "Shoo…
eee
!"
    As the flock came hurtling down the slope in a single– minded rush for the hay, Delilah leaned on the gate and counted, watching for signs of ill effects from the stampede. As the sheep settled in small, busy huddles, she walked slowly among them, her fingers trailing lightly over an occasional damp, dirty gray back marked with streaks of colored crayon and the remains of last autumn’s black numerals. Now and then a head was raised to stare at her—sleek black lop–eared Suffolk heads, with high–bridged, almost patrician noses, and the cold yellow sheepish stare, as flat and characterless as a stone. They all seemed fine. Some of them were so big they looked ready to give birth at any moment, but they were all fine—all ninety–five of them.
    Delilah released a shaky breath, only now aware of how worried she’d been, and went to feed the rams and milk the goats.
    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.

Chapter 2
    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