The Gentling

Katy Donovan listened to the preacher's pious voice drone on and on, her face a stoic mask. Head unbowed, hands thrust deep inside the pockets of her light, all-weather coat, she stood rigid beside her father, only remotely aware of the biting chill in the March wind or the group of subdued people around her. Overhead, a ragged layer of clouds scudded across the east Texas sky trailing an eerie pattern of fast moving shadows over the graveside mourners.

It had rained earlier, and the air was heavy with the pungent scents of pine and dank, rusty-red earth. From the woods surrounding the cemetery came the raucous cawing of a flock of crows.

"Dear Lord, we commit unto your keeping the soul of your faithful servant, Henry Alan Barnett," the preacher intoned pontifically. "Henry was a good man, Lord, a respected man. Loved by all, hated by none."

Katy stirred, and at once her father's hand tightened on her arm. On the opposite side of the grave, swathed completely in black and looking tragically beautiful, Saundra Barnett gave a soft cry as she clasped her hands together and lowered her blond head dolorously.

Katy watched her for a moment, then averted her eyes and stared across the glistening tombstones into the distance. A gusting breeze tore a strand of long black hair from the severe chignon at her nape and whipped it across her pale features. Absently, Katy tucked it back into place.

Suddenly watery sunshine broke through the clouds and glinted off the silver handles of the casket, drawing Katy's unwilling gaze. Her eyes narrowed as a surge of bitterness rose like bile in her throat.

Damn you, Henry Barnett, she screamed silently. May you burn in hell forever! Katy was shaking with the ferocity of her feelings, her pulse throbbing in her throat. Instantly regretting the crack in her composure, she took several deep breaths and forced every sign of anguish from her face.

The young widow stepped forward and placed her hand on the ornate casket. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," the preacher's sonorous voice chanted. "Blessed be the name of the Lord." With a sob, Saundra turned and flung herself into the arms of the broad-shouldered man at her side.

A grimace of distaste broke the cairn mask of Katy's features as she watched the theatrical display. She hadn't noticed the dark-suited man before, and now she wondered who he was. Saundra's latest lover, perhaps? The instant the thought popped into her head, she dismissed it. Not even Saundra would be that brazen. At the moment Katy couldn't see the man clearly. His head was bent over the petite blonde sobbing against his chest, while his hands moved consolingly over her heaving shoulders.

Then, without warning, he looked up. Deep-set hazel eyes locked with Katy's blue ones, and her heart crashed against her ribcage.

Trace! Good Lord! Trace Barnett had come home!

The burning intensity in that boldly familiar look tied Katy's stomach muscles into a hard knot. Shaken, she tore her eyes away and moved closer to her father, grasping his arm for support. Her knees seemed suddenly to have turned to water.

The preacher's voice droned mercifully to a halt, and and his deeply intoned Amen was echoed softly by the cluster of people around the flower-bedecked casket. As he stepped to Saundra's side, Katy turned and began to walk away.

"Katy girl, aren't you going to offer your condolences to the family?"

There was a cold remoteness about her when she turned to face her father, a blankness in the vivid blue eyes that was chilling. "No, Dad. This is as far as I go. I only came to the funeral for your sake."

"Katy, I—" Tom Donovan's voice faltered as a spasm of guilt crossed his craggy features. "I—"

Instantly Katy softened. Placing her hand on his arm, she smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about it, Dad. I understand. Really I do." She flicked a quick glance in Saundra's direction. "If you want to keep your job at the farm you can't afford to offend the new owner. So go ahead and do whatever you have to. I'll wait for you in the car."

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

❧

The compact car bounced along the twisting, red-dirt road at a fast clip. Through the bare branches overhead Katy could occasionally glimpse the cerulean sky, with its flotilla of puffy clouds. If today's spell of warm weather held, soon even that would not be possible. Within a few weeks the interlacing branches of oaks, elms, sweetgums and pecans would form a leafy canopy over the road.

As she rounded a curve, Katy spied a robin flitting through the trees at the edge of the road. Reacting instinctively, she eased her foot off the accelerator. The reduced speed allowed her gaze to wander briefly from the narrow country lane, and immediately a contented smile curved her mouth.

Signs of spring were all around. Every bare limb was covered with tiny buds. Among the undergrowth, tender pale green shoots were already visible, pushing up through the newly thawed earth and the layers of dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor. Snowy white drifts of flowering dogwood brightened the deepest shadows of the forest, and the pinkish-lavender blossoms of the redbud trees provided the first, breathtaking splashes of color.

The cool breeze blowing in through the open windows of th car was fragrant with the smell of newly turned earth. Katy reached up with one hand and released the clasp at the nape of her neck. A shake of her head sent her long, raven-black hair tumbling free. She laughed happily as the wind threaded teasing fingers through the thick, luxuriant mass of ebony and swirled it around her shoulders like a black silk cape.

Katy drove the private country road with the easy confidence of long experience. Her father had been the manager of Green Meadows Farm for the past fifteen years, and she knew every twist and turn, every pot hole. The road was the back entrance to the farm. It cut through the surrounding woods, then made a lazy, meandering loop past the scattered cottages of the married workers, before finally ending at the stables behind the Barnetts' big colonial mansion.

The forest thinned, then gave way to an open meadow. To the right, set far off the road, was the small white frame house where Katy had lived since she was a child of six. Braking, she turned in through the open gate. There was a double garage behind the house but Katy stopped the car beside the pickup in the wide drive. There was time enough later to put it away.

As she reached out to turn off the ignition a movement on the porch caught her eye, and bhe turned her head. Her hand froze in mid-air when she recognized the man standing there in the shadows.

A crawling, tingling sensation ran up over her scalp, making the hairs on her nape bristle. Damn! If only she'd been more alert, she might have seen him. Then she could have driven on and stayed away until he had gone. The blue pickup had not given her a clue, since it was one of the half dozen or so owned by Green Meadows Farm and identical to the one her father always drove. Katy stared at the tall, broad-shouldered man and silently berated herself for her carelessness. She had known, intuitively, that he would come.

A vague feeling of unease had nagged at her since seeing Trace yesterday at the funeral, but she had pushed it away. Foolishly she had allowed herself to be mesmerized by the signs of spring, lulled into a false sense of security and well-being. It was one of those soft, unseasonably warm days that completely beguiles the senses, and Katy had fallen so totally under its spell that she had forgotten all about Trace Barnett.

As she switched off the engine he moved out of the shadows and stood on the top step, watching her, tall and lean and infinitely dangerous looking. His stance was casual as he waited for her to join him, one arm propped against the porch post, the other on his hip, but Katy was aware that his eyes never left her.

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself, climbed from the car and started up the brick path on legs that were suddenly weak and rubbery. Though well aware that she was being subjected to a thorough, masculine appraisal, when Katy looked directly into those penetrating hazel eyes she almost reeled with shock. They gleamed with a frankly sensual interest which he made no effort to conceal. It was only through sheer strength of will that she was able to clamp down on her emotions and quell the cowardly urge to turn and run. Katy recognized the tingling feeling that raced up her spine for exactly what it was—pure, cold, mindless fear.

There was no specific reason for her fear of Trace. It was strictly a gut level feeling. She had known him nearly all her life, and yet, strangely, did not know him at all. He had been the owner's son, and she merely the daughter of the farm manager, and eleven years his junior. For years their lives had run along a parallel plane, existing at the same time, in the same place, with no point of contact between them. Yet she knew, instinctively, that Trace Barnett spelled danger. She had known that much when she had been only seventeen.

The promise of great beauty had become a reality about that time, and she had blossomed, almost overnight, from a gangly, skinny teenager into a breathtakingly lovely young woman. The transformation had not escaped Trace. During that year before he left the farm she had been aware of the long, speculative looks he directed her way. Cautious and reserved by nature, she had never once acknowledged the open invitation in those wicked hazel eyes. At seventeen she had been far too naive to know the reason for those warm, slumberous glances and that small crooked smile that had set her insides to quivering strangely. But she knew now.

Trace had never approached her openly, but had, nevertheless, managed to let her know that he found her very attractive. Though she had pretended not to notice, she had been both excited and frightened by his attention.

That was four years ago. Now all she felt was stark terror. It had gripped her yesterday at the graveside, when she glanced up and found him staring at her, his face alive with male interest. She had known then that if he stayed, this time he would do more than just look.

Katy forced herself to return his steady gaze as she neared the porch. Trace was the first to break eye contact, and she felt a small sense of victory until she realized that he was now conducting a leisurely inspection of her body, from her tousled black hair to the pink toes peeping out of her strappy sandals. The hot, searing look sent fresh tremors through her. Gritting her teeth, Katy took a deep breath and forced herself to speak.

"Hello, Mr. Barnett." Her soft voice was coated with a thin layer of ice.

Trace's eyes lifted slowly, lingering for just a fraction of a second on the full curves of her breasts, before returning to her face. He smiled. "Hello, Katy."

His voice was low and husky, giving the simple greeting the sensuality of a caress, and Katy stiffened, panic streaking through her. Her heart began to beat like a wild thing against her ribs.

What was it about Trace that disturbed her so? During the past four years she had met, and been unaffected by, a number of interested males. Oh, they had made her nervous and uneasy, but she had never allowed any of them to get close enough to stir the deep well of fear locked inside her. Yet Trace could do it with just a look.

At close quarters he was even more overwhelming than he had seemed yesterday when she had only seen him from a distance. Four years had added maturity to his face and intensified his rugged masculinity. He had the hard, chiseled look one associates with an outdoorsman. His nose was straight and well-modeled, his jaw strong. His lips were well-defined and firm, and when he smiled, they revealed strong, even teeth. Bronze skin was stretched taut and smooth over the prominent bones of his face, and there was a network of fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair was thick and springy, with a tendency to curl against his nape and over the top of his ears. His hazel eyes were deep-set and hooded, topped by thick, light brown brows and surrounded by short, almost white lashes. Trace was a tall, lean man, with broad shoulders, long legs, and narrow hips. And he was, above all, utterly and devastatingly male.

Katy's throat tightened painfully as she looked at him. He exuded an earthy sensuality that unnerved her, a raw, primitive virility that reached out and touched her, and made her skin prickle.

He was smiling at her, his eyes amused, as though he knew she found him disturbing. He was right, she did, though not in the way he probably thought. Katy lowered her gaze, afraid her eyes would give her away. Some men, she knew, were turned on as much by fear as by passion.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her house key. "I'm afraid my father is not here at the moment. If you'd like to leave a message for him, I'll see that he gets it as soon as he returns." A quiver shook her voice, but there was no mistaking the dismissal in her words.

Katy knew she was probably being very stupid, talking to him that way. Trace was now her father's employer. Yet she couldn't help herself.

Turning away, she inserted the key into the lock. She could see him out of the corner of her eye. Trace was watching her every move with disconcerting interest. She opened the door just a fraction, then hesitated, expecting him to take the hint and leave, but he didn't move. Katy gritted her teeth and looked back over her shoulder, a tight smile on her face. "In any case, I'll be sure and tell him that you came by."

To her surprise, Trace seemed to find her efforts to be rid of him amusing. Mocking laughter glittered in his eyes as he stepped closer and put his hand on the door. "If you don't mind, I'll wait," he said with the arrogant self-confidence of a man accustomed to getting his own way.

She stared at him for a moment, totally dismayed. Her heart began to pound. Oh, God! She didn't want him here! Couldn't he see that? Hazel eyes locked with hers, challenging, daring her to refuse him. Finally she nodded her head in stiff agreement, her mouth thin. "Of course. You're welcome to come in and wait," she lied.

"Thank you," he said dryly.

He motioned for her to precede him, and Katy stepped inside. Every nerve in her body seemed to jump when she heard the door click shut behind them. With jerky steps she walked across the room and placed her bag on an end table. Turning, she found that Trace had stopped just inside the door.

His stance was loose and casual, feet apart, hands stuck in the back pockets of his jeans. His head was thrown back and his eyes were scanning the room intently, noting the homey furniture, the pictures on the wall, the braided rug—every minute detail.

Katy watched him, puzzled by his interest. His gaze flickered back to her face and he smiled. "Do you know, I've never been in your home before?" He sounded surprised, as though it were something he had only just realized.

"Yes, I know," she replied bluntly. Of course he hadn't. Neither had his father nor his stepmother. The Barnetts were very class-conscious people. They didn't consider a mere employee their social equal. When Henry Barnett had wished to speak to her father, he had sent for him to come up to the big house. He would not have dreamed of lowering himself by going to his farm manager's home.

Katy edged toward the door leading into the hall. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, Mr. Barnett, I'll wash up. Then, if you'd like, I'll make some coffee."

Trace folded his long frame into an armchair and smiled. "Fine. Take your time."

In the bathroom Katy quickly washed her hands and ran a comb through her hair, studiously avoiding her pale reflection in the mirror. When she had restored order to her appearance she stood quietly for a moment and pressed her hand against her fluttering stomach. Finally she took a deep breath and retraced her steps, giving Trace a nervous smile as she walked through the living room.

"I'll just be a moment," she said, and quickly pushed through the kitchen door. When it swung shut behind her she closed her eyes and breathed a deep, shuddering sigh.

Barely knowing what she was doing, Katy automatically spooned ground coffee into the coffeepot's basket and filled the reservoir with water. She turned on the switch and watched distractedly as a thin stream of brown liquid slowly filled the glass pot. Her eyes darted toward the living room.

It was strange that in the end Trace had inherited Green Meadows Farm. Henry Barnett had declared repeatedly, and very forcefully, that he would not leave his maverick son one red cent. After quarreling violently with his father four years ago, Trace had walked out, and the old man had never forgiven him. No one knew exactly what the quarrel had been about but, as usual in a city the size of Tyler, the rumors were plentiful. Regardless of the cause, the split had been a serious one, and Trace had not returned to the farm until yesterday.

Katy recalled that when she was a child it had seemed as though Trace was constantly quarreling with his father over one thing or another. A wild one. That was what her father called him, though he said it with the affectionate tolerance of a man who had found a kindred soul.

For Thomas Patrick Donovan had also been a wild one in his time. A big bear of an Irishman, he had roamed the world footloose and fancy-free, working when he chose, drinking when he felt like it, and brawling just for the sheer fun of it. But Tom Donovan's wild days had come to an abrupt end when he met Kathleen O'Shea. Her delicate beauty and gentle ways had ensnared him as nothing else ever could, binding him to her with silken ties of love. He had, quite simply, adored her. After their marriage he had become a model husband and, a year later, a proud father.

Katy's eyes darted once again toward the living room. The same thing could happen to Trace, she supposed, though it didn't seem likely. She doubted that love for a woman would ever tame Trace Barnett. He still had that look of a maverick, a rebel, one who thumbs his nose at the world and goes his own way.