Paper Rose. Diana Palmer
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as she approached him. Even in her thick-heeled working boots, he was far taller than she was. She had on a checked man’s shirt and jeans. He’d never seen her wear anything revealing or feminine.
She handed him the invoice without meeting his eyes. “My stepdad said this was what you ordered, but to check with you before I unloaded it,” she said.
“Why does he always send you?” Tate asked the girl deliberately as he scanned the list.
“Because he knows I’m not afraid of you,” she said.
His black eyes lifted from the paper and met hers. They were scary sometimes; like a cobra’s, steady and intent and unblinking. They’d made her want to back away when she first met him. They didn’t frighten her anymore, though. He’d been tender with her, more than anyone in her life had ever been. She knew, as most other people locally didn’t, that there was more on the inside of Tate Winthrop than he ever allowed to show.
“Are you sure that you aren’t afraid of me?” he asked in a soft drawl.
She only smiled. “You wouldn’t slug me over a messed-up order,” she said dryly, because she’d heard that he did exactly that once, when her stepfather had neglected to bring the feed he’d ordered in a blizzard and he’d lost some calves because of it.
She was right. He would never hit Cecily for any reason. He took the pen from her and signed the invoice before he handed it back. “That’s everything I ordered, all right.”
“Okay,” she said brightly. “I’ll unload it.”
He didn’t say a word. He put out the cigar, stuck it back into his pocket and followed her to the truck.
She gave him a hard look. “I’m no cream puff,” she scoffed. “I can unload a few little bags of feed.”
“Sure you can.” He glanced at her and a smile lit his black eyes for a few seconds. “But you’re not going to. Not here.”
“Tate,” she groaned. “You shouldn’t be doing this! My stepfather ought to be here. If he’s going to run the place, why won’t he run it?”
“Because he’s got you to do it for him.” He stopped suddenly in the act of reaching for a heavy bag of fertilizer and stared at her intently. “What happened to your throat, Cecily?” he asked abruptly.
She put a hand to it, feeling the bruise there. She’d had her collar buttoned, but it had been too hot to keep it that way. She didn’t realize that it would show.
He took off his work gloves, tossed them into the bed of the pickup with the feed and began to unbutton her blouse.
“Stop that!” she exclaimed. “Tate, you can’t…!”
But he already had. His eyes blazed like black diamonds in fire. His hands gripped hard on the fabric as he saw the other bruises just at her collarbone, above the tattered little bra she wore—bruises like the imprint of a man’s fingers. His jaw clenched hard. It infuriated him to see bruises on that pale skin. It was almost as bad to see the state of her clothes—he knew that she hadn’t had anything new for a very long time. Presumably her stepfather kept her destitute, and probably on purpose so he wouldn’t lose his mainstay. His eyes shot back up to catch hers and held them relentlessly. She was flushed and biting her lip. “I won’t embarrass you any more than this, but you’re going to tell me if those same kind of bruises are on your breasts.”
Her eyes closed and tears slid past the closed eyelids. “Yes,” she bit off.
“Was it your stepfather?” he asked shortly.
She swallowed. Since she couldn’t meet his eyes, she merely nodded.
“Talk to me.”
“He was trying to feel me…there. He was always trying, even when he first married Mama. I tried to tell her, but she didn’t want to hear. He flattered her and they both liked to drink.” She folded her arms over her breasts. “Last night he got stinking drunk and came into my room.” She felt nauseated from the memory. “I was asleep.” She looked up at him with the repulsion she felt showing in her eyes. “Why are men such animals?” she asked with a cynical maturity far beyond her years.
“Not all of us are,” he replied, and his voice was like ice. He buttoned her blouse with a deftness that hinted of experience. “You don’t even have a proper bra.”
She flushed. “You weren’t supposed to see it,” she said mutinously.
He buttoned her up to her chin and then rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. They were good hands, lean and dark and warm and strong. She loved the feel of them.
“You aren’t being subjected to that sort of lechery again.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“You heard me. Come on. Let’s get this unloaded. Then we’ll talk and make decisions.”
A short time later, he had her by the hand and all but dragged her into the house. He pulled out a chair for her, poured coffee from a coffeemaker into a cup and put it in front of her.
Stunned by his actions, she sat and stared around her. She’d never been in his house, and it was surprising to find that it wasn’t at all what it appeared to be on the outside. It was full of electronic equipment, computers and laptops and printers, a funny-looking telephone setup and several short-wave radios. There was even a ham radio set. On the wall were collections of pistols and rifles, none of which looked like anything she’d ever seen.
The furnishings were impressive, too. She remembered then the whispers she’d heard about this reclusive man who was Lakota but didn’t live on a reservation, who had a mysterious background and an even more mysterious profession. Unlike many Lakota who were victims of prejudice, nobody pushed Tate Winthrop. In fact, most people around Corryville were a little afraid of him.
She glanced at his taciturn face, wondering why she’d been hijacked into his house. He usually signed the invoice, unloaded the supplies, and when they talked, it was always outside. Not that he didn’t watch her like a hawk when he was in town and she was anywhere around. Over the past year, he’d always seemed to be watching her. And today he’d seen the truth of her miserable home life all too starkly.
He sat down and leaned back in his chair. He dropped his hat on the floor and stared at her intently.
He made an angry sound and took another draw from the cigar. “Did he have you last night?” he asked bluntly.
She blushed violently and closed her eyes. It was useless not to tell him the truth. “He tried to,” she choked. “I hit him and he…grabbed me. He was pretty drunk, or I’d never have got away, even if I got pretty bruised doing it. He’d always bothered me, but it wasn’t until last night…” She lifted an anguished face to his. “I hid in the woods until he passed out, but I didn’t dare go back to sleep.” Her face tautened. “I’d rather starve to death than let him do it,” she bit off. “I mean it!”
He watched her quietly while the smoke from his cigar went sailing up into the fan. He’d seen enough of her to know that she never shirked her duties, never complained, never asked for anything. He admired her. That was rare, because he had a fine contempt for most women. Especially white ones. The thought of her stepfather assaulting her made him livid. He’d never wanted so badly to hurt a man.
He flicked ashes into a big glass ashtray and didn’t say anything for a minute or two.
She sipped coffee, feeling uncomfortable. He was still almost a stranger to her and he’d seen her in her underwear. It was a new, odd uneasiness she couldn’t remember feeling with anyone else, especially with another man.
“What do you want to do with your life, Cecily?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Be an archaeologist,” she blurted out.
His eyebrows arched. “Why?”
“We