The Gentling Read online

  Henry Barnett's haughty lord of the manor attitude had always irritated Katy. Her father liked it no better than she, but he managed to shrug it off. He knew his worth, and he loved this farm and his work too much to be bothered by his employer's social prejudices. Thomas Donovan had a way with animals, particularly horses. He had worked with them all his life, both in Ireland and the states, and his knowledge and experience were unsurpassed. Henry Barnett had not liked him, had thought him too proud by far for a mere working man, but he had been no one's fool. He had known exactly what kind of manager he had in Tom Donovan.

  Katy supposed she should be grateful that Trace treated her father with the respect and deference his age and experience deserved. Drying her hands, she hung the towel on the rack in the pantry. The low rumble of male voices drew her gaze toward the living room, and her lips compressed into a bitter line. At least with Henry they hadn't had to worry about him dropping in any time it suited him.

  There was hardly a pause in the conversation when Katy entered the room and slipped quietly into a chair. She doubted that either man had even noticed her presence, which, for some perverse reason, annoyed her intensely.

  While they continued their discussion about the work schedule and the various changes Trace wanted to make around the farm, Katy took a half-finished needlepoint pillow cover from her sewing basket and concentrated fiercely on the in and out movements of the needle she was stabbing through the canvas. She was making an absolute mess of it. Tomorrow she would have to pick out every single stitch. Tonight, however, she needed something to divert her attention, anything that would keep her gaze from straying to the large, lean man across the room.

  He gestured with his hand suddenly and Katy glanced up, her eyes drawn by the movement. She studied him thoughtfully through the long sweep of her lashes. He sat deep in the chair, his long legs stretched out lazily in front of him, one arm hooked casually over the back. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned, muscular forearms, covered with a generous sprinkling of short, light hair, bleached almost white by constant exposure to the sun. Irresistibly, her gaze traveled over his long, powerful body, noting the way his jeans were molded over his narrow hipbones, the curling chest hair visible at the V-shaped opening of his shirt, the breadth of his shoulders. It seemed to her there was a careless sensuality in his every move. When her gaze lifted to his firm, masculine lips an icy shiver feathered up her spine, and she tore her eyes away.

  Katy frowned down at the hopelessly knotted canvas in her lap. What was there about Trace? All evening long her gaze had been drawn to him, like steel to a magnet. It was unnerving. Why was she so intensely aware of him? Most men she simply ignored, their presence never penetrating the icy shield she had formed around herself. But somehow Trace had. And she didn't like it. Since that moment in the cemetery, almost a week ago, when she had looked up and met those glittering hazel eyes, her defenses had begun to crack.

  It was a little after ten when the rumble of thunder began to make itself heard. The sound drew Trace's attention and he rose, reluctantly.

  "I guess I'd better be going. If I don't leave now, I'll be caught in the deluge." At the door he turned back and gave Katy a slow smile. "Thank you again, Katy, for a delicious meal. I enjoyed it." His gaze shifted to her father. "Tom, I'll see you at the stables in the morning."

  Katy and her father barely had time to say a quick good night and he was gone. The suddenness of his departure and his casual, almost distant attitude toward her all evening left her slightly bemused, a feeling that was rapidly replaced by relief.

  ❧

  Two hours later Katy lay staring at the ceiling above her bed, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. She couldn't sleep, and she knew why. Every time she started to drift off, she was haunted by a pair of taunting hazel-green eyes, laughing at her. As much as she hated to admit it, Katy knew Trace was responsible for this indefinable, restless longing. For three years her normal sexual urges had been suppressed, anesthetized by shock. In that time she had felt nothing for any man—no pull of the senses, no heady awareness, not even dislike. She had been completely numb. But now, slowly and surely, Trace was pulling her out of that undemanding, unfeeling state, simply by the force of his presence. His raw masculinity was too potent to be ignored. It was awakening in her responses she did not want to feel, making her acutely aware of her own femininity. It didn't help to tell herself she didn't want a relationship with any man. Her healthy, young body simply would not listen.

  She raised herself up on one elbow and punched her feather pillow into a soft cloud, but it didn't help ease the tension. Stifling a moan, she rolled onto her side and stared into the darkness. The small mantel clock in the living room had chimed two o'clock before her eyelids finally fluttered shut.

  Chapter 3

  Moving the vacuum cleaner back and forth in long, sweeping strokes, Katy slowly made her way across the braided oval rug. A red paisley bandanna was tied around her glistening black hair to protect it from the dust. A red halter top and cut-off jeans made up the rest of her housecleaning attire.

  When she reached the end of the rug, she bent down and flicked off the switch, and the vacuum cleaner whined to a stop. Sighing in relief at the cessation of the noise, she walked to the wall socket and pulled the plug. When the machine had been returned to its place in the hall storage closet, Katy padded barefoot into the kitchen.

  Taking a glass from the cabinet, she filled it with cool water from the tap and drank it down thirstily. As she placed the empty glass on the counter her gaze automatically wandered out of the window above the sink to the rolling, tree-covered acreage beyond the backyard. In just three weeks the view had changed completely. Every branch was now draped with the lush, intensely green foliage of early spring. Wild flowers of every color and description edged the forest and spilled over into the open meadow. Berry vines twined their way over the fences and through the undergrowth.

  Katy sighed and turned away from the beauty of the warm spring day. Tomorrow she would go roaming, but today she had chores to finish.

  The dryer buzzed as she stepped out onto the small, screened-in porch which doubled as utility and laundry room. At almost the same moment, the washing machine ended its spin cycle and whirred to a stop. Pulling the warm clothes from the dryer, Katy dumped them into an empty wicker basket, then transferred the damp laundry from the washer to the dryer. When it was again humming, she hefted the basket to the small utility table and began methodically to fold the clean clothes.

  A pickup rumbled to a stop in the drive, and a second later a truck door was slammed. The sounds sent Katy's glance through the open doorway to the kitchen wall clock. It was only a few minutes past four. A look of pleased surprise brightened her face. For once her father was home early. Actually he wasn't required to work on Saturdays and Sundays, but try telling him that. Hearing his heavy footsteps cross the tiled kitchen floor, she pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face and glanced over her shoulder.

  "Hi, Dad. You're home early, aren't you?"

  Tom stopped in the doorway. "Yes. I . . . ah . . . forgot to mention this morning that we've been invited up to the big house for dinner tonight. I thought I'd better warn you so you'd have time to get ready." He eyed his daughter apprehensively, waiting for the reaction he knew would come. He wasn't disappointed.

  Katy turned slowly, her blue eyes huge. "You've got to be kidding!" The words were dragged from her throat in a hoarse whisper.

  "No, I assure you I'm not. Trace invited us a couple of days ago." A faint flush darkened Tom's cheeks. "I guess I just forgot to mention it."

  Her heart began to beat frantically. The startling pronouncement had caught her completely off guard. During the past two weeks, since the night he had shared their dinner, Trace had not come near her. She had seen him from a distance several times, usually in the company of her father, and he had waved and called a greeting, but that was all. With each passing day it had become more and more ob
vious he was not going to seek her out, and she had begun to relax, her life resuming its normal, placid routine as her worries concerning Trace receded. She had even chided herself for having been a complete and utter fool. Now this.

  "Well, I'm sorry. I can't go. You'll just have to make my excuses for me," she blurted out in a panic-stricken rush.

  "No, Katy. I will not."

  The words hit her like a slap in the face, and her head jerked back in shock.

  "You're going to get yourself dressed up and you're going with me up to the big house. You will eat dinner and make pleasant conversation and behave like the well-mannered young lady your mother taught you to be," Tom continued relentlessly. His voice was sure and firm, and there was a look on his face she had never seen before.

  The washing machine was behind her and Katy stepped back, clutching at it for support. She shook her head. "But I can't, Dad. You know I can't!"

  "You can and you will," he stated emphatically. "Now listen to me, Katy. There will be no excuses and there will be no more running away. I've been too lenient with you. I can see that now. Ever since that incident three years ago I've shielded and humored you and allowed you to hide from the world. I kept thinking that you would eventually get over it, that the horror of it would fade and you would resume a normal life." Tom's wide shoulders drooped, and suddenly he looked very tired, very old. "I was wrong. You haven't recovered because you haven't allowed yourself to forget. You've kept it locked inside you, and it's ruining your life." He gestured furiously with his hand. "Well, no more! Katy, you simply cannot allow one tragic incident to color your whole outlook on life. I won't allow it!"

  Stunned speechless, Katy stared at him, all the color slowly draining from her face. The harsh tone of his voice had shocked her even more than his words. All her life her father had treated her with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had raised his voice to her in anger, thereby making it a most effective weapon. And there was no doubt that he was angry now.

  A turmoil of conflicting emotions twisted her insides into a hard knot. She didn't want to go to Trace's home for dinner. Some deep-seated, primitive instinct warned her that to do so would be asking for trouble. Yet she depended on her father's continued support. It was absolutely essential to her peace of mind. The love and caring she'd received from her parents had been the glue which had held her shattered life together. Without it she would fly apart. There was really no choice. Swallowing her fear, Katy closed her eyes and nodded.

  "Very well, Dad. I'll go," she said softly, her voice trembling.

  ❧

  Four hours later, pale and quivering with nerves, Katy sat beside her father as he brought their pickup to a stop in the U-shaped drive in front of the Barnetts' colonial mansion. She was strung taut, fighting down the nausea that churned in her stomach. Katy stared at the stately pillars marching across the front veranda with wide, fearful eyes. In the fifteen years during which she had lived at Green Meadows, she had never once been inside the big house. She doubted that her father had seen more of it than the study before Trace had taken over. Now, here they were, the two of them, about to have dinner with the new owner and possibly his young stepmother.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Oh, God! She had forgotten all about Saundra. The woman had always treated Katy and her mother as though they were beneath her contempt. Katy could just imagine what she thought of this sudden turn of events.

  "Do you think Saundra will be here?" she asked as her father opened his door and climbed from the truck.

  He held the door open and looked at her across the width of the seat. "I've no idea, Katy girl. But even if she is, I want you to remember that you are a Donovan, and that is something to be proud of."

  Katy smiled. Tom Donovan bowed and scraped to no man ... or woman. Like all Irishmen, he was filled with a fierce, uncrushable pride, a trait Henry Barnett had found almost intolerable.

  Katy was not without the Donovan pride herself. When her father assisted her from the cab of the pickup her eyes sparkled with determination. She was going to remain cool and calm, and get through this evening with her dignity intact if it killed her. After adjusting the full sleeves and scooped neck of her blue silk blouse and smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from the long blue and aqua patterned skirt, she slipped her hand through her father's arm and tilted her chin. "Shall we go?"

  He beamed down at her, his eyes glowing with pride. "That's my Katy," he whispered softly.

  Katy held her head high as they walked up the pebbled path. For nothing in the world would she let these people see that, inside, she was a quaking mass of nerves.

  The sound of raised voices reached them when they stepped onto the veranda. Saundra's shrill tones carried clearly through the open window.

  "I tell you, Trace, it simply is not done. Your father would not approve of this at all."

  "When are you going to get it through your head that whether or not my father would have approved means less than nothing to me? This farm and this house belong to me now, and things will be done my way."

  Katy cast her father a nervous glance, and he reached out a hand and rang the bell. The voices ceased. Within a few seconds, Mattie, the Barnetts' housekeeper, appeared at the door.

  "Good evening, Mattie." Tom greeted the woman with a friendly smile. "I believe we're expected."

  "Yes, of course." Mattie cast a worried glance over her shoulder as they stepped into the entrance hall. She took Katy's lacy white shawl and draped it over her arm. "If you'll just wait right here, I'll tell Mr. Trace you've arrived."

  "That won't be necessary, Mattie."

  Startled by the terse command, Katy's head swung around, her eyes opening wide at the sight of Trace, framed in the arched doorway to their left. Except at his father's funeral, she had never before seen him dressed so formally. The dark blue suit fit his long, lean frame to perfection. Against the crisp white of his shirt his tanned skin looked like polished bronze. Jane was right, Katy thought distractedly. The only word to describe him was devastating.

  For just a second grim, harsh anger was visible in the lines of his face, but it faded quickly when his eyes lit on Katy.

  She had taken extra pains with her appearance. Her makeup had been applied with care, and she had swept her hair into a shining knot on the top of her head. Soft tendrils were allowed to escape in front of her ears and across the nape of her neck for a softening effect.

  The frank admiration in Trace's expression as his eyes ran over the more sophisticated hairdo brought a blush to her cheeks. It deepened as his inspection continued His intent gaze traveled slowly from the top of her head to the strappy white sandals on her feet. There was a dark, smoldering look in his deep-set eyes as they returned to her face that in no way matched the coolness of his voice.

  "I'm glad you could make it," he said politely, and gestured to the room behind him. "Won't you come in?"

  Katy's pulse was fluttering nervously as she stepped toward the door. When Trace's large hand settled against the small of her back, her heart began to pound as though it were trying to get out of her body. She quickened her step to try to elude his touch, but the hand remained firmly in place.

  The room they entered was large and well-proportioned, furnished with a harmonious collection of different period pieces. The overall effect was elegant, but definitely inviting. Katy was immediately conscious of the atmosphere of wealth and good taste all around her, but before her eyes could take in any specific details, Trace was directing her attention to the blonde woman ensconced on the sofa.

  "Of course you know my stepmother, Saundra."

  Katy shot him a quick glance. Had his voice held just a hint of sardonic amusement? She couldn't tell from his impassive face.

  "Hello, Mrs. Barnett," she said politely, refocusing her attention on the woman.

  Saundra Barnett flicked her a cool, disinterested glance and nodded curtly. "Miss Donovan." Her mouth cu
rled slightly as her pale blue eyes slid over Katy's simple skirt and blouse. She looked pointedly down at her own elegant red chiffon dress and sent Katy a scornful smile.

  Beside her, Katy felt Trace stiffen.

  "Stop it, Saundra." The command was issued in a snarl, the low, steely voice holding a definite warning, and his stepmother widened her eyes in feigned innocence.

  "Why, darling, I didn't say a word."

  As Katy feared, the small, malicious act set the tone for the entire evening. Saundra was never overtly rude. She didn't dare risk another reprimand from Trace. She contented herself with snide little innuendos and cutting double-edged remarks. Her words were not blatantly insulting. They were designed to belittle, to embarrass, to make Katy and her father feel out of place and uncomfortable. If she had been gracious and polite, she might have accomplished her purpose. Katy's shyness and extreme nervousness might have worked against her to make her appear awkward and fumbling. But Saundra had misjudged her opponent, and in doing so, had made a bad tactical error. There was nothing guaranteed to stiffen Katy's spine more than ridicule. Her father's fierce pride, combined with her mother's quiet dignity, was a formidable weapon against Saundra's petty viciousness. Katy met every thrust with a cool composure that seemed to infuriate the older woman.

  During the meal Saundra switched her attention from Katy to Trace, talking to him in a warm, sensuous tone, and touching him whenever possible, sliding her pale blue eyes over him like a hungry cat that has just spotted its next meal.

  At first Katy was surprised. Then she recalled the rumors that had circulated when Trace left the farm four years ago. One of them was that Trace had been far too friendly with his young stepmother, that he had, in fact, been in love with her. It was said that when the situation had come to his father's attention they had quarreled, and Henry had ordered him to leave. Katy had not believed it at the time, but now she wondered. Saundra's attitude was definitely possessive.