Tender Is the Storm Read online

  Tender is the Storm

  Johanna Lindsey

  Prologue

  1874, San Carlos Reservation, Arizona

  THE cat was large, over two hundred pounds and nearly eight feet long. High up in the mountains, it lay on a boulder, its eyes riveted on a spot thirty feet below, where the slope leveled off to form a wide ledge. There among the tall pines was a small herd of wild horses, roped off. They were nervously stamping the ground, sensing the cat's presence even though there was no breeze to carry his scent.

  Suddenly the cat sensed danger. Then he saw the two men winding their way up the mountainside leading a string of horses, seven more to add to the waiting herd. They were quite young, the two men, and looked almost identical. Both had darkly bronzed skin and long black hair flowing loose about their shoulders, and both wore knee-high moccasins and long white breechclothes spanning well-muscled thighs. But one was tall and bare-chested beneath his short black vest. The other was much shorter and wore a long-sleeved white cotton shirt girded with a cartridge belt sitting low on his hips.

  When the new horses were added to the herd, the cougar rose from his perch and leaped from the boul­der, moving cautiously toward the two young men.

  One was half-Apache, and the other, taller man wasn't an Indian at all.

  The two men stopped, frozen, staring up at the huge cougar. Why hadn't they sensed him? All was still except for the prancing of the horses.

  The tall man stuck out his hand, and the cougar closed the distance between them with a thundering purr. The cat rubbed his head into the extended hand and wrapped his body around the man's bare legs. After a moment, he moved the whole tawny length of his body under the open hand, then sauntered off and plopped down on a smooth piece of ground two feet away.

  Billy Wolf let out his breath very slowly so the other young man wouldn't hear him. His hands were close to trembling, and it threatened his manhood.

  "Sonofabitch!" Billy said in the language his friend had taught him so well, then more loudly when that didn't get the taller one's attention. "Son­ofabitch! You hear what he's doin' to the mares, Slade?"

  The taller man turned his head and bestowed on Billy one of his rare smiles. "Doing, Billy, ing. Get that g on there."

  "Shit, don't talk to me about grammar now!" But the point had been made, and Billy wouldn't forget again. "Weren't you just a little nervous before you knew it was him?"

  "A little," was all Slade Holt said before he went over to quiet the horses.

  Billy Wolf followed rapidly. "Will you just look at him lying there like he knows he's welcome, like he never left your side."

  "He does know he's welcome," Slade said flatly.

  Billy stared at the cougar and shook his head. "You ain't seen him in eight months, and it was a year before that time. How does he remember you? How do you recognize him now that he looks like any other mountain lion?"

  "I didn't recognize him," Slade admitted, a grin beginning. "I just knew he wasn't a threat, same way you knew I wasn't a threat when we first met."

  Billy thought that over for a moment and ac­cepted it as reasonable. As was his way, he abruptly changed the subject.

  "Are you really set on leaving tomorrow, Slade?" When the other simply nodded without answering and sat down next to the giant cat, Billy frowned. "But are you sure you're ready?"

  Slade glanced over at a crevice dug in the side of the mountain. The crevice contained a blanket, one set of white man's clothes, boots he'd had Billy trade a horse for last winter, a sack of canned goods Billy had brought him, and the handgun and holster he'd stolen two years before, when Cactus Reed had taught him how to use the gun. It was that gun he was thinking about now. Learning to handle it with a degree of expertise had been the only thing he'd felt lacking in his education. It had taken two years of daily practice before he admitted to himself that he was good—better at least than the man he planned to kill with it.

  "Ready?" Slade's light green eyes rested on the cougar, and he reached out to rub the big cat be­tween the ears. "My problem has been a waiting problem for too many years. I was a kid, aching to grow up fast because I couldn't do anything about the pain others had caused me until I was grown up. I was twelve when you finally got up the nerve to ap­proach me."

  "Nerve!" Billy interrupted indignantly.

  "Admit it, Billy," Slade said, amusement in his voice. "Your people thought I was crazy, and not just because I lived out in the mountains alone. You were only a year older than I was. Even your warriors took a wide berth around the crazy white boy."

  "What were we supposed to think, you being a dirty, half-naked kid whose stink could be smelled a mile off? Anyone who got within shouting distance of you, you pulled an imaginary gun and shot them with it. If that's not loco-"

  Slade burst out laughing. "I shot you, too, when you first showed up."

  "With your finger," Billy grunted, but he smiled. It was rare that Slade Holt laughed with genuine hu­mor instead of bitter cynicism.

  "I told you why I stunk so bad back then. It took half a year before that skunk smell wore off."

  "It would've helped if you'd availed yourself of a creek."

  "Why? Back then, not having to take baths was about the only thing I liked about my freedom."

  Billy twitched his nose. "You're of a different mind now. I'm grateful."

  Slade shrugged. "Some things change over the years. I don't shoot make-believe guns anymore, either. It was a game I used to play with my twin brother."

  Slade's expression darkened. A pain shot threw his head as it always did when he thought of his brother. He rubbed hard at his temples. The cougar realized something was wrong. His ears pricked up, and he stopped purring.

  Billy knew about the headaches Slade suffered be­cause he couldn't remember much that had hap­pened after he and his brother ran away from Tucson when their father was killed by a gunslinger, Feral Sloan, eight years ago. Slade witnessed the gunfight, saw Sloan intentionally pick a fight with Jake Holt, Slade's father.

  Jake, one of a thousand prospectors, came west looking to strike it rich. He and a friend, Tom Wynhoff, were two of the lucky ones. They found gold twenty miles west of Tucson, a rich find. But their luck didn't last, because others wanted that gold. Slade knew very little about it. His father had told him only that a man had approached him, want­ing to buy the mine. Slade's father had said no.

  Soon after that, Tom Wynhoff was found dead in an alley, a lead ball in his chest. That same day, for no reason, Feral Sloan picked a fight with Jake and shot him dead in the street. Slade was standing ten feet away. Moments later, Sloan passed Slade and bragged to a friend on the street, easiest hundred dol­lars I ever earned.

  Slade's ten-year-old mind grasped that the gun-fighter had been paid to shoot his father. The danger to him was made clear when an old man standing near Slade grabbed his arm and warned, "First old Tom, then Jake. You and your brother own that cursed mine now, Slade Holt, but you can bet you won't live to see the profits. I seen it happen a hun­dred times, the no-good, lazy bastards who want what a man breaks his back finding, and kill to get it. You younguns are next. Get your brother quick and get the hell out of the county. Greedy men don't stop at killing babies."

  Slade found his brother, and the two of them hightailed it northeast, away from the mine, away from Tucson, making for the mountains that stretched to the north. They were followed. Slade got a glimpse of Feral Sloan riding fast behind them be­fore a bullet grazed his temple and he fell from his horse down a rocky incline. He remembered scream­ing before he passed out, but he remembered nothing else.

  The rain woke him. He was alone, with no sign of his brother or his horse, and no tracks to follow. He later realized he should have
stayed where he was in case his brother had gone for help after leading Sloan away from him. But he wasn't thinking clear­ly, and he set off to look for his twin. Months later, he finally gave up. It had been a useless search, any­way, because he was afraid to go near towns in case the hired gunslinger found him or that nameless man who wanted him dead heard he was alive.

  He learned to survive alone, to reach for manhood, when he would no longer be defenseless. He survived through desperation, learning by trial and er­ror, roaming the regions from the Gila River as far south as an Apache mountain stronghold.

  Strangely enough, the Indians never frightened him. They respected him for that and left him to share their domain. Slade feared and avoided all signs of white men. After two years without speak­ing to a single human, Slade was open to friendship when young Billy Wolf approached, six years ago.

  They couldn't speak to each other at first but grad­ually learned each other's languages. Billy lived with his mother's tribe then, and as they were no­mads, long periods would pass between the times Billy and Slade saw each other.

  Billy was the only one Slade ever let close to him besides Cactus Reed. Slade had found Reed in the Galiuro Mountains a little over two years ago. The man was half-dead, two bullets in him, claiming he and the fellow he rode with had had a slight dis­agreement and he'd lost the argument in a big way. Slade patched Cactus up. In return, Cactus taught Slade all he knew. He knew a great deal. The man was an ex-bounty hunter, a breed who lived by their guns and their courage, challenging killers.

  Cactus turned out also to be a bit of a thief, for he took off one day while Slade was hunting, taking a dozen of the wild horses from Slade's herd with him. Either he wasn't a man who felt beholden to anyone, even someone who'd saved his life, or he felt he and Slade were even because of all he'd taught the young man.

  Slade didn't go after him. Wild mustangs were easy to come by, and he used them only to trade for what he needed, letting Billy take the rest out of the mountains to sell for cash. Over the years he had ac

  cumulated quite a stash of money from those horses, but it was money he'd had no use for—until now.

  Billy Wolf was feeling sorry for himself. He knew that once Slade began his search he would probably never see him again. He had always known this day would come. He'd expected it last year, in fact, when Slade reached his full height, an intimidating six feet three. His vigorous life made him lean and mus­cular, and the hot Arizona sun made him as dark as an Indian. When Slade entered civilization again, Billy knew damn well the suspicious townsfolk would mistake him for a half-breed like himself. Slade had one thing on his side, though, and that was his sense of self-possession. Even his quiet man­ner was intimidating, despite his being only eigh­teen. And those brightly piercing eyes and finely chiseled features guaranteed him attention from women.

  Billy grinned. "What will you do first, get your hair cut or have your first woman?"

  Slade glanced up, but his expression gave nothing away. "I suppose the hair will have to come off first if I hope to find a woman who won't run away scream­ing."

  "If you cut the hair and they don't mistake you for a half-breed, you'll have women fighting over you. Maybe you'd better leave your hair long to avoid that. You'll have enough trouble. You do know what to do with a woman, don't you?"

  "I reckon it won't be too difficult to manage," Slade drawled, "being as how you showed me how it's done when you and Little—"

  "You didn't!" Billy shouted, heat rushing up his neck. "Our camp was miles away when I ... you mean you followed me back?"

  "I was right behind you," Slade said smoothly. "Walked right into your wickiup, and you didn't even sense my presence. She did, though. She looked right at me and grinned. She never told you?"

  "No, damn it!"

  Slade frowned. "Are you really so embarrassed? Have I made you angry with me?"

  "It was a private matter."

  "You're right," Slade conceded. "Yet I can't regret it, my friend. It taught me more than I'd expected to learn." He was thoughtfully silent. "It showed me that the man loses nearly all his natural instincts when he takes a woman. He becomes weak. But she doesn't involve herself so fully, so she becomes the stronger."

  "Ha!" Billy was glad to be able to recover a little. "That's not always the way it is, Slade. You saw me with my first woman, and I was clumsy and over-eager. I have since learned how to make a woman mindless with passion. It is she who now loses con­trol over herself, not I. But that takes a special tech­nique, and time to learn."

  Slade weighed Billy's words, debating whether he was lying to save face or telling the truth. He decided it was a little of both, but gave his friend the benefit of the doubt.

  "You've mastered this technique? Every woman you have now falls under your power?"

  "I've mastered it," Billy bragged with extreme confidence, then pointed out quickly, "But hell, there are lots of women who don't like it no matter what you do." Billy didn't reveal that in his short ex­perience, those few women were the white whores he'd tried out in towns.

  "It might be different for you though," Billy con­tinued. "White women take to half-breeds same as they do to full-blooded Apaches—which is not at all."

  "But how do I learn your technique?"

  "Hell, if you think I'm going to teach you. . .Greta woman to show you what pleasures her, same as I did."

  Slade's response to any subject that made him un­comfortable was to simply walk away from it. He did that now, getting up to move back over by the horses, calling to the gray mare he favored, leaving Billy facing the wide expanse of his back.

  Billy couldn't resist a last taunt. "Hell, you're worried about your first time?"

  "Only that the woman will know."

  Billy had to strain to catch the words. He under­stood. He vividly remembered how he'd felt the first time.

  "Shoot, you can always wait a few more years. Af­ter all, you don't know what you're missing yet," Billy offered. "Or better yet, get the lady drunk, and she won't remember a thing."

  Slade turned to meet Billy's dark eyes, and Billy grew uncomfortable. Slade was better than an Apache sometimes when it came to controlling his features. It would make anybody nervous. His ex­pression now revealed absolutely nothing of his in­ner thoughts, but Billy knew from experience that he could be masking a killing fury or total boredom. There was no way of knowing which. And even though they were friends, when Slade turned that certain look on him, the hairs crawled on the back of Billy's neck.

  "Well, dammitall, I don't know how we got on this subject, anyway," Billy said gruffly, and turned away from those light green eyes. "Seems to me we ought to be discussing what you aim to do with these horses. If you're leaving in the morning, well . . ."

  Slade's gaze moved over the thirty-odd mares. He'd captured most of them in the last three years, a slow process of tracking a stallion's harem, living with them day after day, blending with the land, be­coming nearly invisible, and finally singling out one and stalking it. He'd long ago learned not even to try for the stallion, and he had to wait until the male was otherwise occupied before he approached a fe­male. But it was an enjoyable task, even though it required patience, patience Billy had helped teach him, patience that came naturally after three years.

  "They're yours now, Billy," Slade said.

  Billy's eyes widened. "Damn it! Damn it! I knew you just went on the raid last week to please me. I knew it!"

  "Nonsense," Slade scoffed. "I enjoyed the chal­lenge of taking that rancher's stock right from under his nose. His spread was big enough that he won't miss them. And I hadn't been that far east in a good many years. It gave me a chance to see what new towns were springing up. And it gave me an adven­ture to remember for when I become . . . civilized."

  "But all of them, Slade?" Billy protested. "You can use the money they'll bring."

  "I have enough money for what I have to do."

  Billy didn't express his thanks except with a nod of
acceptance. "So where will you begin your search?"

  "Where it began."

  "You really think Sloan will still be in Tucson? Hell, that's the territorial capital. Characters like Sloan don't find it easy in big towns anymore."

  "It doesn't matter," Slade said offhandedly. "There or somewhere else, if he's still alive, I'll find him."

  "And after you kill him?"

  "I'll have the name of the man who hired him." There was a cold edge in his voice now.

  "And after you kill that one?"

  Slade turned away before answering. "I'll then be free to find my brother."

  Billy changed the subject quickly. "What about your father's gold?"

  "What about it?"

  "It's still there, ain't it? You said your father and his partner rigged it so there was a worthless mine visible to anyone who wanted to look while the real mine was hidden up the mountainside where no one could find it."

  A rare show, of anger crossed Slade's handsome features. "That gold killed my father, separated me from my twin, and forced me to live like a wild ani­mal. I want no part of it." Then he said, "What good are riches, anyway? The land offers all a man could want."

  Billy grunted, deciding not to point out that Slade was thinking like an Indian. Was that a good thing or not?

  Billy Wolf looked hard at the young man he loved like a brother. "Well, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me." Then he grinned, trying to make light of the moment. "I'll be the rich scout with the pretty wife—it shouldn't tax you too hard to find me. I just hope I don't run into your large cougar friend any time you're not around."

  Slade laughed.

  By early evening the Whiskers Saloon was crowded. It looked no different from all the other sa­loons Slade had walked into during the last year. By now he was immune to the reaction his appearance caused. Everything always quieted down until he or­dered his first drink. Men sometimes moved away from him. Once it had been his quiet manner that made people wary. Now it was the savage look about him.

  Slade never appeased the curious or volunteered his name without reason. His name had become a curse, inspiring fear beyond that caused by a stranger who carried a gun like he knew how to use it. The name had become an obstacle only a month after he began his search, and all because some fool cowboy in a small mining settlement had challenged him. Many witnesses saw Slade's gun clear his hol­ster before the other man had touched his. That was all it took. In the next town he came to, they knew about him. Too late he learned about rumors. A man who had never drawn his weapon could be reported to have ten to fifteen notches on his gun. But if he let his speed be observed, he'd be counted as one of the bad guys.