Carolyn Davidson

by The Tender Stranger

  She subsided, following him down the rutted road, the trail climbing quickly once they passed the last of a long string of houses. “The farther from the middle of town we go, the shabbier the houses get, Quinn. Did you notice?” she asked.

  “Folks out here can’t afford much,” he said. “They need room for a garden. Most of them can’t get everything store-bought.”

  Just beyond the last dwelling, a woman dug determinedly beside her home, and Erin slowed down. “Do you think she’d have any extra potatoes? I’ll bet that’s what she’s digging.”

  Quinn pulled his horse up, the packhorse halting behind him. “Could be. You want some?”

  She nodded. “I’m almost out. I’ve been pretty stingy with them. They weigh too much to carry.”

  “My horse can handle them,” Quinn offered, riding to the side of the fenced-in area that held a small house where several children played near the doorway.

  He paid rather more than Erin thought the potatoes were worth, but the woman looked surprised and pleased at her good fortune as she provided a sack to contain them, and Erin didn’t have the heart to scold Quinn for his generosity. She smiled a last time at the bedraggled creature, waving at the children, before she turned forward to follow his lead.

  The trees enclosed them in a cocoon of stillness, the wind muted by the tall trees and dense undergrowth. They rode for hours, mostly in silence, Quinn holding up a hand once as Erin would have spoken to him.

  And then she understood as he slid his rifle from the scabbard and motioned again with a finger against his lips. Just ahead, a buck deer stood in the middle of the trail, its spike horn antlers proudly angled. She almost called out, dreading the sight of the elegant creature lying on the ground, its life’s blood draining.

  Her good sense prevailed and she only winced as Quinn’s shot went home, downing the buck without any flurry. He keeled over as if he’d been struck on the head, and Quinn was off his horse in an instant, looping his reins over a branch.

  “This won’t take long,” he assured her. “I’ll just gut it out and hang it. I can come back in the morning and haul it to the cabin.” Taking off his coat, he hooked it on the saddle horn and drew his knife.

  She watched in awe and with more than a trace of reluctance as he cleaned the deer, finally tying its back feet together and throwing the rope over a branch. He hauled the carcass high, with what looked like a minimum of effort to her, yet his muscles strained against the gray fabric of his shirt. The end of the rope was tied to a second tree, and they were on their way once more.

  The rest of the ride was a blur in her mind, her body weary, her eyes yearning for slumber. Finally, the cabin a shadowed haven before them, Quinn came to her, lifting her from the mare and holding her shoulders while she gained her balance.

  “Thank you.” She looked up at him, savoring the warm touch of his hands, which penetrated the heavy coat. Then, as if she could not meet his gaze any longer, looked over his shoulder where the moon chased the last of the twilight from the sky. “I can’t thank you enough for your help,” she said softly, moving from his touch to reach for her saddlebags.

  His big hands halted her attempt, and he shook his head. “You go on in the house and get washed up for bed,” he told her. “I’ll be done in no time. I’m going to try milking Daisy. If I can’t get the job done, you can come out and finish. Is that a deal?”

  She nodded, too tired to argue, too weary to be prideful. “I’ll cut some cheese from the round I bought and slice some bread.”

  “Put the coffeepot on the front burner. There should be enough left from this morning to heat up,” he told her. He watched as she made her way to the porch, then up the two steps to the door.

  She lit the lantern, fed the ever-hungry stove and found warm water in the big kettle. The cloth was rough, but the warm, clean water was refreshing, and she closed her eyes at the pleasure.

  She was asleep when he came in, the lantern over the table flickering at its lowest level. The simple food was ready for him and he ate it, washing it down with coffee.

  He eyed her for a moment, curled in the center of the bed, boots off, but still clothed. Her body weighed less than he expected, he thought as he lifted her and pulled the quilts down. He placed her back in the spot she’d already warmed with her body heat and covered her with care.

  So easily, he’d come to appreciate the quiet strength of the woman, her ability to cope with circumstances, even the long ride today. With not a moment’s complaint.

  She’d been foolish to come to this place, this deserted cabin, where her existence was riding a fine edge. And yet he couldn’t help but admire the courage of her choice; even as he wondered why she had shunned the help offered by the Wentworths.

  He wasn’t surprised that Ted and Estelle Wentworth wanted her back in their home. She was a daughter to be proud of. Perhaps not their daughter, he amended silently, but the next thing to it. And the chances were good that the child she carried would be equally as fine.

  But how Damian had ever wooed and won this prize was beyond him. From all he’d heard, the boy Quinn had known had come to be something of a scoundrel, chasing women as if it were more important than his studies, back at university. He’d been handy at gambling, and whiskey had been his downfall, so the stories went. Strange that this fine-featured woman, with so much to offer a man, should have settled for Damian Wentworth. And even stranger that her beauty and strength of character had not been enough to keep him faithful.

  Perhaps it was the money that had wooed her to his cause. No…not likely, he decided. If hard, cold cashand what it could buy for her benefit-was her priority in life, it wasn’t readily apparent now. Although she wasn’t hurting for money. Somewhere she’d gotten a nest egg.

  He’d looked the other way as she unearthed the box from beneath the floorboards of the cabin earlier. But his glance had encompassed a pile of money before he’d turned aside.

  It was a problem he stood no chance of solving tonight, he decided, catching a yawn with his open palm. And leaving the warm cabin now for another night in the cold shed was less than appealing. He cast another glance at her, there beneath the covers, her hair tangled around her face, her eyes deeply circled with weariness.

  She would never know if he stayed inside. He could be back out in the shed before she woke. He lifted a quilt from atop her, replacing it with her heavy cloak. Another yawn made him shake his head in weariness.

  He’d leave early to bring the deer back. He’d rise before dawn and be gone before she stirred.

  Chapter Three

  “Mr Yarborough!” Her words bore more than a trace of shock.

  He rolled over, tangling the quilt around him, and struggled to his feet. “I thought we’d decided on ‘Quinn,’“ he growled. The quilt fell to the floor and he turned to look at her.

  The image was one of early-morning sensuality. One cheek creased by her pillow, hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes blinking away the residue of sleep, she stood by the bed, wrapped in the second quilt.

  “’Quinn’ was when I thought you were a gentleman.”

  “Hell, sleepin’ on your floor didn’t turn me into an outlaw, Erin,” he muttered, bending to pick up the quilt that threatened to trip him. He folded it, aware that her look scorned his attempt.

  She held out a hand, baring her arm to the elbow, and his eyes narrowed as he handed her the bundled-up quilt. What she was wearing beneath her own bulky coverlet was anyone’s guess. She must have discovered his presence while she was getting dressed or undressed.

  “I planned on being out of here before you woke up, Erin.” Although he’d have hated missing the sight of her, all sleepy eyed, with that halo of dark hair shimmering around her face.

  “I’d planned on you using the shed.” She dropped the quilt on the bed and wrapped her own covering around her a little tighter, her arm disappearing beneath the protection of patchwork.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” It was the
best he could do, being all primed with his usual early-morning problem, and the sight of her adding to it by leaps and bounds.

  “Well?” She watched him impatiently, her nostrils flaring, her chin high as she waited.

  “I’m goin’…I’m goin’.” Quinn snatched at his boots and struggled into them, hopping on one foot at a time as he slid his stockinged feet into place. At the sink he pumped once and caught the water as it ran from the spout, splashing it over his face and neck, running his fingers through his hair.

  He’d hung his coat over the back of a chair in front of the stove last night and it was warm when he slid his arms into it. At the door he shot another glance in her direction. She hadn’t moved, just stood there like a statue, all full of indignation.

  Made a man want to give her something to be mad about, Quinn thought with a twinge of exasperation. About one more day with this woman and he’d be more than halfway to forgetting what he’d come here to accomplish.

  Damn! What a way to start the day.

  Erin drew in a deep breath. She’d stripped almost to the skin in front of the man. Down to her drawers and chemise anyway, ready to dig into her carpetbag for a clean dress. And then she’d heard him grunt as he shifted about on the wood-planked floor.

  That it didn’t frighten her was a miracle. Heaven knew she wasn’t used to finding a man sleeping in front of her stove, but some inner awareness identified the culprit even before she peered around the table to where he lay.

  The coverlet had been handy and she’d hidden quickly behind its concealing folds, then called his name with the proper amount of indignation. She’d almost smiled when he’d staggered to his feet, his hair every which way and his eyes blinking at her.

  She sank onto the edge of the bed. That look he’d given her…that knowing light in his eyes as he scanned her well-covered form, his gaze alert after only a moment. She’d felt warmed by it. Still did, if the truth be known.

  Yet, despite that, he was a gentleman. She owed him an apology for that remark. He’d only sought a warm spot to spend the night, and borrowed a quilt to add to his comfort.

  And that gentleman would be looking for breakfast before too long, if she knew anything about it. Bending to her carpetbag, where she stored her clean clothing, Erin drew forth a dress and donned it quickly. Her soft shoes were by the stove and she made her way there, buttoning her bodice as she went.

  And then waited.

  The sun was over the meadow by the time she heard his horse whinny. She was at the door in an instant, drawing it open to seek his whereabouts. Across the yard, just beyond the shed, Quinn rode at an easy trot, the carcass of the deer across his horse’s haunches.

  He raised a hand to wave at her and she lifted hers in response, trying in vain to suppress the delight that would not be denied.

  For over an hour she’d thought he was gone, that her fit of pique had sent him on his way. If she’d used her head she’d have remembered his promise to head out first thing and bring back the deer he’d shot.

  “The coffee’s hot,” she called out, and smiled at his answering wave.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” he answered. “Have you milked yet?”

  “No, I knew you’d done it late last night. I found the pail in the corner, so I knew she’d be all right for a while.”

  Quinn nodded, dismounting and leading his horse to a tree near the cabin. “I did. Just let me hang this deer and I’ll wash up.”

  She’d baked biscuits earlier and kept them warm on the back of the stove. Her skillet was full of gravy, made with freshly ground sausage she’d bought yesterday. The gravy had thickened, and Erin dipped milk from the pail he’d brought in last night to thin it out.

  She was pouring coffee when he came in the door.

  “That buck’s a young one. Should be tender,” he told her, scooping soap from the crock she kept on the sinkboard. He washed up, then dried his hands, his gaze pinning her in place.

  “You still mad at me?” The question was blunt and to the point, and she felt a flush sweep up over her cheeks.

  “No.” She motioned to the table. “Come sit down.

  I’ve made gravy for the biscuits. I suspect you’re hungry.”

  “Never thought I’d be tempted by raw meat before, but that deer was lookin’ pretty good by the time I got back with it.” Quinn’s voice held more than a hint of good humor, and Erin chanced a look at him.

  He was opening biscuits, three of them making a circle on the chipped plate. The skillet of gravy was in the middle of the table and he took the handle with care, holding it with her dish towel.

  “Looks good,” he said, and then glanced up. “You ready for some?”

  She nodded and he ladled a generous portion onto her single biscuit. The steam rose and he inhaled sharply, sniffing the spicy aroma with appreciation. With the first forkful on its way to his mouth, he remembered his manners.

  “Thanks for cooking, Erin. I appreciate it.”

  She felt the flush return. “It was the least I could do…Quinn. You’ve been more than generous with your time.”

  He shrugged. “Seems to me we’re about even on that score. You let me take shelter from the weather, and I returned the favor another way.”

  Her question, burning in her mind for three days, could wait no longer. “Where are you headed, Quinn? After you leave here, I mean,” she asked cautiously, knowing it was an infringement on his privacy. She’d heard in town that one never asked questions in the West, but took folks at their face value.

  “Nowhere for a while,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got a deer to butcher and take care of.”

  She made an impatient gesture. “You know what I mean. Where were you going when you showed up here? Where will you go when you leave here?”

  His smile vanished, and his look was that of a man who didn’t relish explaining himself. “I’ve been looking for someone,” he said finally.

  “Up here?” Her brow rose and her heart beat just a bit faster.

  “In this general direction.”

  The thought that had been nudging at her urged her on. “Will you still be looking when you leave here?” she asked carefully, a sudden sheen of perspiration dampening her forehead. Would Ted Wentworth have gone this far, sending a man to find her?

  Quinn bent over his plate and ate, allowing her words to hang between them. Another pair of biscuits found their way to his plate, and he ladled more gravy with careful precision.

  “Quinn?”

  He looked up. “Probably not.”

  “Did the Wentworths.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, they did. I’ve been on your trail for almost three months, Erin. You did some fancy footwork, but buying this cabin, using your real name, was a mistake.”

  The perspiration turned her clammy and she rose, suddenly unable to face the food before her. Her chair fell with a loud clatter and she hurried to the door, intent on gaining the porch.

  She’d barely inhaled a deep breath, her lungs filling with blessed clean air, chilled by the early-morning frost, when he was there behind her.

  His fingers held-her shoulders with a firm grip and he was silent, as if he willed her to speak.

  She filled her lungs again and felt the sweat on her forehead evaporating in the clear, crisp breeze. “I’m not going back.”

  His fingers tightened; she shivered, aware of his masculine strength, aware that he could easily bundle her atop her horse and take her down the mountain, to where the stagecoach line ran into Denver.

  “Are you a bounty hunter?” she asked, despising the thready whisper her voice had become yet unable to strengthen it in the face of imminent disaster.

  “I’ve been called that.” He stepped closer, until the heat of his body sheltered her back with seductive warmth. “You’re cold, Erin. Come back inside.”

  “You lied to me.” Her words were bleak.

  “No, I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

  She shiv
ered again, wondering at her foolishness, taking warmth from the man who would be her undoing. “You’re not a miner.”

  “I’ve worked the mines.”

  “Not Big Bertha, I’d be willing to bet,” she said, her words gaining strength.

  “You’d win.”

  She watched a hawk circle over the meadow, then swoop to its quarry, rising with a shrill cry of triumph, claws grasping a small creature. She felt a sudden kinship to that rodent, her shoulders held in a grip not unlike that of the bird of prey she watched.

  “Come inside. It’s cold out here.” It was a command this time, and she obeyed, unwilling to waste her small reserve of strength on such a useless battle.

  Quinn sat back down and picked up his fork. “You need to eat.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” The words were sharp with reproof.

  His lips jerked as if they might curve into a smile and his dark eyes narrowed, as if he appreciated her sarcasm. “You need the food. The baby needs nourishment.”

  Erin sat down and pushed at the cold gravy with her fork.

  “You’d do better to start fresh,” he said mildly, taking her plate in hand and scooping the remains of her meal to one side. His big hands swallowed a biscuit as he broke it apart, then he spooned warm gravy over it.

  “Try that,” he suggested, watching her closely.

  She nodded and accepted his offering. “Does the sheriff know that you’re here, looking for me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “There wasn’t any need to tell him. You’re not a hunted criminal, Erin.”

  “Damian’s father believes I killed his son.” She ate, chewing and swallowing, as the words rang in her ears. She’d said it aloud, finally.

  “Does he?”

  She glanced up, her look impatient. “You should know. He obviously hired you to bring me back to New York. He must have decided that he can prove I pushed Damian down those stairs that night.”

  “Did you?”

  Quinn waited, unaware that he held his breath, watching as her mouth twitched and trembled, just as her hands lifted to cover her face.