The Tender Stranger

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Copyright

“Who’s going to help you when the baby comes?”

His playful look was gone.

Her heart thudded heavily within her breast. The bottom line, the end of the road she traveled, and he’d nailed her right where she was most vulnerable. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided what I’ll do when the time comes.”

His brow lifted. “Seems like that would have been the first thing you thought of.”

No, the first thing had been escape. Finding a place to hide, where no one could seek her out. A sanctuary for herself and her child.

“Erin?” Quinn tasted her name, relishing the breathless sound of it. His gaze appreciated the look of her, his mind wondered at the unexpected appeal to his senses.

He hadn’t looked for this attraction, and yet it could not be denied. She was the quarry, he the hunter, her capture the goal.

Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

Carolyn Davidson is one of those writers. Critics have described her books as “moving,” “explosive” and “destined to delight.” Her latest, The Tender Stranger, is no exception. It’s the touching story of a pregnant widow who flees from her conniving in-laws to a secluded cabin in Colorado. Alone and frightened, Erin welcomes the handsome, caring stranger who appears on her doorstep—not knowing that he’s the bounty hunter her in-laws have hired to bring her back. Don’t miss it!

Rory by Ruth Langan, is the terrific first book of Ruth’s new medieval series, THE O’NEIL SAGA. In it, an English noblewoman falls madly in love with a legendary Irish rebel. And Ana Seymour returns this month with a heartwarming Western, Father for Keeps, about a wealthy young man who returns to Nevada to win back the woman who secretly had his child.

Be sure to look for Robber Bride by Deborah Simmons. In the third DE BURGH story, the strong, arrogant de Burgh brother, Simon, finds his match in a free-spirited runaway bride who is hiding from her despicable would-be husband.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.®

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Tender Stranger

Carolyn Davidson

CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Reading and writing have always been major interests in Carolyn Davidson’s life. Even during the years of raising children and working a full-time job, she found time to read voraciously. However, her writing consisted of letters and an occasional piece of poetry. Now that the nest is empty, except for three grandchildren, she has turned to writing as an occupation.

Her family, friends and church blend to make a most fulfilling existence for this South Carolina author. And most important is her husband of many years, the man who gives her total support and an abundance of love to draw on for inspiration. A charter member of the Lowcountry Romance Writers of America, she has found a community of soul mates who share her love of books, and whose support is invaluable.

Watch for her next Harlequin Historical novel, The Midwife, a September 1999 release. She enjoys hearing from her readers at P.O. Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445-2757 and promises to answer your letter.

Men with the quality of tenderness in their emotional makeup make wonderful heroes, and the woman who is fortunate enough to be truly loved by one of them is indeed blessed. I am married to such a man, and have found that each of our five male offspring has, in some way, inherited their father’s nature. And so this book is dedicated to my sons, Bobby, Michael, Jon; Larry and Tim, because each of them, in his own way, is a hero to the woman he loves.

To my granddaughter, Erin Elizabeth, whose innocent and loving spirit was the inspiration for my heroine, and who shared with me the days and weeks spent in the writing of this book, I give my appreciation.

But as always, and with deep devotion, this story is for Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Chapter One

October, 1875

Pine Creek, Colorado

They’d told him she was easy on the eyes, and that her hair was darker than midnight.

Quinn Yarborough peered through the spyglass at the woman so aptly described. A grunt of aggravation marred the silence and he shifted, seeking a more comfortable spot. The rock beneath him was ungiving, and he settled for edging closer to the rim of the flat, overhanging cliff.

She was all they’d said, at least from the rear view. Her hair hung free, a black curtain, reflecting and yet somehow absorbing the tantalizing light that comes just before dark shrouds the land. Erin, for that was her name, he reminded himself, was slim but rounded, her hips womanly.

And then she disappeared behind the barn door, and he settled down to wait. It wasn’t a barn, actually, more of a shed. Probably didn’t have more than two or three stalls, from what he could tell.

Quinn tilted his hat to shade his eyes and focused his vision, then waited. He’d been on her trail for almost three months, from New York City to St. Louis and westward. She’d been smart, changing conveyances often, hiding behind other names. But not smart enough to thwart his prying and prodding. Buying this cabin, having her legal name put on the deed, had been a grave error in judgment.

Erin Wentworth, widow of Damian. Wanted by her former father-in-law, wanted enough to warrant the hiring of Quinn Yarborough, obtaining exclusive rights to his time in order to find her. Time he should, by all rights, be spending running the profitable agency he owned in New York City.

In years past, Quinn Yarborough had been known to haul men back from their hiding places when others had long since given up the search. But those were the early years. Now he had men working for him, highly trained, ruthless in their diligence, and usually successful at their job.

That this case was unusual went without saying. He’d long since given up the personal touch, sending others out in his stead. The price of success involved sitting behind a desk these days, he’d found.

Until now.

He didn’t think he’d have much problem nailing one small woman. And with that thought in mind, he watched as the shed door slid open.

They’d told him she was just a bit of a thing, a slender woman, innocent appearing. They hadn’t been specific about their reasons, only that it was imperative she be found.

And once she was found, he was faced with the task of persuading her to return to New York City with him. Since he considered this job to be along the lines of fulfilling an obligation, he was prepared to be most persuasive.

A chicken squawked loudly, the sound carrying to where he lay, and he chuckled as it half flew, half scrambled from the shed. The woman burst through the door in its wake, bent over, arms outstretched, as if to catch a stray leg or wing.

With a yelp of anger, Erin Wentworth stood erect, one arm bent, the hand resting on her hip. Through the spyglass Quinn watched her lips move, and he grinned, the curse all too apparent to his knowledgeable gaze.

He set the glass aside and blinked, then put it to his eye once more. Focusing again on the feminine figure, he growled his own oath. They’d managed to give him all the facts he’d needed to seek out and find this runaway female. All but one.

They hadn’t told him she was pregnant.

Erin clutched at her side, the hitch catching her unaware. Chasing the stupid chicken away from the door, then across the width of the shed, had been a mistake. The crafty hen loved a challenge, and these days most anything, even a squawking chicken, was swifter moving than Erin’s pregnant self.

“Stay out here and go hungry, for all I care,” she muttered, watching the truant hen, who had stopped to peck at a stray bug. “I’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid to a dumb chicken.”

She turned back to the shed, reaching inside to pick up the milk pail, frothing with warm milk. She peeked inside the dim structure before she slid the door closed, then nodded with satisfaction. Her saddle horse, packhorse and the small Jersey cow she’d hauled up the mountain at the end of a leading rope were nosing their allotment of hay. Across the shed, five laying hens, clucking softly to themselves, pecked lazily at the handful of feed she’d spread before them.

By the time she took care of the milk, it would be just about dark, and supper was almost done in the oven. Her stomach growled in response to that thought, and she grinned, rubbing her side reflectively.

“If nothing else, I’m feeding you well, baby of mine. With fresh milk and eggs every day, you should be growing like a bad weed.” Before long the child within her would respond to her words. The thought was cheering.

She carefully made her way across the grassy clearing toward the cabin. Along with the small meadow she used for pasture, it was the only level spot on this side of the mountain. The rough cabin held almost everything she needed to get her through the coming winter. One more trip down to Pine Creek and she’d have supplies enough to last till spring.

The chicken clucked as she passed it by, cocking its head to one side to keep her in view, and Erin laughed aloud. “You’ll be ready to scoot inside by morning, I’ll warrant,” she said to the frisky hen. “If you don’t freeze overnight.”

And that might not be a bad idea. She’d have chicken for dinner three days in a row should that happen.

She climbed the two steps to the shallow porch and opened the door, inhaling the scent of baking cornbread. Carrying the milk pail to the farthest corner from the stove, she covered it with a clean cloth and headed back to latch the door for the night.

From the shed a whinny pierced the air. An answering call resounded from beyond the clearing, and Erin held the door in place, only a crack allowing her to peer outside.

“Hello, the house!”

It was a deeply masculine voice, rough and forceful, and she drew in a quick breath, sensing danger there in the twilight. Beneath the trees edging her property she could barely make out the horseman, silent now, mounted upon a horse so dark it almost blended into the dusk.

“May I come closer?” the man called.

Erin’s heart was pounding at a rapid pace, and she felt a moment’s dizziness as she leaned against the barely opened door. Then with a deep breath she forced strength into her words.

“What do you want? I have a gun.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t, ma’am.” The horse stepped from the trees and walked toward the cabin, the man a shadowed figure, hat drawn down, shoulders wide, seemingly at one with the animal he rode.

Erin reached for the shotgun she kept in the corner, then pushed the door open a bit farther.

He’d almost reached the porch, and she shivered at the unknown danger he represented. It might be more sensible to shoot first and ask questions later, she supposed. Still, if he were set on harming her, he probably wouldn’t have ridden up so openly. Besides, it would be a mess she’d rather not clean up if she didn’t have to.

“Ma’am? I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?” His rough tones were more like a west wind in the pines, not rasping as she’d first thought. It was as if he hadn’t spoken in a long while and his words had grown rusty in the meantime.

“Stay where you are, stranger,” she said forcefully, the gun barrel in full view. “Speak your piece.”

“I need a place to harbor for the night. It’s settin’ to storm out there and my horse is averse to getting wet. Can I use your shed for shelter?”

Erin squinted in the twilight, unable to see his features. “Take off your hat, mister.”

He obeyed, his fingers long against the wide brim. The other hand rose to sweep through his hair, combing it back with a casual movement.

Her gaze swept over him, the long length of his body apparent even astride the big horse. He was deeply tanned from what she could tell, dark hair hanging to his collar, a somber look about his features. A long gun in a scabbard alongside his saddle was the only visible weapon, though she doubted if it was the only one he carried.

“Get down, mister. I’ll leave a plate of cornbread on the porch for you. You can stay the night, but I don’t have an empty stall. Your horse will have to be tied to the wall.”

He nodded. “Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll appreciate the meal. It’s been a long time since noon.”

“You come up the mountain from Pine Creek?” she asked, suspicion rife in her tone.

He shook his head. “No, across from Big Bertha on the other side.”

The mine was about played out, but there were still men working it. Maybe he’d been let go, like so many others, once the mother lode had ceased to produce in any measure. The clerk in the store at Pine Creek had filled her in on the surrounding territory when she arrived, and Erin had listened avidly. It paid to know her surroundings.

“All right, you can stay the night,” she repeated abruptly, closing the door as he turned toward the shed.

Drawing the pan of cornbread from the oven, she cut a large square, centering it on a thick plate, one of the two that had come with the cabin. A dollop of butter at the edge of the plate, along with a knife and fork, completed her offering. She opened the door slowly and bent to place the food at the edge of the porch, once ascertaining he was not in view.

“On second thought.” she said after a moment, turning back to the stove. Her common courtesy demanded more, and she filled a mug with steaming coffee from the pot resting on the back burner.

As she opened the door again, the visitor looked up from the edge of the porch, his hand reaching for the plate. His eyes were dark, narrowing as the light from inside illuminated his face.

“Ma’am? Something wrong?” he asked. And then his mouth twisted into a one-sided smile as he spotted the cup she held.

She stepped warily from the doorway, holding the coffee in his direction, and he took it from her, his fingers careful not to infringe on her grip.

“Thank you. It’s most appreciated.” His eyes widened a bit as he scanned her form, then hesitated as his gaze came to rest on her swollen belly.

“You all right, up here by yourself?” he asked quietly.

“What makes you think I’m alone?” she asked, backing into the cabin. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks felt flushed, and she leaned against the doorjamb.

“Dunno. Guess I took it for granted. Didn’t see a man around. Not much room in there to hide anybody, is there?” His smile was wider, but his look was unchanging, dark and piercing.

“I do all right, mister. Just go eat your meal.” She closed the door and leaned against it, her head back. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for, this stranger at her doorstep.

She’d hoped for solitude here, prayed for safety and expected to be ignored. No one back east knew where she was. Even the man at the store thought she was a widow lady named Mrs. Peterson. That he also probably thought she was a bit eccentric, maybe even unbalanced, living alone on the side of a mountain all winter, could not be avoided.

Her cornbread tasted flat, the coffee strong, and the milk she drank was too warm to be refreshing.

“You ruined my supper, mister,” she muttered, turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp before she readied herself for bed. Her flannel gown was big, bought large enough to accommodate her increasing bulk, and she wrapped it around herself as she curled in the middle of the bed.

The window allowed moonlight to cast its glow against the floor, and she watched as shadows flitted across the glass panes. An owl, from the size of it, then another night bird. Leaves from the hardwoods at the edge of the clearing would be on the ground by morning, what with the wind blowing up a storm.

Her eyes closed and she opened them with effort, hearing a horse call from the shed. Maybe the chicken would cluck outside the door and he’d let her in. Probably wasn’t cold enough to freeze the creature, anyway.

The morning dawned with a red glow, the sun behind hazy clouds, barely peeking through. It hadn’t rained much, but there was a storm still brewing out there.

Erin dressed quickly before she turned to the stove, shaking down the ashes and stoking the fire with three chunks of wood. She set six thick slices of bacon in her skillet and placed it on the back burner, the coffeepot, freshly filled with water and ground coffee, at the front.

She broke an egg into the pot, added the shell and closed the lid. The thought of a stranger coming had taken on a lesser feel of danger. He probably meant well. Coming at twilight, and being built on such a grand scale, he’d appeared to be a threat, right off. He might look less forbidding in the light of day.

She separated the milk and put a pitcher of cream on the table, then poured the skim into the bucket. It broke her heart to pour it on the ground, but the little Jersey was a good milker and she had more than she could use. The cream she shook in a jar for butter, and she managed to drink over a quart of whole milk a day. Still, some went to waste.

At the rate she was going, she’d be fatter than a pig by the time the baby came. Her hand pressed against the familiar rounding of her belly, and a small foot shifted, meeting her touch. A smile nudged her lips and she acknowledged the possessive thrill that shivered through her at the evidence of the miniature being inside her flesh.

He didn’t move much, not as much as she’d expected or hoped, but each twitch, every tiny kick, was a reminder of her reason for being alive. She was bearing a child, a living extension of herself.

Her mouth drew down. That it should also be a reminder of the man she had married could not be helped. Damian Wentworth had been a two-faced—

She shivered. Better that she not think of him.

Her warm sweater buttoned up to the throat, she lifted the pail and set forth. First to the edge of the clearing, where she poured the leftover milk upon the ground. Then to the outdoor pump, where she rinsed and scrubbed out the pail.

Finally she turned to the shed. The door was open, and she blinked in surprise. Surely it had been shut when she ventured from the cabin.

“Good morning, ma’am.” From behind her, near the outhouse, came the voice of her guest.

She turned, a bit awkwardly, and faced him. He was even larger than she’d realized from her vantage point on the porch last night, with him on the ground below. He towered over her and she watched warily as he waited, unmoving.

“I didn’t know you were stirring already this morning,” she said after a moment. She watched as a half smile curved his mouth. He needed a shave, dark whiskers hiding half his face, suddenly making him appear a danger once more.

“I tend to be quiet, I suppose,” he said, apparently in lieu of an apology for startling her. His eyes met hers and he cleared his throat. “I’d be more than willing to help with the chores. Maybe I could earn another cup of coffee.”

“You know how to milk a cow?”

His grin turned wry. “Afraid not, ma’am. But I’m handy with horses. I could probably even gather up the eggs, if you like.” He chuckled. “That scallywag of a hen of yours woke me up before dawn, wanting back in the shed.”

Erin felt a smile crease her face, unbidden, but perhaps welcome. “I usually give the horses a good measure of hay at night. I try to stake them out in the morning, when the weather’s good.”

“The cow, too?” he asked.

She nodded. “After I milk her. The chickens can run free for the morning. They Won’t go far. I don’t feed them till afternoon. When they hear the feed rattling in the tin pan, they come running.”

“You come from farm folk?” he asked, turning to lead the way to the shed.

“No, from city people, actually.”

At least she told the truth there, he thought with satisfaction. Best to keep your story as straight as possible, he’d always felt. Less confusing that way.

“How long you been here on your own?”

She looked up at him, then glanced away, as if not willing to…answer his query.

“A while,” she said finally, reaching to open the shed door. It creaked mightily and she shoved at it.

“Here, I’ll do that.” He eased her to one side, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand on her arm, then backed away.

The cow lowed impatiently, looking over her shoulder as the young woman approached. It was time and past for milking, her solemn expression said, and in answer Erin went to her, speaking softly, her hands touching the pretty face.

“I’m here, Daisy. Did you think I forgot you?” Her low, musical laugh was misplaced here, he decided. It belonged over a tea table, or better yet, in a bedroom. That image flashed in his mind unbidden, and he suppressed it quickly, irritated with himself, even as he admired her dark hair and elegant features. He’d been too long abstinent when a pregnant woman held this much appeal.

“The cow’s name is Daisy?” he asked, steering his mind in another direction.

She nodded. “I’ve named most everything. The mare is Socks and the gelding is Choreboy.”

“Not the chickens?” His voice held a touch of humor, almost as if he expected an affirmative answer.

She cast him a look over her shoulder as she moved to put the milking stool in place. “I’m not that lonesome, mister. I can refrain from calling chickens by name.”

“What shall I call you?” He ventured the query as she settled herself on the low stool, and he watched warily lest she tip the three-legged seat.

Her hesitation was minute, but he noted it, making a bet with himself on her degree of honesty. She was having a hard time keeping her stories straight. Between New York and Denver she’d used six different names.

“I’m Erin Peterson,” she said quietly, her forehead leaning against the soft brown hide of her cow.

Make that seven. “Are you?” he mused.

She glanced up at him, her eyes watchful.