The Tender Stranger

“Pretty name.” His nod was friendly, his smile bland.

“You have a name, I assume?”

He nodded. “My mama called me Quinn Yarborough, after my pa.”

“Really? Where was he from?” Her fingers were adept at the milking chore. He figured she’d had three months to perfect the task. The milk squirted in a satisfactory manner against the walls of the pail and the odor was almost sweet.

“Pa came from Scotland. My mother was a farmer’s daughter in New York. They settled in upstate New York, where I was born.”

“What are you doing in Colorado?” she asked, shifting on the stool a bit, her dress tucked between her legs, making room for the pail. She lifted a hand to wipe her forehead, where wisps of dark hair had fallen from place.

“Gold.” It was as good an answer as any, he decided. Probably better than most. Gold miners were scattered throughout the mountains like ants on a rotten log, running every which way, looking for sustenance.

She peered at him over her shoulder. “Find any?”

His grin was automatic. “Sure enough. The mother lode, as a matter of fact.”

His smile faded. She wouldn’t appreciate the humor of that statement, should she know of what he spoke. The money he would gain from her capture was minimal. The satisfaction would far outweigh the monetary gain.

Damian Wentworth had been his boyhood friend, both of them living in the same household. And there the similarity ended.

The Wentworths were high society. Quinn Yarborough’s mother had been their housekeeper, a job she found after her farmer husband died at a young age and left her to raise a son on her own.

In those early years, Damian had shared his toys, his pets and his waking hours with the housekeeper’s son. Then, when the time came, they had parted, Damian to attend a fine university, Quinn to make his own way in the world.

They’d lost touch, only an occasional article in the newspaper keeping Quinn up to date. First the notice of Damian’s wedding, then three years later, an obituary. Sudden death was always suspect, in Quinn’s book.

The young woman frowned at him, her tone dubious as she questioned his claim. “You found the mother lode? I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “When you’re working for someone else, you don’t get your proper share, you know. I made a bundle, and since I wasn’t lookin’ to be a rich man, it was time to skedaddle. Men have been known to be killed for less than what I carry with me.”

“Aren’t you afraid to spread that news around?” Her fingers were brisk, stripping the milk from the small cow’s udder, and she concentrated on her task.

“The only person I’ve told is you, and somehow I don’t think you’re about to rob me blind.”

She laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You’re probably right, Mr. Yarborough. I’m not much of a threat to anyone.”

She rose from the stool and bent to pick it up, placing it by the wall. Her hand snatched the pail from disaster as the cow shifted position, one back hoof coming precariously close to the bucket.

“What would happen if you got hurt out here, all by yourself?” he asked quietly, aware suddenly of her risky situation.

“These animals are no danger to me,” she answered. “I tend to fear more the two-legged variety that happen this way.”

“Like me?” He took the bucket from her and carried it to the doorway. She followed, into the daylight where he could see her better.

She leveled a glance at him, unsmiling. “You could have hurt me already, if you’d a mind to, Mr. Yarborough. Let the chickens out and stake the horses and cow, will you? I’d like them to graze a bit before the storm hits.”

She took the milk from his grasp, making her way to the cabin, slowly, lest the milk slosh over the edge of the pail. Daisy had given more than usual this morning. Jerseys were not known for quantity of milk, rather the richness of the cream. She’d have plenty for rice pudding today.

“I didn’t plan on having breakfast, Mrs. Peterson.” He’d managed to put away two bowls of oatmeal, swimming in rich cream. The bacon was a little old, but better than none at all. She must be about ready to go to town for supplies.

He said as much.

“Winter’s coming on,” she admitted. “I’ll need to stock up. Things will keep better once it gets colder out.”

“I’d be happy to give you a hand with supplies before I move along.” He leaned back in his chair, the casual suggestion coming as if it were of no account one way or the other.

She looked at him across the table, her face flushed from the heat of the stove. “You mean, go to town with me? And wouldn’t that make me the talk of Pine Creek?”

His jaw tightened, and he felt the clench of it narrow his gaze. “Not with me around, ma’am. I’d not treat you as anything but a lady. Any man with eyes in his head could see that you might need a hand, getting ready for winter.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her mouth thinned, and she bent over her bowl.

“You sending me on my way?”

She looked up, and her eyes skimmed his features, as if she looked for assurance of his credibility. “Not till after the storm,” she said finally, waving her spoon at the window. “It looks like it’s going to blow up very soon now.”

The sky had indeed darkened, the trees being whipped by the wind. He rose and walked to the door, opening it to look outside. The chickens gathered in a clutch near the shed, pecking away at anything that moved, clucking softly as they stepped carefully about in a tight circle.

A shimmering flash of lightning lit the sky across the valley below, and a crack of thunder met his ears. The cow lifted her head from the edge of the meadow and lowed impatiently. The horses shifted their ears, grazing as if they must eat their fill before the rain came down.

Behind him, Erin stirred, her chair scraping across the rough floor. He set his jaw. Getting her to town was taken care of. From there to New York promised to present a multitude of problems.

The cow would be left on her own, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d take the horses and enough supplies to get them through the mountain passes. It would take a couple of days to reach Denver, with her being a good size already.

Ted Wentworth was a sly one, all right. Not one word about the girl being in the family way. Whether that would have made a difference or not was a moot question, Quinn decided. He was here now. And if he were making a guess, he’d say she was well past the halfway mark.

“Mr. Yarborough?” She was behind him, and he turned to face her.

“Don’t you think the animals should be brought in? I’d not like them to be hit by lightning.” She moved to the window and looked outside. Her hand was pressed against her back and she wore the trace of a frown.

“I’ll get them in,” he told her quickly

“I’ll help.” She turned away from the sight of lightning, and winced as the thunder clapped overhead.

“You stay indoors.” There was no sense in her trotting to the meadow and back, hauling animals around. The dumb Chickens would no doubt be glad of the chance to get inside once he opened the door. The rest he could handle in ten minutes.

She didn’t argue, and he left with a last glance in her direction. She was pale, biting her lip, and if he was any judge at all, he’d say she was hurting.

The pain was back, this time a little harder, spreading from her front to the back, where it gripped with a tenacious hold on her spine. She’d had it several times lately, but this was the worst, and without any reason she could see. No bending, stretching or lifting to bring it on. Just a sudden hot flash of pain that took her breath.

She sat down carefully and leaned her head forward, cradling it with her arms against the hard table. The baby hadn’t moved much lately, and it worried her. Her eyes were damp with tears, and she held them back ruthlessly. She would not cry, not now, not with that man here to see.

She stood, the pain easing a bit. The dishes were a small matter, barely taking up space in the dishpan. Her utensils were sparse—only a skillet, a stew pot and a tin for pone. They soaked in warm water from the stove, her big kettle always heating. She’d had to pack lightly, coming here, but fortunately, old Mr. Gleason had left behind everything he owned.

None of his belongings had been clean, but she knew how to scrub and scour, and the place was as tidy as she could make it. She’d bought lye to make soap and followed the directions from the storekeeper’s mother.

Quite a pioneer she’d become, she thought with a smile. There, the pain was gone. Just a random hitch in her back, she decided, relieved as she bent and twisted a bit, only to find it vanished.

Another flash of lightning lit the inside of the cabin, and she shivered as the thunder cracked ominously on its heels. From outside a sharp whinny sounded, and she caught sight of Quinn Yarborough striding across the meadow with two horses in tow. They were cavorting, their ears back as they reared against the restraint of the lines he held.

He drew them in, and within seconds had them close to the shed. As he opened the door, the hens fluttered and squawked, fighting to get inside. He followed them in, the horses eager to be out of the weather.

Erin moved to the porch, looking anxiously to where her cow was staked. Quinn’s big stallion tugged at his tether just beyond Daisy, and in no time at all Quinn had run across the yard and onto the meadow to snatch their lead ropes from the stakes he’d driven into the ground.

The stallion pranced sideways and Daisy lowed piteously, both of them apparently fearful of the coming storm. The sky opened and a cloudburst hit the man and beasts without warning. One moment it was windy and dark, bulging clouds scudding across a lowering sky. The next, they had opened and poured out their burden.

Within a minute, Quinn had hightailed his charges inside the shed and the door had slid shut. And just that quickly, the rainstorm changed, turning to a steady but softly falling shower.

Quinn opened the shed door and looked across the yard at her. She’d backed up against the house, only the shallow porch roof sheltering her, and he frowned, waving his hand.

“Go on in the cabin,” he called. “I’ll be right in.”

“Bossy!” She sniffed her irritation at the man. They were all alike, wanting to tell the women around them what to do. Almost as bad as Damian Wentworth had been. Certainly as bad as his father.

Just stay here, with us. It’s what Damian would have wanted. We’ll take care of you, he’d said, his arrogance matching that of his late son.

And take care of her they would have. But all they wanted was the baby, of that she was certain. She’d have been out in the cold once the baby was born, had she stayed.

And if she knew anything about it, they were probably scouring the country for her, even now.

Men! It would be forever before she was ready to allow another one to run her life. The memory of harsh hands and cruel words was too fresh to be forgotten, and she had determined to put the past behind her and form a new life for herself and her child.

The sight of Quinn Yarborough’s long legs jumping over the worst of the low spots in the yard brought her to herself, and Erin opened the door for him. He paused at her side on the porch, glaring at her damp cheeks, where an occasional raindrop had blown beneath her shelter.

“I told you to go inside.” He stripped off the soaking wet shirt he wore and shed his boots, picking them up to carry them within. Then he waited for her to step through the doorway ahead of him.

“So you did. I don’t take orders well.”

His look was shot with wry humor. “I noticed.” He moved to the stove, pulling a length of twine from his pocket. A line from one wall to the other was quickly strung and he laid his shirt over it. His boots stood in front of the oven door, and he looked at Erin with the first trace of uncertainty she’d seen on his face.

“I want to strip off my pants to dry. Do you mind?”

She shook her head and walked to the window, giving him the privacy he’d asked for. She’d lit the kerosene lamp earlier, and now its glow permeated corners of the small room.

It wasn’t until she’d gazed for several moments out into the rain that she realized the window was acting much like a mirror, and his every move was apparent to her view.

Quinn was stripping her quilt from the bed to wrap around himself, and she caught a glimpse of his tall frame and an abundance of pale flesh as he did so.

Her cheeks flaming, she closed her eyes, bending her head forward to rest against the glass pane. “Oh, dear!” The whisper was soft but fervent, barely discernible.

“Mrs. Peterson? Erin? Are you all right?” His murmur was low, the warmth of his big body directly behind her, and she drew in a deep breath.

How had she gotten into this mess?

Chapter Two

She watched his approach in the windowpane, as he moved behind her in the room. Then warm hands gripped her shoulders and Erin stifled the urge to relax beneath their weight. For too long she had been building her courage to remain isolated from the world. She could not allow the presence of this man to make her soften, dependent once more on others.

“Erin?” He repeated her name and his fingers shifted, turning her to face him.

She shrugged, a gesture meant to rid herself of his touch, but to no avail. Her feet moved at his bidding and she looked up into eyes that searched hers.

“I’m fine, just worrying about the animals, I suppose.”

He laughed, a muted chuckle, and shook his head. “They’re about as well off as we are. The shed’s pretty weathertight. You’d do better to worry about yourself. That wind’s blowin’ rain under the eaves. It’s my guess our feet’ll be getting wet before we know it.”

She glanced down to where the door met the floor. A thin line of water had formed along the crack and begun to invade the room. Even as she watched, it widened and seeped forward, the boards darkening from the dampness.

“I’ll get a towel,” she said quickly, tugging herself from his grip.

“Hold on! Tell me where to look. I’ll take care of it.”

He pulled a chair from the table and lowered her onto it, allowing no excuse. His hands were firm, and Erin subsided quietly. She’d not had anyone show this degree of concern for her well-being in longer than she could remember, save for the storekeeper in the town below.

“In the box beside the bed,” she directed. Probably one towel wouldn’t do the trick, she decided, watching as the water crept into the room. “You might have to use more than one.”

“You got that many to spare?” he asked, bending to locate the designated box.

“Four, but I’d rather keep at least one of them dry.”

“There were some burlap bags in the shed. Too bad you didn’t store them in here.”

“They were here to start with,” she said with a downturning of her mouth. “In fact, this whole place was cluttered with more junk.” She shook her head as the memory filled her mind. “The former owner was something of a pack rat, I found. I cleared his trash out the first day I arrived.”

One hand held the quilt high off the floor as he pushed the towel against the threshold with the other. Then he turned to face her. “How long have you owned this place?”

She hesitated, wary at his interest. “Three months,” she said reluctantly.

“I’m curious. You’re a beautiful woman, living on the edge of nowhere all alone. Why.”

“You’re old enough to know how to contain your curiosity. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to ask personal questions?” She attempted to insert a note of humor, but the words sounded stark and ungiving to her ears.

He nodded. “Yes, and she probably would be ashamed of my manners right now. I beg your pardon, ma’am. There are more of us, people like you and me, than I could begin to count, living in the present and trying to forget the past. The West is full of folks looking for a new life.”

“I’d rather not speak of the past,” Erin told him, more gently, since he’d deigned to apologize.

“Your choice.” His nod was almost genteel, and she answered it with a like gesture.

She felt the heat of his gaze as he faced her, his eyes skimming her face before his mouth twitched in an admiring grin. “Is there any coffee left in the pot?” he asked, turning to the stove. “Let me get you some.”

Erin rose, needing respite from those eyes that regarded her so freely. She shook her head, denying his offer. “I’ll get it. You need to hang your britches over that line. They’ll never get dry, there on the floor. Either that or drape them over the chair in front of the oven door.”

“You’re right. My other things are in the shed, and I don’t think the weather is going to break for a while. I’m reduced to the quilt, it seems, for now.” He bent, picking up the pants he’d shed, and spread them across the back of the second chair. The underwear he draped on the line, which by now was drooping precariously close to the stove.

“I’ll add some wood,” Erin said. “I need to put my soup on to cook for dinner.” She poured a cup of steaming coffee for Quinn and motioned to the cream. “There’s plenty if you’d like some to lighten up the flavor. It’s pretty strong.”

He nodded and splashed a dollop into his cup, watching her as she dug potatoes from a sack she’d hung from the rafters. “Don’t you think we sound pretty formal for a pair of refugees from a storm, sharing your cabin, me wearing your quilt?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re the refugee. As soon as the storm is over, you’ll be gone.”

He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. “I’ve been thinking about that. You know, I’d feel a lot better if you agreed to let me stay on at least long enough to help you with the supplies, like I mentioned before.”

She turned back to the potatoes, considering his offer. To all appearances, he seemed to be a gentleman, though what such a creature was doing roaming the mountains of Colorado was another puzzle. Perhaps he was a miner. Perhaps.

“Did you work the mines for a long time?” she asked, depositing three potatoes on the table. Knife in hand, she began peeling them, awaiting his reply.

“Long enough to know it wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.” His tone was dry, his mouth twisted in a grin. Leaning back in his chair, he allowed the quilt to slide from his shoulders, freeing both arms. “How about you? Were you born in Denver?”

She shook her head. “No, back east.”

“St. Louis?” he prodded.

The man was downright irritating, she decided. Him with all his talk about good manners. “No.” Her reply was a single syllable, firm and to the point.

He ducked his head, hiding a grin, almost.

“I’m a widow. I’m going to have a child, and I like living alone. Does that answer all your questions?”

“No, ma’am, it sure doesn’t. But I suspect that’s all I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

“If I wanted to be neighborly I’d have found a place with houses on either side of me,” she said quietly. “I came here to be alone, Quinn.”

“Just one more question, Erin? Please?”

She looked up at him. He was about as persistent a man as she’d ever met up with. “Just one,” she said finally.

“Who’s going to help you when the baby comes?” His playful look was gone. Even the admiring light was dimmed as his eyes darkened with concern.

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 rose. “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. And of all the godforsaken spots she could have come up with, she’d ended up on the side of a mountain west of Denver. How ironic.

She laughed, a strained sound that made him wince.

“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.

Yet for the life of him, for whatever reason, he’d lost any incentive he had to cart her back to New York. For the first time in years he found himself willing to put his own needs and concerns on the back burner. All in the interests of a pregnant woman who had a past—but not much of a future, from what he could see.

Erin moved quickly, rinsing the potatoes at the pump, then slicing them into a pan, ignoring the sound of his voice speaking her name. The last of the bacon was cut into small pieces, then dropped into the skillet to fry up. An onion, chopped with rapid slashes of her knife, joined the bacon and sizzled in the grease.

“Erin? I have an idea. Why don’t you hear me out?” So quickly his thoughts had spun out of control. Watching her, listening to her, he’d already juggled his plans twice. Now Quinn was about to commit himself in a new measure, perhaps allow a time of grace in which to consider the woman.

She stirred the bacon in the skillet, her back straight, only the proud tilt of her head making him aware that she listened to his words.

“I’ll take you to town and help you get supplies, then bring you back here. That’ll give you a bit of space to maneuver, not having to do it on your own.”

“You’ve already made that offer,” she said crisply.

“But you never gave me an answer,” he reminded her.

“Let me think about it.”

He drained the coffee cup and rose, walking to the window. “It’s not going to let up much. I think we’re stuck inside for a while.”

“Do you like rice pudding?”

“My mother used to make it for a special treat when I was a boy,” he said, his memory of that time fresh in his mind as he spoke the words.

“I’ve got a lot of milk and eggs to use up. We’ll have some for dinner.”

“I hope the rain lets up in time for you to milk Daisy tonight. She won’t be happy if she has to wait till morning.”

Erin turned from the stove. “I’11 have to go out there, rainy or not. 1 couldn’t do that to the poor thing. I can’t imagine anything more cruel.”

Which was what he’d had in mind earlier, he reminded himself. Leaving the cow to fend for herself while he hustled her owner down the mountain and back to the big city. He traced a circle on the steamy glass of the window. It seemed that this issue was going to be more complicated than he’d thought at first.

Even if he went through with his original plan, there would be no carrying her off from here without a bit more forethought involved. She wasn’t in any shape for him to instigate a battle. In fact, fighting with the girl was not what he had in mind. That image brought a sense of shame to the surface.

If he were to follow his baser instincts, Quinn’s hands would touch more than her shoulders. His eyes would do more than take in the beauty of her profile, the soft, tempting fall of hair that caught shimmering highlights from the lantern.

How he could so easily overlook the rounding evidence of her impending motherhood was beyond him. He’d never thought to find a woman in her condition so all-fired appealing. And yet she was. More so, in fact, than any other female he’d come across in years.

If Ted Wentworth could only see him today, within arm’s reach of his quarry and unable to commit himself to her capture. Forty-eight hours ago, two short days past, he had been hot on her trail and ready to roll back to Denver, Erin Wentworth in hand.

Quinn’s common sense told him he’d had no concept of a woman in Erin’s condition. He could no more sling her on a horse and head down the mountain than he could flap his arms and fly. There didn’t seem to be any way out of it. He’d have to let Ted Wentworth know what was going on, and then make plans to winter here. At least until Erin had the baby and they were both ready to travel.