Praise for Carolyn Davidson

“Carolyn Davidson creates such vivid images,

you’d think she was using paints

instead of words.”

— Bestselling author Pamela Morsi

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in

the midst of heart-wrenching challenges.”

— Publishers Weekly

Redemption “[An] unflinching inquiry into the serious issues of the day.” — Booklist

Oklahoma Sweetheart “Like Dorothy Garlock, Davidson does not stint on the gritty side of romance, but keeps the tender, heart-tugging aspects of her story in the forefront. This novel is filled with compassion and understanding for characters facing hardship and hatred and still finding joy in love and life.” — Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Marriage by Chance “This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skilful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.” — Romantic Times BOOKreviews

She was lovely, and definitely not what he’d expected when he’d heard of an Indian woman living alone beyond the edge of town.

She couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty years. Her dress clung to her form, and the black hair she’d flung over her shoulders formed a dark cape that hung past her waist.

She carried two sacks, one in either hand, hefting them easily. Tyler felt a heaviness in his groin as he watched her approach the house, and fought it with a sense of scorn. He wasn’t here to take advantage of a woman, but to find a sanctuary of sorts. At least for a week or so.

Her footsteps were silent as she walked across the porch and the sound of the door opening seemed magnified in the stillness of the night. He moved swiftly to stand behind the door as it opened…and waited.

Reading, writing and research – Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel – her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.

I love brides…grooms, too, for that matter. And none are so precious to me as brides and grooms within our own family. My son Jon has given three of his four daughters to the men of their choice during the past year or so, and our family has become all the richer for their presence as couples in the far-reaching web of the Davidson clan.

So to the three beloved grandchildren who have newly entered the realm of marriage, an institution of which I am very fond, I’d like to dedicate this book, with its own message of prevailing over the hardships life has to offer to those embarking on this course. To Rachel and David, karen and Rob, and finally to Jennifer and Tom, I offer my best wishes as a grandmother and a veteran of marriage. May God richly bless your unions, and may His presence be alive in the years you spend together.

And, as always, I dedicate my work to my own love, the man who has been a beloved companion and has devoted himself to me for many years…to Mr Ed, who loves me.

Dear Reader,

As a writer I enjoy travelling in new directions, and writing this book was indeed a switch for me. I have the greatest respect for those who lived in the great land of America before my forefathers ventured to the shores. I thought long and hard before deciding to attempt the telling of a story that would reveal some small part of the Native Americans and the impact they have had on individuals – those who knew them and those who joined with them in marriage, thus increasing the blend in the melting pot of our country.

Debra Nightsong was a very special heroine to me. She was strong, a woman of her people who chose to live her life with a man of another race, and did it well. The union she formed with Ethan Tyler changed her life, changed her as a woman and sent her on an adventure like no other. Unions such as Debra’s with Ethan form the complex civilisation we live in in America, for such marriages seem to produce strong people, perhaps blending within them the finest of both races. And, like Debra, each of us has our own story to tell, an adventure that is ours alone, one I feel we are compelled to pass on to the generations who will follow. I hope my story will appeal to all of my readers, and that your hearts will open to those who are a result of marriages such as that of Debra and Ethan. For beneath the skin we are all brothers.

Carolyn Davidson

The Outlaw’s Bride
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

Holly Hill, The Dakota Territory June 1888

STEALING A HORSE was guaranteed to give a man sleepless nights. And Ethan Tyler was no exception. Only the fact that the poor nag should have long since been put out to pasture aided his insomnia, but the fact that he’d taken another man’s animal weighed heavily on his mind. He was tired of running—it was time to call a halt and make decisions.

Even as he rode the trail from Holly Hill to the small farm he sought, he thought of the man who was even now missing his nag and his conscience bothered him with the theft he’d committed. Sending the horse back to town would be a problem, but one he’d figure out one way or another.

With that settled, Tyler looked ahead toward the farmhouse he’d been told was just three miles from town, at the end of a long lane, shaded by tall trees. A woman lived there, alone and unprotected. A woman whose parentage was in question, some saying she had a native mother, an unknown father and was probably no better than she should be. Others said she was to be respected, a woman alone, no matter her heritage.

Whichever she was, Tyler knew he could prevail upon her to hide him, for how long he didn’t know, but at least he would convince her that he needed a hiding place for a while, and his skills at working around a farm would pay her well for her help.

He rode as quickly as the nag he’d borrowed would allow, hoping against hope that his arrival would preface hers by at least an hour. He needed time to put his horse behind the barn, should there be one, break in to her house and then lie in wait for her to arrive. His senses told him he was being followed and it was time to go to ground.

He would be gentle with her, for she was no doubt a crone, a woman of years who kept to herself and lived quietly. A grandmotherly sort, he imagined, a woman set in her ways, but perhaps thankful for a helping hand for a short while. Not a woman who would tempt him to abandon his celibate lifestyle for want of her charms.

He rode down the narrow lane toward her holdings, admiring the clean lines of her buildings, the neatly kept yard and the buildings surrounding it. There was a shed, less than a barn, but a sturdy structure, and a smoke house, side by side with another small structure, probably a milk house or corncrib.

The house was a typical farmhouse, with a wide porch and windows that looked out upon the backyard. Ridiculously simple to break in to, he thought, sliding a kitchen window upward without much nudging. He climbed within, relishing the scent of the bread she must have baked this morning. Before she went to town and left herself open to a scalawag such as he, a man who climbed through her window and into her house, awaiting her return.

The sun had set, painting the sky with soft colors, promising fair weather for tomorrow, and he waited, his patience long, his stomach well tended by the loaf of bread he found on the kitchen cabinet. Old or not, the woman could bake bread, he thought, and then tensed as he heard the sound of a horse, the soft whicker that sounded from the yard.

He rose and stood by the window.

The woman rode astride, defying the rules society back east had set down for a female on a horse. No saddle darkened the back of the golden mare she rode, only the flowing skirt that hung halfway down her legs, catching the breeze as she rode. Double saddlebags lay across the animal’s rump, apparently balanced there, for they did not depend on a saddle to hold them in place.

As Tyler watched from the window in her house, she brought the horse to a halt there in the first light of the moon, never touching her reins. Only the pressure of her knees against the animal’s sides caused the mare to slow her rapid pace and then stand, head lowered, next to the watering trough.

In a smooth motion, the rider slid to the ground, exposing a slender thigh as her dress pulled up, then she approached the horse’s head, rubbing her knuckles against the mare’s long nose, speaking to the animal as she removed the bit and bridle from the pale horse. The mare bent her long neck gracefully and drank from the trough, her rider waiting patiently. And then they were headed for the small stable that sat in utter darkness just beyond an enclosed chicken coop, the mare following her mistress as might a faithful pet. The woman’s dress swayed against her body, exposing moccasins beneath its hem.

The barn door was opened and the woman and her mare went inside. In less than five minutes, the slender female emerged, tossed her dark hair back and lifted her face to the skies. The glow of moonlight illuminated her and Tyler inhaled sharply.

She was lovely, and definitely not what he’d expected when he’d heard of an Indian woman living alone beyond the edge of town. She couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty years. Her dress clung to her form, and the black hair she’d flung over her shoulders formed a dark cape that hung past her waist. She carried two sacks, one in either hand, hefting them easily. Tyler felt a heaviness in his groin as he watched her approach the house, and fought it with a sense of scorn. He wasn’t here to take advantage of a woman, but to find a sanctuary of sorts. At least for a week or so.

Her footsteps were silent as she walked across the porch and the sound of the door opening seemed magnified in the stillness of the night. He moved swiftly to stand behind the door as it opened…and waited.

DEBRA SLIPPED HER FEET from the moccasins she wore, kicking them to one side of the open kitchen door, then stepped inside and pushed the heavy portal closed behind her.

Without warning, a rough hand covered her mouth, forcing her head against a solid wall of muscle, and the burlap sacks of foodstuffs she’d been carrying landed on the floor beside her. A powerful arm circled her waist, and held her firmly.

From behind the door, where he’d apparently been lying in wait, a tall figure shadowed her. He’d hidden there, and now he had the advantage over her. She was, of necessity, silent, his hand not allowing her mouth to open. But she could fight soundlessly, and her hands reached back over her head, fingers curved and aimed at his face.

She felt a fingernail dig deeply into flesh, and the indrawn breath of the man who held her. With a quick move he captured both her hands and drew them behind her back, turning her in his arms to face him.

“Hold still, ma’am. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll be all right.”

His voice was graveled, rough and deep. She’d never felt less secure in her life, and he had the nerve to tell her that all was well. She stiffened in his grip, her breath rasping in her lungs, as she forced her bruised lips to open.

“I doubt anyone could hear you shout or cry out,” he said mockingly, looking down at her from dark eyes that were barely visible in the light of the moon and stars from the windows. “You’ve chosen to live alone, a mile from the nearest neighbor, and let me tell you, that isn’t a safe choice for a woman by herself.”

“I have no intention of calling for help, you bastard!” she whispered. “What do you want with me? Or is that a stupid question?” A vision of violence filled her mind, with herself as the victim, and she shivered as if a wintry chill had passed down her spine.

“I’ve already told you that I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said quietly. “You certainly weren’t what I expected to find here. You’re only a girl.”

His voice rang with disgust, and he shook his head, as if denying his thoughts. “I just need a place to stay for a few days. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

She laughed scornfully. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. You’re too big to sweep under the rug, and I have nowhere to keep you. I only have one bed in the house. It belongs to me.”

“Have you never heard of sharing?” A touch of humor, bordering on teasing, colored his voice, and he allowed his index finger the privilege of tracing a line down her cheek. She pulled away from the touch, shivering as the rough pad of his finger took stock of her smooth flesh.

“I don’t share my bed with anyone,” she said adamantly. “If you insist on sleeping in the bed, I’ll take the floor. I spent a lot of years without a mattress beneath me. Another night won’t hurt me.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there,” he insisted firmly. “You’ll be where I can reach you. And I’ll warn you right now, I’m a light sleeper. One move out of you and I’ll be on you like a bear on a honey tree.”

Somehow the picture that brought to mind lacked much, Debra decided. For a moment she wished fervently that she’d stayed in town with the storekeeper’s daughter. The invitation had been given in an undertone, while Mr. Anderson was with a customer, and Debra had shaken her head, knowing that, if she were discovered in her friend’s bedroom, there’d be hell to pay. And she’d be the one paying it.

A half-breed was tolerated in town, so long as she had enough money to pay for her purchases at the general store, but there could never be any friendships formed. Julia was the exception, having made it her business to drive her buggy out of town on the occasional Sunday afternoon, finding her way to Debra’s small holding.

Now there was no choice, no friend to keep her company through the night, only this stranger who appeared even more menacing as he warned her of the night to come.

“Do you have anything to tend to before you go to bed?” he asked.

“The cow will need milking, the horses will need feeding, and my food must be put up. I ate in town and the chickens were fed this afternoon.”

He bent and picked up the bundles beside her, and she took them from him, feeling the warmth of his hands against hers. “Who are you?” she asked, wanting the truth from him, but not expecting to hear it.

“My name is Tyler.”

“Tyler as your first name or your last?” she asked.

“Just Tyler,” he said with finality. “Now put away your foodstuffs.”

“I’ll light the lamp,” she said, walking toward the table, over which hung her kerosene lantern.

“No light,” he said quickly. “I’ll warrant you can find a place to stash your food in the dark.”

“There’s no one around to see the light,” she told him, aggravated at being a prisoner of this man. Whatever he planned, it boded no good for her, she’d already decided.

He chose not to argue with her, apparently, for he simply waited as Debra opened the sacks on the kitchen table, feeling the familiar items within. Coffee, peaches, a tin of sugar, lard in a five-pound can, a bit of bacon and a sack of flour. With quick steps, only the faint light of moon and stars to guide her, she carried them into the small pantry, putting them in place on the almost empty shelves.

“Now we’ll go out and tend your cow.” His voice was low, his touch firm against her arm as he steered her toward the back door. She walked ahead of him, knowing her cow would be miserable if she were not relieved of her milk tonight.

Outdoors, the moon was high in the sky, illuminating the rough path to her barn—realistically more a shed, she thought, as the structure loomed before them. Her cow lowed impatiently from her stall, and Debra pushed the door aside, entering the dark, musty stable, able to find her way by touch, so familiar was she with the contents of the building. Her milking pail was covered by a towel, just inside the door, the three-legged stool she used beside it.

She bent to them, picking them up as she neared the stall where her Jersey cow waited. In moments she was seated near the animal’s flank, holding the bucket between her knees as she began the process of emptying the bag of its burden. The small Jersey lowed once more, as if in greeting, and Debra murmured soft words to her, soothing her unease.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d given the animals their hay for the night, her horse in a standing stall nearby, three other mares tied in narrow seclusion farther down the aisle of the barn. Without words spoken, the man, Tyler, helped her fill the mangers, then followed her from the stable and into the yard.

She looked up at him, his face more distinct in the moonlight and her heart sank within her. Probably not more than thirty, but well-worn, she decided. He was hard, his features forming a harsh visage, a straight blade of a nose, dark hair badly in need of a barber’s scissors and eyes that hid behind lowered lids and lashes.

Without speaking, he led her back to the house and as they entered Debra removed her shoes on the mat just inside the kitchen. Tyler followed suit and then stood silently behind her as she contemplated her next move.

“If that’s all the chores you need done tonight, go in the bedroom and get out of your clothes,” he said harshly, not offering any more excuses to put off the inevitable.

“I can sleep in my clothing,” she said sharply. “I’m not getting undressed in front of you.”

“I didn’t expect you to. I’ll wait out here ’til you tell me you’re in bed.”

She was abruptly released from his hold and with four steps she was in front of her closed bedroom door. She opened it, stepping inside and then turned to close it against him. It was not to be. His foot jammed it open and he laughed.

“I may not be allowed to watch, but I’m not taking a chance on you skinnin’out that window, sweetheart.”

The moonlight was brighter in here, flooding her bedroom, and Debra sought out her nightgown from beneath her pillow. She went behind the screen in one corner, where her slop jar and basin were kept. In moments she had pulled her clothing off and the nightgown was in place. She hung her dress and chemise over the screen, then walked toward the bed.

“I’d be happy to sleep on the rug over here,” she suggested and was not surprised to hear his gruff laughter again as he entered the room and closed the door.

“Not a chance, Nightsong.”

“You know my name?”

“I heard it in town,” he said. “I like it.”

“It’s only my surname. I’m Debra.”

“Who named you Nightsong? A family name?”

“My mother gave me her name. She was The One Who Sings, and they called her Nightbird. When I was born she said I was the song she was meant to sing. She called me her Nightsong.” She spoke the words softly, remembering the woman who had been her protector and champion during those early days of her life. They’d both been outcasts from the tribe, her mother because she’d borne a half-breed child, and Debra because she carried the blood of the white man in her veins.

“Get into bed.” He gave the order with no inflection in his voice and she did as he said, knowing that she could not win a battle against him. At least not now. The sheets were cool against her, and she placed her pillow behind her, choosing to sleep without it, in order to keep a barrier between their bodies.

He only laughed beneath his breath as he slid into the other side of the bed, snatched the pillow up and put it atop his own. “That won’t work, sweetheart,” he told her. “You’re going to be right next to me all night. We can make our living arrangements tomorrow, but for tonight, we’ll just do our best to be friends.”

“You’re suffering a delusion,” she said sharply. “We’ll never be friends. I’m your prisoner for now, but…”

“It won’t be easy to escape me, Debra Nightsong. In fact, I’d say don’t even try. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll not let you get away from me.”

She sat up abruptly and faced him. “You’re in my house, holding me prisoner and threatening me. I don’t owe you anything, mister. I don’t know who you’re hiding from, but I suspect it’s the law, and I refuse to hide you here.”

She saw the flash of his white teeth in the moonlight. “Right now, you don’t have a choice, sweetheart. I’m the man with the gun, and about a hundred pounds on you. Not to mention that I’m a good foot taller than you are. That settles it, I’d say. You’ll do as I tell you, at least for the next few days.”

“Days? You plan on keeping me your prisoner for a matter of days?” Her heartbeat increased as she considered his words.

His hand reached for her and his long fingers clamped around her wrist. “Don’t worry about the days ahead, Nightsong. For now, we just need to get through the night. And you have only two choices. It’s either me holding your arm or I’ll tie you to my waist. What’ll it be?”

She was silent. His fingers were hard against her skin, but not cruel, not enough to cause bruises, unless she fought his touch. The thought of being tied to him was unacceptable and she lay back down, accepting his imprisoning fingers binding her close.

He turned toward her, as if accepting her surrender, and laughed, a sound smacking of derision. “Close your eyes, Debra Nightsong. It’s going to be a long night.”

She did as he said, knowing that for now, she was under his control, and God forbid she make him angry with her.

But her mind was spinning like a child’s top on Christmas morning. All she’d ever asked for was a peaceful life, alone here on the property her father had bequeathed to her. She’d done well, raising chickens, one of them a rooster who kept her hens in line, and awoke early every morning to hail the new day. Then there was the cow she cared for, and her golden mare. Now her herd had increased with the arrival of the three mares.

A garden thrived behind the house and her nearest neighbor cut the acres of hay she shared with him for his work. It was a good life, one she’d thought held a measure of safety and peace.

The dark-haired man beside her was a stranger, tall, well-built, and, as he’d said, probably a hundred pounds heavier than she. A big man, whose dark eyes had frightened her with their lack of emotion. As though he felt nothing, as if his feelings were locked up somewhere inside, he gave no hint of softness, no apology for his hands on her body, his presence in her bed.

She trembled, fearful of him, his presence in her home and the fate that might await her. Physically, she was no match for him, leaving her only her wits to depend upon.

The mystery was too much for her tonight, she decided. Just getting through the hours ’til morning was what concerned her right now. Her mind was whirling again, her wrist was held in an unshakable grip and she wanted to turn over. Away from his eyes that were even now focused on her. She could feel his gaze, knew he watched her.

“Let go of me,” she said, as if she expected his cooperation. “I’d like to turn over.”

“Go ahead.” He dropped her hand and she turned away from him, only to feel his heavy arm slide over her waist, settling on her flat belly and then tugging her back against his warm body. “I’ll just hang on to you this way,” he murmured. “And don’t give me a hard time, little bird. It won’t do you any good.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply. And even as she spoke, she heard her mother’s voice, soothing her, encouraging her and speaking the words in a gentle voice. “My little bird. Don’t worry. Your mother is here.” She inhaled sharply as a tear slid from her eye and dampened the sheet beneath her. His hand swept up over her waist and breast to spread across her cheek, and she shrank from the touch of those warm fingers on her face.

But to no avail, for the tears she’d thought to keep from him were swept away by his hand, holding the corner of the sheet, fingers that were gentle as he wiped her cheek.

“I upset you. What did I say to make you cry?” She thought his voice softened a bit, losing the harsh edge, the threat of violence she’d sensed earlier.

She resented his knowledge of her weakness and her voice was taut. “Take your hands off me. I don’t cry. And, I’m not going anywhere.”

He chuckled a bit, a low, husky sound and bent his head lower on the pillow, brushing his face over her hair. She felt his breath, warm against the side of her face, and caught the scent of him, that of saddle leather and fresh air.

“My arm and my hand will hold you against me. They will stay on you all night long. I offered you another solution, but you turned it down.”

She shivered. “Tying me up wasn’t much of an option.”

His chuckle was low, offering her no hint of softening. “It’s the only one you’ll get, so make up your mind.”

And with that, he pulled her even closer to himself, curling his big body against her back, his knees pushing her legs upward. “Close your eyes, little bird. I’ll still be right here in the morning, and you can be angry at me then. It sure as hell won’t do you any good to get all upset tonight.”

She thought a trace of amusement coiled through his lazy whisper, and she felt her anger rise in spite of his warning. “I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” she said, wriggling in a vain effort to put him at a distance. To no avail, for he only pulled her closer and eased his hand across her belly to the hip she lay on, his fingers pressing into her flesh, almost guaranteeing bruises come morning.

“You’re a little bit of a thing, aren’t you?” he mused, measuring the width of her body with his arm. “Sassy and full of piss and vinegar, but not big enough to fight me.”

“I’m big enough to take care of myself,” she said stoutly, “except when a man uses his strength against me. And even then, I’ve been known to fight.”

“Want to tell me about it?” he asked, his tone softly curious. “Who have you fought?”

She was stubbornly silent, and he chuckled again. “I’ll just bet you landed a few good punches before any man ever got the best of you. You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that.” He paused and she sensed that he would speak a warning. “But don’t try to fight me, Debra Nightsong. I don’t play fair, and I always win.”

“Especially against a woman,” she murmured. “I was right about you. You’re a bully.”

“I can be kind,” he told her.

He’d made his move, forced his way into her house, almost guaranteed a place to hang his hat for a few days at least. She’d just come from town, had brought supplies enough to last for some time in those burlap sacks. She wouldn’t be expected by anyone to be seen in Holly Hill for a few days.

“I’ll be up at dawn, when the rooster crows,” she told him. “My cow likes to be milked early on and the chickens will need to be fed.”

“Well, then rest easy. I’ll be with you while you milk and tend your stock. Might even lend a hand,” he whispered against her ear.

The scent of man, of his yearnings for a woman, enveloped her. For the first time in her life, she shared her bed, and resented it mightily. Enough that he held her fast, did she also need the constant reminder that this masculine being presented a danger to her?

He was clean, if she were any judge of it, smelling like the fresh hay in her field, a faint aroma of leather and horse surrounding him. An altogether appealing arrangement that tempted her senses.

He seemed not to be cruel, for if he’d so desired, he could have hurt her badly already, could have taken her body in an act of pure lust. He’d done neither, and for whatever rules of behavior governed him, she was thankful.

She must have dozed off, her body seeking the rest it required, for when she awoke, fully aware of the darkness and the man who lay beside her, she sat upright, his arm gripping her firmly.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

She sought her pillow, remembered that it was under his head, and settled for the sheet beneath her. “I need to use the…” She faltered, unable to speak aloud the need for privacy.

He released his grip on her and rolled from the bed. “Get up, Debra. I’ll be right here. Don’t think to escape or attack me with your hairbrush.” A note of amusement touched his voice and she muttered a curse beneath her breath.

The screen shielding her personal space in the room concealed her from his eyes, and she hastily tended to her needs, then straightened her gown around her before returning to the bed. “Did you think I would be so stupid as to use a hairbrush as a weapon?” she asked, sitting once more on the edge of the mattress.

“You’re not stupid, Debra. I was counting on your intelligence. I only warned you because I don’t want a battle with you in the middle of the night.” He gripped her shoulder and pushed her down against the mattress. Her pillow was soft beneath her head and she cut her gaze to him, his body barely visible in the moonlight.

“Thank you. I’ll be more comfortable this way.”

“I don’t want you angry with me,” he began, lying back beside her. “I know that sounds like a futile wish, but I mean it. I won’t hurt you, Debra, and I knew you needed your pillow returned.” He was silent for a moment and then his voice touched her again. “Decide which side you’ll sleep on and get snuggled in, girl.”

“So you can hang on to me?” She recognized the bitter tone of her own words as she turned to her side, facing the edge of the bed and the window that overlooked the yard.

“So I can make certain that you don’t try to escape in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not going to give you the chance to hold me down, mister. I’ll lie where I am ’til morning.”

“I wouldn’t mind holding you down,” he mused quietly. “As a matter of fact, I might like it more than I should. Let’s not take a chance on it.”

Awake now, Debra lay facing the lone window in her bedroom, watching as the depth of night, the darkness before dawn, began its morning journey into daylight. Her eyes refused to close in slumber and she resigned herself to several hours of waiting ’til the sun rose.

Yet, when she next stirred, it was to find broad daylight in her room, the man behind her still holding her firmly against his body, and the unmistakable nudge of his manhood against her bottom. She’d not experienced such a thing before, but her feminine instincts told her exactly what it was, and she felt the danger as a viable threat, her rapid pulse sounding as a warning, vibrating through her body.

A man’s urges are strongest in the early daylight. Her mother had said those words to her. Debra had filed the knowledge away in her mind, certain that such a worry would never be hers to own, that the challenge of a man’s body in her bed would not be an issue in her life.

The rooster crowed and she became aware that it was not for the first time, for she’d no doubt slept through the sound. She’d spent the night with this man touching her, keeping her at his beck and call. She found herself, in the light of dawn, at Tyler’s mercy, and realized the difficulty of ignoring the blatant presence of the man behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MORNING SUN HOVERED just below the horizon in the east as Debra left the porch, the shed her destination. Behind her, the silent shadow she’d acquired last evening followed apace, and she shivered as she felt his mood, aware that he intended she be fearful of him.

The man apparently planned to move in to her home, and she seemed to have no choice in the matter. He’d already proven his superior strength, sleeping in her bed, giving her only as much freedom from his presence as he allowed, and she yearned for moments of privacy so that she might gain some sort of control over the situation. Living in his shadow was no option, and the thought of him in her home, watching her every move, caused a chill of fear to travel the length of her spine.

Now Debra bent to rinse her milk pail in the clear water that flowed from the pump, sloshing the water and dumping it away from the path before she sought out the relative privacy of the shed. Anticipating the soothing routine of milking her cow, the soft clucking of her hens, and the strutting rooster who claimed her attention, she pulled aside the shed door and entered the shadowed interior.

Then, milk pail between her knees, she squatted on the stool and rested her forehead against the Jersey’s warm side. The milk sprayed the inside of the pail, the rhythm was one she’d learned early on, after much trial and error. The patient Jersey knew her well now, and they had established an unspoken communication. Not as satisfying as the presence of another woman might be, but better than nothing, Debra had long since decided.

The chickens were another matter. She tolerated their waspish behavior, aware that her own may not have been any better, should she have been forced to exchange places with them. They were at her mercy, being fed when she rattled the metal feed pan, having their eggs scooped up and stolen away for her benefit and only allowed the freedom to roam during the daylight hours.

And at that, they might be faring better than she, if the man behind her had his way. He’d apparently decided that Debra Nightsong would dance to his tune, that her day would be circumscribed by his choices.

“Debra.” His voice spoke her name and she controlled the impulse to ignore him.

“Am I not milking this cow to your standards?” She knew her voice was cool, knew she invited his anger and cared little. It was daylight, her fear from the night just past had faded, and the thought of escape had invaded her mind.

Perhaps she could watch until he visited the outhouse, or even take a chance on leading her mare from the back of the shed later on. Once on the back of her golden horse, she would be gone, out of his control, and the thought made her smile.

He stood behind her, his shadow over her, and she refused to look up, concentrating instead on stripping the last of the milk from the cow’s udder. “I wouldn’t attempt to better your skills, Debra,” he said smoothly. “Milking is not one of the finer arts, so far as I’m concerned. But I’m pretty adept at carrying pails. When you finish your chore, I’ll tote the milk to the house.”

“Why don’t you gather up the eggs while you wait?” She shot a look beneath her lashes, noting his widespread stance beside her now. He was too close for her comfort, and she silently urged him to move away, only too aware of his presence.

“Chickens don’t like me,” he said flatly. “I don’t choose to have bloody spots on my hands. I get along better with horses and dogs.”

“Then by all means you need to become better acquainted with mine. The pitchfork is on the wall and the stalls are in need of cleaning.”

He laughed, a short sound of amusement, and did as she suggested, lifting the tool from its place and bending to with a vengeance. He opened the back door of the shed and tossed the soiled straw toward a pile just outside.

“There’s a wheelbarrow there if you’d like to use it,” she told him. And then watched as he hauled in the conveyance and finished the task she’d assigned him. Loading the barrow from the straw stack behind the shed, he returned to where the horses waited and pitched clean bedding within their stalls.

The golden mare followed him tamely as he led her to the door. “I’ll just stake her out back,” he said. Not waiting for a reply, he walked into the brilliant light from the rising sun and snatched up her hammer as he passed the wall of tools near the door. The long stake she used for the mare lay against the shed and he picked it up as he went.

“Do you stake all of your horses?” he asked, motioning at the other three who stood placidly awaiting his touch.

“I just took delivery of those three days ago. I haven’t decided yet what to do with them.”

His words were decisive. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe not right now, but by the time the day is over.” He halted and looked back at her a moment. “I have a horse out back, tied to the wall of your shed. Not mine, exactly. One I borrowed from a farmer nearer to town. I’ll feed him, too, and then decide how to return him to where I found him.”

“Horse thieves hang in this part of the country,” she said without pause, not deigning to look up at him.

“I know. Where I come from, too. But I didn’t steal the poor creature, only borrowed him. I’ll return him later today. Probably the poor soul who owns him won’t even have noticed his absence. Probably had just put him out to pasture anyway. He’s not exactly a fine example of horseflesh.”

Taking an armful of hay with him, he went out the back door and she wondered briefly just whose horse he’d made away with. There were several behind fences between here and town, none of them much to look at, but probably all broken to saddle.

She heard the muted thumping of her hammer as he staked the mare, and in moments he reappeared, reaching for the milk pail as she rose and settled the stool against the wall.

“I’ll gather the eggs, since you have a problem with my hens,” she told him, holding her apron together to form a nest for the hen fruit. Nine eggs lay warm and waiting in the nests, an abundant harvest for one day, and she cradled them carefully against herself, taking care lest they bump and shatter the fragile shells.

Tyler watched her as she left the shed, followed close behind her as she walked the distance to the house, noting the easy stride she possessed, the natural grace of a woman, the fluid movement of her hips and the shimmer of the sunlight on black hair that hung like a curtain of midnight down her back.

She was a sight to behold, he decided. He’d come here looking to find an older woman, a widow lady perhaps, living alone, in need of a helping hand. And found, instead, a beautiful woman who looked at him with eyes that weighed him and found him wanting. And he, who had so often been the object of a woman’s admiring gaze, found only scorn in the dark eyes of Debra Nightsong.

He followed her into the kitchen, settled the milk pail next to the sink and then sat down to watch as she began preparations for breakfast. She washed quickly at the sink, dried her hands on her apron and lifted a skillet from atop the warming oven over her stove.

A small slab of bacon from the pantry made an appearance as she gathered up the food she would cook. Her knife was sharp, slicing with precision through the savory meat, and he watched the silver blade with a degree of appreciation for her use of it. She would be a formidable opponent should she decide to use her domestic tools as weapons.

The bacon was placed neatly in the skillet, and before many seconds had gone by, the meat began to sizzle and send forth an aroma that made his mouth water. It had been too long since his last meal, and breakfast had ever been his favorite meal of the day.

He went to the sink and washed up quickly. “Do you have any bread left?” he asked, his quick gaze searching out the kitchen dresser for a sign of her baking prowess.

“Wrapped up in that towel,” she told him, nodding at a package on the surface before him. He picked it up and opened the clean towel, exposing almost a full loaf of unsliced bread, the end of the loaf ragged where he’d torn off a piece late in the evening while he awaited her return. Lifting her knife from the counter, he wiped it with a dish towel and turned his attention to slicing enough bread for toast.

“I should have used a knife last night. Looks like I made a mess of it.”

“It doesn’t matter. At least you left enough for breakfast. And if you hadn’t, I have another loaf put up.”

He sawed at the loaf before him, and then looked up. “Shall I put it in the oven?” He waited for her reply, three slices in his hand, and received a patient look from her direction. Her free hand waved at the oven door and he took the blatant hint, placing the bread on the rack within, backing quickly from the heat.

The eggs she’d brought from the shed rested now in a crock on the table and she lifted five of them, cracking them into a shallow dish, then waved a hand at the container. “Put this in the pantry, if you would. Right-hand side, second shelf.”

He nodded, willing to be accommodating, since she held the spoon that would be stirring his eggs and he was of a mind to enjoy her cooking. The pantry was lined with shelves, Mason jars lined up precisely, many of them empty on the bottom shelves, awaiting the harvest to come from the kitchen garden.

Neatness seemed to be her motto, for even the canned goods she’d brought from town were stowed according to content, and beside them jars of coffee beans and sacks of sugar and flour vied for shelf space. She was an orderly sort, he decided quickly, her supplies sufficient to hold them for at least a week.

“Bring that churn out with you,” she called from the vicinity of the stove, where he heard the splatter of bacon grease on the hot surface as she turned the thick slices in the skillet. “The bread should be toasted by now,” she told him, and he opened the oven door, forking out the three slices of browned bread.

A generous slab of butter lay beneath a glass dome on the table, and he found a knife from the drawer, then set about slathering a thick layer of golden butter on his toast. He’d watched her put together a pot of coffee as soon as she made her way to the kitchen early on and now the aroma of the strong, fresh brew reached him.

His plate was readied, scrambled eggs with four slices of bacon edging the offering, a thick china mug filled to the brim with black coffee and toast he’d buttered on another plate. His mouth watered, and he did not hesitate, only taking time to find forks in the drawer before he sat down.

Debra sat across from him and her movements were fluid, her hands graceful as she ladled jam from a pot onto her toast. For a moment, she paused, lifting her eyes to the window, her lips moving silently, and he thought she might be speaking a blessing on her food.

He picked up his fork and loaded it with eggs. The steam rose from the golden pile on his plate and he tucked in readily, the fresh eggs a delight to his tastebuds. The bacon was crisp, the coffee strong and black, just as he liked it, and he bent a look of appreciation on the woman seated across from him.

“You’re a good cook, Debra.”

She shrugged easily. “It doesn’t take much talent to scramble eggs and fry bacon.”

“Perhaps not, but someone baked the bread and churned the butter. I suspect you’ve learned well how to run a kitchen.”

“My mother was a fine example to follow.” She spoke softly, her eyes holding a faraway look. “She taught me all I know.”

“Were you brought up in this house?” He found himself more than curious about her, his thoughts on the girl she’d been, the woman she’d become over the years. And yet, she was more girl than woman, he realized, surely not out of her teen years.

“How old are you?”

She looked up at him in surprise. “I was born and raised here. And now I’m old enough to live alone and take care of myself.”

He grinned. “Maybe.” The pause was long and then he supplied her with his thoughts. “You weren’t thinking last night when you walked into an empty house, Debra. You should have left a light on, or carried a gun.”

“It would have been a waste of kerosene,” she said sharply, “and my gun was already in the house.” Her eyes met his with a dark look that offered scorn. “I’ve never had to fear having my home invaded before. This has always been a safe place to live. Until now.”

“I mean you no harm, Debra Nightsong. I only need a place to stay for a while. I’ll help you with chores, lend a hand wherever I can, in exchange for a bed and three meals a day. And when I leave, you’ll be no worse for it.”

“Entering my home uninvited makes you unwelcome. I didn’t ask for your company, and I don’t mind telling you that I don’t appreciate your being here.”

His grin was quick. “Sorry, ma’am. But, I’ll be hanging around for a while. I’d thought to pay my way by working. I’d thought you might be some widow lady who needed a man to do some heavy work for her.”

“Well, it must be obvious that I don’t need a man for anything, Tyler, if that’s really your name.”

He thought her cheeks took on a rosy hue at that, and his chuckle appreciated her viewpoint. “It’s my name, sure enough. And for your information, a good man can come in right handy, ma’am. For any number of things.”

“I’ve gotten along without one for a long time. No sense in changing my life now,” she said pointedly. “I like things just the way they are.”

“Living alone? Doing the work of a man? Trying to keep up a farm by yourself?” He knew his voice was impatient, and he modified it a bit. “I’d think having a man around for a few days might be a good thing for you. Give you a chance to order me around and have me handle some chores.”

She looked at him from beneath dark lashes and he felt her mockery as she spoke. “How about weeding the garden then? Or perhaps putting up fence posts for a corral for my horse. I have any number of little jobs to be done.”

She looked surprised at his smile. “I follow orders real good, ma’am. Where are the fence posts and a shovel?”

“I’ve had posts delivered from the sawmill. They’re out behind the shed. The shovel is on the wall, next to the hoe. You’ll need both if you plan on chopping weeds and digging holes.”

“And what do I get in return?” He watched her as her mind worked, the smooth lines of her face giving him no clue as to her thoughts. And yet he thought she might be hiding a smile.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He’d startled her with that, he decided, for she blinked and looked unsettled for a moment.

“No. If you’d wanted to harm me, you would have already.”

And if she only knew how tempted he’d been, last night when the moon had turned its face on her and illuminated the beauty of dark hair and smooth skin. Not to harm her, but to touch her woman’s flesh, to bring her the warmth of his own. His control had been tried when he’d watched her as she slept. When his hands had craved the soft heat of her, his body had ached for the comfort of hers.

And yet, his intent would not have been to cause her pain, although that might have been an end result if he’d touched her slender form. She was no doubt a virgin, and would remain so while he lingered here, he vowed.

He’d never been prone to taking a woman who was not willing—indeed, not eager—to fill his bed. And there had been no lack of takers. Yet none of them had appealed to him in quite the same way as this female, this slim creature whose dark hair and eyes lured him with their mystery, whose slender fingers held the strength to milk a cow or wield a knife, whose home offered him a resting place where he might sort out his future.

And so he again spoke his intent, wanting to reassure her that his presence would bring her no harm. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, Nightsong. I’ll only be here as long as it takes to make my plans. As soon as I’ve decided my next move I’ll be on my way and you’ll be no worse off for having me here.” And if he could tear himself away from the lure of her, from the soft scent of woman she exuded, the vision of beauty she offered to his hungry eye, he’d leave. And never forget the short time he’d spent in her presence.

“You’ll leave me as you found me?” The question seemed to be as much a surprise to her as it was to him, and he refused to reply, only met her gaze in silence, not willing to offer an assurance he could not guarantee.

She rose and took her plate to the sink, then turned to retrieve his from the table. “Are you finished?”

He nodded, holding the last bit of toast in his hand. “Breakfast was good, Debra. Thank you.” He watched as she poured hot water from the stove’s reservoir into her dishpan, added soap from beneath the sink, and then sloshed her dishcloth to form suds.

“You didn’t answer me.” She turned to face him, holding the dishcloth in her hand as she approached the table. With smooth strokes, she wiped the surface clean, catching the crumbs in her hand and then looking up into his face, as if she would find some trace there of his intentions.

“Let’s just take it one day at a time,” he suggested. “For today, I’ll dig post holes and lay out the corral for you. Do you have fencing or do you want a board fence?”

“I’ve had lumber delivered for the whole job. It’s under a tarp behind the shed.”

“Who were you planning to hire to do the work?”

She sent him a look of scorn. “I have two good hands and I’m strong. It might have taken me longer than it will you, but I’d have done the job.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He acknowledged her determination with a nod. “Let’s leave the garden ’til tomorrow. Today, I’d like you with me out back.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Should I?”

She laughed. “Probably not. But then, having my corral built without putting forth an effort on my part is tempting enough to keep me submissive for today.”

“But not tomorrow?” His gaze held hers and he felt himself sinking into the depths of her soft brown eyes.

“I won’t make any promises.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

And so they left the house and within an hour, he’d dug several holes and the posts were leaning drunkenly into each of them, awaiting the dirt he would pack around each. Debra picked up a shovel and he shook his head. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you mark out the area you want to enclose? Use that stick over there and draw a line for me.”

She nodded, shooting a wary glance his way, but did as he’d said, skirting a large tree and forming a rectangle that would give her horses ample room to exercise when she didn’t want to stake them out in the meadow, yet still give them the shade of a tree during the heat of the day.

“You need a fence around the whole area, to pasture your cow,” he told her.

“Right.” The single word hummed with disdain. “Have you any idea how much it costs for wood from the lumberyard?” She looked beyond the limits she’d circumscribed for her corral and her gaze was wistful, as if she could see a fenced pasture, with her livestock feeding on the lush meadow grasses.

“Your problem is in finding cheap labor, I’d think,” he said, following her gaze to where the trees offered shelter for animals from the sun’s harsh rays.

“I can’t afford to hire help, cheap or not. Things will get done when I’m able to do it myself. It may take a while, but I’ll have a pasture full of animals one day.”

“Animals? What do you have in mind?” He found he really wanted to know, had a desire to search out the crevices of her mind, seek out the dreams she sheltered there.

“Horses, maybe. I’d like to breed my mares. There’s money to be made. It just takes time and a lot of effort.”

“Do you have a stud available?”

She shook her head. “My nearest neighbor has a sorrel he might be persuaded to let me use for my riding mare. I need a bargaining tool, and I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Tyler nodded, thinking about the unknown neighbor and what he might ask for payment in exchange for the use of his stud, and found his thoughts straying into forbidden territory. The woman was too vulnerable, too open to hurt.

“How much hay do you have here?” He waved a hand at the far-off field, where the crop of hay was tall, ready to cut, awaiting the scythe of harvest.

“About twenty acres. I’m thinking about having him bring his crew over to cut it and keeping some for my own use. I had a man from closer to town come out last year and we worked out a share plan. I thought I might gain the use of the sorrel stallion for a few days in exchange for my hayfield.”

“Keep what you need and offer him the rest,” Tyler advised.

“Easy for you to say,” she said with a harsh burst of laughter. “You’re a man, and men make the rules in this world, I’ve found. I’ll no doubt have to abide by whatever he’s willing to offer me.”

“So long as you have enough from the first cutting to fill your loft, you can stake your animals all summer and probably have another cutting of hay to bargain with in August.” He looked around the space behind the shed. “Where did your straw stack come from?”

“The same farmer. He kept the wheat from my back acres and left me the straw for my animals.”

“I think you came out on the short end of the stick.” And he bristled as he thought about the neighbor who had taken advantage of a woman alone. “He kept all the wheat?”

“I have enough from my eggs and butter to cover what flour I need at the general store,” she said readily. “I’m well aware that the man takes advantage of me, but as long as my needs are met, I can afford to be generous.”

“Is your neighbor married?”

Her eyes widened again at his query and she nodded quickly. “Of course, with several children. He has a profitable operation.”

“And is he a gentleman?” His gaze pinned her and he watched as his meaning struck home.

She shifted her gaze, her lip trembling as she sought a reply. “He hasn’t had much choice. I won’t put up with any shenanigans.”

“You’re a woman alone, Debra. You’re in danger of his shenanigans, no matter that you have a gun and a lot of spunk.”

She was silent for a moment and then her words told of the fear she lived with. “I’m careful. Usually,” she inserted, as if she thought of her rash behavior last night, when she’d stumbled into danger in her own kitchen.

“If your neighbor knows you have a man here, he might not be so eager to take advantage of you.”

“And he might spread the word around town that the Indian has taken a man into her bed.” She spoke the words in a rush, as though she’d already considered the idea.

“And would that be difficult for you to live with?”

“Only if I plan on buying from the general store and being made welcome in town. A woman alone is always under scrutiny, with men waiting for her to make the wrong move. I can’t afford to leave myself open to public scorn. I walk alone, and I have to watch every move I make.”

“Well, your neighbor might be more amenable to a fair division of your hay if I’m out there in the field doing your share of the work. You can tell him you’ve hired a man to help out.”

“And ruin my name in town? I don’t think so.”

“You’ll let him take advantage of you instead?”

“It’s the price I pay for being what I am.” Her tone was one of a woman beaten down by circumstance, and Tyler could not countenance it.

“You’re a woman alone, a woman who should be given the respect due her.”

“I’m a half-breed.” Her words were spoken firmly, as if they were familiar to her.

“And I’m a white man, which makes me neither better nor worse than you. You are a woman, first and foremost, Debra. Was your mother white? Or your father?”

“My father. He owned this place, and brought my mother here when they married. When he died, she took the deed with her. He’d made it out to me, and it was my legacy after my mother was gone.”

“How long have you been here alone?” And how had she survived? How had a young woman alone been able to cope with the running of a farm?

“Three years, since I was sixteen. It hasn’t been simple, but I’ve managed to support myself. And now I have the beginnings of my herd of horses.”

“Where did you get the mares?”

“Bought them from a man who sold his place and moved farther west. He had too many animals to take along, and gave me a good price on the three out back. One is already bred.”

“I can see that.” He looked out beyond the corral line she’d drawn in the dirt, out to where the meadow grasses grew and flourished. Where one of her mares stood apart, her sides bulging a bit with the foal she would drop months from now. She might one day have a herd of horses if luck was with her and the mares she cherished produced colts and fillies of merit.

“Have you thought of expanding? Buying more horses?”

She laughed, a short, sharp sound that scorned his idea. “And what would I use for money? Horses are expensive. I was fortunate to get the ones I already have.”

“Where did you get your mare? The one you ride.”

“I brought her with me from the tribe. She’d been running wild and I caught her and tamed her for myself. Then after my mother was gone, I left and came back home, brought the mare with me.”

“You tamed her?”

Her chin tilted and a look of pride lit her eyes. “Yes. The finest day of my life was when I got up on her back and rode away from the village of my mother’s people.”

“They weren’t your people?”

She tossed him a look of scorn and disbelief. “I don’t fit there, any more than I do in town. I’m an outcast, Tyler, as you well know. I don’t have a place in this world, but the one I make for myself.”

“Will you take my help, Debra Nightsong? Will you let me give you a hand, and work for my keep for a while?”

“Why?” It was a single word that asked for more than he was willing to give.

“Maybe because I’m an outcast, too.”

She gave him a measuring look. “Are you? Or are you on the run?”

“You might say that. There are those who’d like to find me, and if I can find a safe place for a while, I’d be more than happy to earn a few weeks of peace.”

“Should I ask who is looking for you? Or am I better off not knowing?”

“Just know that I mean you no harm, Debra.” And with that she’d would have to be satisfied, he thought. For knowledge of his past would only frighten her, perhaps put her in danger.

“I’m foolish, I fear,” she said slowly. “But I’m smart enough to know that your help would benefit me greatly.” She inhaled deeply and let the breath escape slowly. “I’ll take a chance on you. You can stay, I’ll give you your safe place for a while, and you’ll work for me.”

His hand shot out, silently asking her to take it, to seal their bargain, and she responded as he’d thought she would. Her slender fingers formed to his palm, and he held them there, firmly, yet carefully, as he might shelter a small, helpless creature in his grasp.

But the woman who met his look with a level gaze of her own was not a creature who would ask for anything but what was due her. Respect, first and foremost. A measure of friendship, perhaps an honest day’s work. He could do all of that. So long as she understood that the rules were his to make, hers to follow.

“I’ll be staying in the house with you,” he said firmly. “You’ll not put up a fuss about me sharing your home. And I’ll be sleeping in your bed.”

She was silent, as though she accepted his terms, and then her head turned and he met the challenge in her gaze. “I’ll not be tied to you at night, nor will I let you touch me during the day.”

It was almost a dare on her part, for she lacked clout, and they both knew it. He was stronger by far, she perhaps more devious, but without the power to make him abide by her wishes.

“I won’t tie you, Debra, and I’ll keep my hands to myself. That far I’ll go, not because I fear your knife or your skill with a gun, but because I respect you. Does that suit you?”

She nodded, slowly, but with a definite acceptance of his terms. “If you build my corral and set posts for a pasture fence for me, I’ll give you a place to stay and cook for you.”

His nod was a tacit approval of her terms, and he breathed more easily. Staying one step ahead of the man who followed him had been nerve-wracking. A respite would be welcome.

“Who are you hiding from?” Debra asked, as if the question had been fermenting in her mind and now begged to be spoken aloud.

If he expected her to give him refuge, he owed her an explanation, Tyler decided. “I killed a man.” It was the truth so far as it went, and he watched as she digested his words, her eyes widening a bit, her mouth forming a soft “Oh” of surprise.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE LOOKED AT HIM with the level gaze of a woman set on having answers to her questions. And her query was what he might have expected. “Did you have a good reason?”

She indeed had the ability to cut through the deed to find the justification for his action. And he could do no less than answer her truthfully.

“I thought so. Still do, for that matter. He broke into my home while I was away, and killed my wife and son.” The words were blunt, their message harsh, and he awaited her reaction.

Her hand reached for him, the sympathy in her action obvious and she spoke quickly. “No one could blame you for taking revenge on him, Tyler. Surely the law didn’t accuse you of murder.”

“The sheriff said I had no proof that he’d killed them. Said it could have been anyone, and I’d taken out my anger on the first available prospect.”

“Had you no proof?” She awaited his words and he was willing to tell her what she wanted to know.

“His watch was attached to a braid of her hair. And he didn’t deny the killing to me, in fact he bragged about his taking of her body before he killed her. The fool waved his gun at me and told me how my son had run for his life, how he’d shot him down.”

His voice broke on the words, and Debra’s hand touched his, the warmth flowing from her bringing him back from the scene that haunted him still. He turned his hand to grasp her fingers and held them tightly within his own.

“He would have killed me,” Tyler said, “but I was quicker than he’d expected. I shot the gun from his hand and then fired again. I didn’t miss.”

“How long ago?” she asked, and he looked beyond her, as if his eyes saw the past clearly.

“Almost two years ago. I was put in jail, and when there was a general jailbreak, I took advantage of the fact and escaped. The rest of the prisoners stayed together and were caught.”

“You kept to yourself?” she asked, knowing already that he would not have relied on others to protect him.

“I ran as far and as fast as I could. Climbed into the first boxcar I saw at the train station and set off on my own. Been traveling alone ever since.”

She felt herself leaning toward him, not physically, but somehow able to see within his actions to the man who still felt the pain of his loss, who didn’t regret the life he’d taken in revenge.

He stood before her, tall, muscular, yet slim, as though his meals had been sparse of late, and she could not fault the man. That he might be telling her a tall tale was a possibility, but Debra Nightsong was no fool, and she’d long been able to see the truth when it appeared before her.

Today was no exception. The man might be running from the law, but in his own mind, he’d done no wrong, only avenged two deaths. That his actions had brought the law down on him was perhaps not fair, but nevertheless a fact. Could she turn him away, believing his story as she did?

“You can stay here,” she said. “I’ll not turn you in, Tyler, even if I get the chance. Whether or not you killed in cold blood, I suspect you felt you had the right to avenge your wife and son’s deaths. I’m not fit to judge you. I won’t even try.”

He loosed her fingers from his own and stood tall before her. His dark eyes met hers with a gaze that promised the truth, and she was prone to believe him.

“I’ll not play false with you,” he said. “I’ll stay here and help you.” His eyes measured her and he smiled. “I don’t know how far I can trust you to keep silent about me should the occasion arise, but for now I’ll have to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Her hand was warmed by his, her flesh still aware of his touch, and she thrust it into her apron pocket, where her fingers curled in upon themselves. He was strong, a man taller than most, his shoulders wider than the men of her mother’s tribe, his ability to force her to his will not an issue, for she was wise enough to gauge the muscle beneath his skin, smart enough to recognize a man with the ability to hold his own.

The sun shone down brightly on the meadow behind her shed, the horses and her cow grazed peacefully at the end of their tethers and the man beside her had made his position clear. Debra looked beyond the animals and the lush pasture where they grazed, to where the hayfield lay, awaiting the scythe and the men who would reap its worth.

“Will you help me put up enough hay before I allow the neighbor to take his share?” It was not what she had planned on saying to the man beside her, but the knowledge that he was strong and capable of helping her hold her own, of lending his strength to hers for a time, made her seek out his promise.

“Where is your scythe?” he asked. So simply he agreed to her plan, so readily he acceded to her need.

“Hanging on the wall. I keep all my tools inside the shed,” she said. “If you’ll use the scythe, I’ll rake the hay. A day or so in the sun will dry it enough so I can bring it to the barn for storage.”

“We have a deal, Debra Nightsong.” His hand reached for hers again, and she slid it from her pocket, allowing him to grasp it in his own, warming it with the heat of his flesh. His eyes narrowed as he looked past the pasture before them, his sights on the same hayfield she’d measured with her own gaze. The hay was ready to be mowed, the sun promised to shine, probably for several days, for no rain clouds threatened in the west.

Debra felt a surge of satisfaction at the deal they’d formed. For a week she would have the help she needed. Her loft would be full, her animals would have their needs supplied for the winter to come. Perhaps the garden might thrive under a man’s touch, for she was not able to plow up the soil as she should. Her strength was not enough to turn over the earth for the space she required.

As if he knew her thoughts, Tyler leaned against the wall of the shed and mulled over the needs of her farm. She turned her gaze to him as he spoke, pleased that he seemed to so readily fall into the role she had set for him.

“I’ll use one of your horses to plow more space for a garden, Debra. Have any of them been broken to harness? Have you used them for plowing?”

“I’ve only used a shovel,” she said. “I don’t have the strength to hold a plow steady. It takes a man’s muscles to force the blade into the ground. And using the shovel takes me forever to prepare the ground for my garden.”

“I can handle that for you,” he said. “I’ll add to the space you’ve already set aside if you like.”

“I’ll plant corn if you prepare the ground for me,” she said quickly. “I only have room now for beans and tomatoes and such. I’ve got peas and carrots coming up, almost ready to pick.”

He looked back through the shed to where the chickens had strayed into the yard, pecking at the bits and pieces of food they found there. “Corn makes good feed for chickens through the winter. Can you have it ground at the gristmill in town?”

She nodded, feeling her spirits lift as she thought of the crop she might plant and then sow in late summer. If she could trust this man… And why shouldn’t she be able to? He was as good a prospect as the neighbor who had taken her wheat and left her the straw. As willing to help as the man who had mowed her hayfield and taken his greater share for granted.

“Can we work together for a while, Debra?” He asked the question softly, his voice falling on her hearing as a temptation, perhaps luring her into believing that he could be trusted, that his help would be hers for a time.

“Yes.” She accepted him so readily it shocked her. So easily did she acquiesce to his offer. “Yes,” she repeated. He was behind her now, looking over her shoulder at the animals in her pasture, his chore of putting up a corral for her well under way and she was comforted by the knowledge that for now, for these few days, she was not alone.

THE FENCE POSTS stood straight, the boards joining them nailed in place, each level with the next. Debra crossed her arms on the top rail, looking beyond the boundaries of her newly built corral to where her animals grazed in the sun. Another horse had joined her stable, a bay mare already with foal, purchased from a neighbor who needed ready cash. Already broken to the saddle, the mare would provide cash income if Debra chose to sell her after the birth of her foal. For unless she had a stud available on a regular basis, she would not be able to breed her mares at the right times.

Her resources sorely strained by the additional purchase, Debra consoled herself with the idea of a second colt or filly in the spring when the mare would deliver the first addition to her newly formed stable of animals. Her bank account was down to rock bottom, but the purchase was sound, Tyler had said, and she felt able to trust his judgment.

One dark night, astride one of her mares, he’d returned the gelding he’d confiscated as his own to its owner’s field, not divulging its origins to her, only saying that it had probably not been missed by its owner. Showing no guilt for his misdeed, he’d made her smile with his simplistic notion that his theft had only amounted to a loan from the farmer.

She admitted to herself that she would have hated the thought of his death at the end of a rope, should his crime have come to light, but not for the world would she let him know that she had ignored his theft and the subsequent return of the evidence.

His help had been invaluable over the past weeks, and she was reaping the results of his work. Her garden flourished, with corn hilled in neat rows, tomatoes forming small fruit on their vines and beans cooking in the big kettle in the house even now. A pan of peas had been shelled and cooked before she canned them in pint jars just yesterday. Carrots showed their orange shoulders just above the ground, awaiting her hand, and she planned the stew she would make from the last of the potatoes in her fruit cellar, plus a piece of beef she’d bartered from her neighbor.

A peck of peas and enough beans for a meal had earned her a chunk of stewing meat from his butchering. Summer was not the usual time for a steer to be sacrificed for the family’s needs, but the herd of cattle in the fields to the west of her property was prosperous, and her neighbor had killed one and cut it up for his wife’s use.

A quarter of the beef hung even now in the woodshed, and Debra planned for its use. She would cut it up, cook it in large chunks in her stewing kettle and then can it for her use over the next few months.

Tyler had said he was familiar with butchering and had given her neighbor a hand with his chore, earning her the beef as a part of his salary. The neighbor had quizzed him at length regarding his presence at Debra’s holding, and Tyler dutifully gave her chapter and verse of their conversation.

“I made it clear to him that I was merely a hired hand here, a man in need of money, and willing to work for it. I let him know that I admired you and respected you, Debra.”

“And did he believe you? Or did he seem to think the half-breed had taken a white man to her bed?”

Her blunt manner surprised him, although he wasn’t certain why it should have caused him any surprise. She was a bold woman, not afraid to speak her mind. He spoke again, wanting to ease her mind.

“He didn’t make any backhanded remarks, if that’s what you mean. Just seemed to accept my word for it. I think he admires you, Debra. He spoke highly of you and your ambition, your work here on the farm.”

She nodded, accepting his words of praise, almost as if they were due her. He could only hope that the townspeople were as well informed as to Debra’s conduct in the community. Putting the stain of a woman without honor on her was far from his intent. But people talked, gossiped when things didn’t seem to their individual standards, and putting Debra’s name on the line was not to be considered.

Their association had proved thus far to be profitable to them both, Debra considering herself the winner with a new corral and a pasture already partly fenced in.

Tyler said the neighbor had seemingly been satisfied regarding his presence at Debra’s farm, nodding agreeably when he was told that Tyler was helping with the crops and caring for the livestock. Agreeing that Debra needed help and hiring a hand to work for her seemed logical.

But, as Tyler said, the man had smiled broadly as he spoke of Debra’s hard work and her need for a husband. As if he considered Tyler an applicant for the position. Perhaps that would settle any gossip to be found in town, Tyler thought, and tucked the notion into the back of his mind to consider further.

He’d managed to work enough hours for the neighbor to earn himself a horse, not a prize package to be sure, but a ten-year-old gelding who promised to provide his owner with years of use. Debra didn’t own a saddle and had convinced Tyler that he could ride without the aid of leather between himself and his horse. His determination to purchase a saddle at the earliest opportunity was pure stubbornness on his part, she was sure, but it was an argument she knew she would not win. The man was determined to fit his animal out with all the requisite tools—bridle and bit and a saddle that would make his riding a comfort.

She scorned his need for such trappings, happy with the golden mare she rode, who obeyed the touch of her knees against her sides, the rope she tied about the animal’s neck enough of a guide for what she required of the mare she rode with pride. Tyler watched her, his eyes admiring her skill when she rode, and she delighted in the knowledge that he did not deny her ability to control her horse so easily.

Indeed, she could have ridden without even the rope in her hands, for the animal had been trained to obey her voice, and there existed between them a rapport that made their relationship a joy to watch. Yet she did not deny Tyler the right to his need for a harness for the plowhorse and the saddle he planned to purchase for his gelding.

The amount of hay she had decided to keep for her own use was cut in three days’ time, Tyler wielding the scythe, she spreading the harvest to dry in the sun. Raking it into rows the second day, she examined it and found it dry. By the time he’d cut enough hay to fill her loft, she’d spread it out, then raked it into piles, ready for loading onto a flat wagon from the shed.

Tyler hitched her pack horse to the wagon and together they scooped great armfuls of hay to the flat bed. Her rake gathered up the scattered bits and pieces and she added them to the pile that grew quickly. Hauling the hay back to the shed was but a small task, with Tyler doing the hardest part of the job, loading the hay into the loft for her use later on in the year.

Together they carried the fragrant piles up the ladder, tying it up in a quilt and hauling it through the hole in the floor of the loft, only to dump it and then rake it up into great piles in the drafty loft. Debra looked about her with a sense of pride, that she had managed to harvest so much of her crop with Tyler’s help. She felt rich with the knowledge that her animals would have feed for the long months of winter, thankful for the man who had lent his greater strength to her aid, and thus helped her make gains against the cold weather that was sure to come.

She stood looking at the bountiful piles of winter hay and caught the grin Tyler sent in her direction. He bowed with great ceremony, and approached her diffidently. “Does my work merit a reward?” he asked.

“What did you have in mind?” Her heart beat more rapidly as he surveyed her slowly, his dark eyes lingering on her lips, then traveling down the length of her body.

His words were bold. “Maybe a kiss. Even a hug, if you’re so inclined.”

She thought him a scamp, but reserved her opinion, judging that he’d earned at least a kiss, since it seemed so important to him, and she had more than enough to suit him. Approaching him, she tilted her head a bit, the better to reach his lips and brushed her own against the firm line that awaited her. His mouth softened beneath her touch and he reached for her, not allowing her to escape his embrace.

“How about the hug?” he asked, already taking possession of her with both arms wrapped about her.

“Was I to give the hug, or receive it?” At odds with her own response, she felt a blush climb her cheeks as his muscular frame pressed against her softer body, knew for a moment the heat of his embrace, and then as he bent his head lower, felt his lips snatch another kiss from her willing mouth. It wasn’t a peck, as she’d thought it might be, but a full-blown kiss, involving the damp touch of his tongue against her, edging between her lips, into the warmth of her mouth. He sought the length of her tongue with his, tangling them together, taking her breath with his venture into an intimacy she was not confident with.

She trembled in his grasp, feeling exposed as these waters were too deep for her to gain any sense of balance. “Tyler? Tyler, what are you doing?” She tried to catch her breath as she pulled from his grasp, only to catch a quick glimpse of his lips, curved into a superior sort of smile he’d slanted in her direction.

“What do you think, sweetheart? Just claiming my kiss, and about half a hug.”

“Half a hug? How do you figure that?” She brushed at her dress, unable to meet his gaze, and he laughed.

“I hugged you, but you didn’t hug me back. That’s half a hug in my book, lady. Can you do better?”

She shook her head. “Would you settle for a cup of coffee and fresh coffee cake? I’ve got a pot brewing on the stove and the cinnamon cakes are still warm.”

He grimaced. “Better than nothing, I suspect. But I’m not letting you off the hook, sweetie. I’ll get you another time.”

And that was exactly what she feared, she decided, climbing hastily down from the loft and heading for the house, as far and fast as she could march from his arrogant grin.

And yet, all of his teasing aside, it was a good feeling, she thought, pouring his coffee and cutting the cake, knowing that she was at least halfway prepared for the winter months, knowing that her stock would be fed. And wondering who would be pitching the hay from the loft?

THE FARMER WHO HAD CUT her crop last year was notified to come and take his share, and Tyler spoke with him about the price he should pay for the crop. Apparently surprised that Debra had a champion in residence, Samuel Shane agreed on a price for the hay, and bartered part of his butchering in the fall, plus apples from his orchard for his share of the harvest. If Mr. Shane was curious about Tyler’s place here on her farm, he did not speak of it, only nodded as he agreed with the conditions set out by Debra’s hired man.

Debra was pleased, cautious about expressing her thanks to Tyler, but aware that having a man standing in her stead was indeed a thing to be pleased with. In fact, she found herself thinking about his presence in her home and wishing fervently and silently that his time with her would not soon come to an end.

It was almost as if they shared the farm, she thought, pulling carrots from the garden, plucking beans from their stems. He, with the hammer and his greater strength forming the fences she needed, she with her skills in the kitchen, and throughout the house, making a comfortable place for them to live.

He appealed to her senses, his clean scent, his habits of cleanliness matching so closely her own. He swam nightly in the pool in the pasture, sharing the water with the animals that drank there after dark. His clothing was washed and hung on the clothesline, his trousers and shirts side by side with her own dresses and undergarments. She wondered sometimes what the neighbors thought of the man who lived on her farm with her, but had not sought out their opinion.

That there was talk in town was a given, but she could not bring herself to worry overmuch about gossip. What she did was her own concern, and not fit for speculation by anyone else.

With whom she chose to make her life was private business, and she chose for now to allow Tyler access to her farm and to the house she lived in. They seldom spoke of his past, only living with the knowledge that he might one day take flight from her life.

She had not offered him any glimpse into her own past, living in the present and walking a fine line in his presence. He slept on the floor in her bedroom, changing his mind apparently after the third night of sleeping beside her.

He’d spread his quilt on the rug beside the bed, and without a word had gone to sleep there. Unwilling to question his decision, lest he repent his change of mind, Debra had crawled into her bed each night and slept peacefully, knowing he was nearby, yet not fearful of his presence.

He rose early, stoked the wood-burning cookstove and went out to do chores while she cooked breakfast. Her privacy was not invaded by his presence, for he used the parlor in which to dress, storing his clothing in a drawer in her dresser, but keeping himself apart from her.

It was a strange arrangement, she knew, but it suited them both, and she found comfort in the companionship he offered. They spoke but little, only words that related to the work they did, he with his building, she with the gardening, and only when she sat on the porch in the evening and watched the sun dip beneath the horizon did she feel the need for more from him.

That he might fill a permanent place in her life was not considered, for she knew he would not linger longer than it would take for him to plot out his future. He had a horse now, and a bit of money set aside, due to his work on the neighboring farm. Soon he would surely be on his way, leaving her alone again.

But better off than before, for he had laid out the fencing for the pasture and by the time the second cutting of hay approached, he had completed the job. Her horses and the milk cow roamed at will beneath the trees, spending their days with heads lowered to the ground, where the meadow grass grew in abundance. The sides of her bay mare rounded more each week it seemed, and it seemed that by the end of winter she would see her own golden mare producing an offspring of her own.

Whether the mare had been covered by a wild mustang or perhaps the neighbor’s stud, a stallion who had frequently escaped confinement and roamed the far pastures and meadows, was a moot question. That her golden mare had had an encounter with the stud was a probability, she knew, and she spoke of it to Tyler.

“If she drops another golden foal, it will have been from the sorrel stud,” she said, watching the horses one day. He stood beside her, and his nod agreed with her prediction.

“I’ve heard that a mare such as yours only breeds true if a sorrel is the sire.”

“It’s what my mother’s people said. And they were experts at the art of raising horses.”

He turned to her, a question alive on his lips. “Did you have any problems in town yesterday?” She’d gone in to the general store with her supply of eggs and butter, and made the trip alone, Tyler remaining at the farm.

“The storekeeper asked if I had a man living with me.” Her voice was quiet, but he sensed the pain behind her reply. “He wanted to know if you had serious intentions where I was concerned. I suppose it was a backhanded way of asking if you were going to marry me.”

“Did he give you a bad time? Or didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“It was none of his business, but he knew already. My neighbor no doubt told about your working for him. And I made it clear that you were a hired hand, and not a permanent fixture here.

“At any rate, he was reluctant to sell supplies to me, but he needed my butter and eggs, so he had no choice. The townsfolk who don’t have animals of their own depend on farmers to supply their needs, and my butter is always rich from the Jersey’s cream.” Her smile smacked of the victory she’d known, there in town, where she had attained a degree of respect.

“So they talk about me being here. Has anyone asked you who I am?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have offered anything anyway. I’m not known for being talkative. One of the ladies was curious about you, wondered if I’d known you sometime in the past, and was curious about your living here. She suggested that it didn’t look good for me to have you living here, what with me being a woman alone, but I made it clear that it wasn’t her concern. She only smiled at that and I suspect that there’s talk that we’re…” Her pause was long and he felt a pang of regret that she should be considered the less for his presence in her life.

“Have you ever thought of marriage? Has anyone ever approached you and asked to court you?”

She offered him a look of such surprise he almost laughed aloud. “What’s so strange about such a thing, Debra? You’re a beautiful woman, with a thriving farm, and surely there are men about who would want to possess both you and your property.”

“I’m still a half-breed. No matter how much land I own, or how well my land produces, I’m not a woman to appeal to white men. Perhaps for other reasons, but not for marriage.”

“Have you had problems with the men hereabouts? Have they bothered you?”

She shook her head, then seemed to hesitate. “A bit, but my shotgun has been sufficient to keep them at bay.” She clutched the top rail of the fence tightly. “I fear that I may be taken by surprise someday, that someone may come upon me when I’m in the garden or the shed and my gun is not with me.”

“You don’t carry it, Debra? Would it be wise to keep it by your side?”

She turned to him and her gaze was level. “Not with you here. No one will approach me as long as you stay.” Her smile teased him. “I consider you a form of insurance against predators.”

“And when I’m gone?”

Her head drooped and he thought her shoulders sagged a bit, as if she were troubled by that thought. And then she straightened and her chin lifted, perhaps with pride.

“I’ll be as I was before you got here. Alone, but able to care for myself and what is mine.”

He reached out to her, his fingers brushing the fine skin of her cheek and she inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as if she would withdraw from his touch. He would not allow it, but stepped closer, curving his palm against her face and turning her to better see the expression she wore.

“What if I stayed, Debra? What if I made this my home, and you…” He took a breath, knowing she might flee from his words. “What if we were to marry? Could you spend your life with me, knowing of my past? Knowing I’ve taken a life?”

The words fell between them and she twisted from his touch, her eyes wide with panic, as if she feared him. He would not have it. She had not feared him, had not flinched from his presence in weeks, and now she acted as if he had grown horns.

“Don’t pull away from me,” he said harshly. “I’m still the same man I was ten minutes ago, Debra. I’m not going to pounce on you or hurt you in any way. I thought you knew me well enough by now not to fear me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t fear you. My hesitation is not because you’ve taken a life, for I know you were justified in what you did. I just can’t accept the idea of marriage to a white man. Nor to a man of my mother’s people, for that matter. I will live my life alone.”

“Why?” His question was bold, he knew, but his need to know her thoughts was heavy on him. “Why can’t you be my wife? I wouldn’t expect more of you than what you give me gladly. I’m not a harsh man, nor will I change overnight if you bear my name. I’m free of hindrance, with no family to tie me. And I’m a hard worker, surely you’ve seen that. I wouldn’t be a bad husband.”

Her eyes were dark, black with what appeared to be fear, and he failed to understand what she dreaded. “Do I frighten you, Debra?” And if she nodded, he would mount his horse and leave, for the thought of her fear made him feel less than a man.

She placed the flat of her hand on his chest, and he felt the warmth of it radiate throughout his body. Unmoving, she measured him with her gaze, her eyes taking stock of his face, his arms, the length of his legs and the width of his chest where her palm had laid claim to the body beneath it.

“Your heartbeat is strong,” she said quietly. “It is the beat of an honest heart, Tyler, and you are an honest man. I can not deny that. You have been good to me, you’ve worked for me and taken hold as if this were your own place.” Her tongue touched her upper lip as if she hesitated to speak further and he held his breath, for surely her words would frame his future.

His hand lifted to cover hers and he felt the warmth of long fingers and the fragile bones of a woman beneath his touch. “I would take you as my wife, Debra, if you agree. I’ll work for you and provide for you as a husband, and if I’m hunted down, I’ll leave you as I found you. You won’t bear shame because of my past.”

“You will expect to share my bed.” It was a statement of fact, not a query, and he considered it as such. Her mouth trembled as he watched, the first sign of feminine weakness she’d shown in his presence. His index finger rose to touch the line of her upper lip and he caressed it carefully.

“Yes.” It was a single word, but it spoke volumes, and he recognized her hesitation for what it was. She had not known a man’s body, and feared being used as a wife.

He watched his hand, saw the trembling of his fingers as they spread once more against her cheek. “I need you as a man needs a woman, but I won’t take what you hold dear. Unless you offer your body to me, I’ll do without the comfort of your woman’s flesh.”

“Men aren’t usually so willing to—” Her voice broke off as if she could not bring herself to speak the words that filled her throat.

“I’m not most men.” He bent to her, lifting her chin with his palm and touched her lips with his own, brushing lightly against the softness he found there. “I would treasure the kiss you give me,” he said softly.

Her lips were a temptation he found it almost impossible to turn from and he coaxed her gently, his own opening but slightly, not wanting to frighten her with the desire that filled him. She was soft, gently formed, and he had been long without a woman in his arms. Not since his wife’s death had he yearned so for the pleasure to be found in the depths of a female’s body.

And now his yearning was great, his arousal prominent and obvious as he pressed her against himself. His arms around her were firm and she accepted his touch, leaning against him as if his heat drew her. His hand slipped down her back, pressing her closer, and he felt her warmth enclose his need.

It was all he could do not to hold himself against her more firmly, but he knew she would be frightened if he kept her captive, and so he relaxed his arms a bit, offering her the space to move from him.

Debra felt her body still, knew a moment of fear as she sensed his man’s arousal against her belly. She’d not known the feel of a man’s flesh, but knew the look of a man before he takes a woman to his bed. The braves of her mother’s tribe had made no secret of their prowess with the women of the tribe, and more than one had come to her mother and offered himself to her.

It had frightened the girl who watched, and she’d buried her head in her bedding as the sounds of a man using her mother had hammered into her memory. Now she knew the body of an aroused man for herself, knew the feel of his need for her and felt a returning desire for his touch.

“You’re a virgin, Debra, and I would not hurt you or take you to bed unless you become my wife first.” His words penetrated her sense of fear and she relaxed against him. “Does my need for you frighten you, little bird?”

She nodded, once, and then stood with her face buried against his chest. Her words were soft, poignant, and her voice faltered as she spoke. “I saw the men of my mother’s tribe. One of them came to her while I lay nearby.” She could not continue, and her voice broke.

“It was not for a child to see or hear such a thing,” he said roughly. “You didn’t understand what was happening, and you were but a child, too young to be exposed to your mother’s—”

“She wasn’t willing, but he took her anyway,” Debra said. “I heard her cry when he used her body, and he laughed at her, told her she was but a woman and good for nothing else.”

“And did you believe what he said?” Tyler held her close, wanting only to cherish the young child she had been and the woman she was now.

“I suppose I did then,” she admitted. “For I knew no better. But now I know that he only tried to shame her in order to make himself look more a man.”

“He was less than a man, to take a woman without her yielding to him gladly,” Tyler said softly. “He had no right. Men have no rights but those a woman gives them.”

“You come from a different world than I. Women are not cherished by men in my remembrance, all but my father, and the way he was with my mother when I was a child.”

“Then try to remember that and forget the rest,” Tyler told her. “Recall only the good things that happened in your life, the family you lived with here on your father’s farm, the good times you shared with him and your mother. He must have loved you to leave you his land. He must have known you would care for it and keep it as it was.”

“My mother said he loved me.” It seemed but little for a woman to cherish, the secondhand knowledge of her father’s love, but it was obviously a comfort to the woman he held, and Tyler added what warmth he could to the knowledge she held so dear.

His arms were strong, his body warm, and she nestled against him as if she’d come home. Her breath was shattered as she inhaled deeply, the sound faltering, as if she suppressed tears, and he would not shame her by acknowledging her sadness.

“Marry me, Debra. Be my wife, little nightbird. You may not feel any desire for me now, but it will come, I promise you. One day you’ll want me as I want you.”

She tipped her head back and met his gaze, her eyes dark with a look he dared hope might be desire for him. His mouth touched hers again and his kiss was welcomed, her own lips warm against his, her breath sweet. He did not press for more, only the touch of her flesh comforting his own.

Her arms slipped around his neck and she pressed her body closer to his, fitting herself to the length of him, her breasts against his chest, allowing his hips to nestle in the cradle of her own. And if his arousal frightened her, she did not draw back from him, only shifted a bit as though she wondered at the pressure of his manhood against her.

His mouth lifted from hers, his lips closed, for he would not frighten her with his passion, knowing she would fear the touch of his tongue should he use it to force his way into the warmth of her mouth. She clung to him, her hands strong as she held the nape of his neck, her body conforming to the shape of his own.

“You give yourself sweetly,” he said, his voice a low hum in her ear. “I can barely keep from lying you on the ground and taking you for my own.”

She shook her head, rubbing it on his chest, denying his need. “I don’t think I can do as you want, Tyler. My mother told me once that there is pain when a man takes a woman for the first time, that his path is not smooth, that he must forge a way into her body that gives her only pain.”

“There is pain in that,” he admitted. “But it is overcome by the pleasure to follow, if a man is careful, if he is gentle and cares for the woman he beds.” His hands touched her sides, measuring her waist and the width of her hips, then met at her back, soothing the line of her spine with tender strokes.

“I would be gentle with you, little bird. I would not cause you pain if it can be helped.”

She trembled against him, and he knew her fear was real, that she held memories of a time long past, when she had been exposed to the dark side of a man’s needs.

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