The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

couldn’t live in the same house with a person who hated me. Not again. Not ever again.” She looked down at her empty plate and smiled, a sad travesty. “I ate it all. You were right.”

      “If he had proof, he’d have sent the law after you,” Quinn said firmly, rising to take their plates to the sink. His fork scraped the residue of their meal into the pan she kept there for the purpose. “You need a dog around here, or a pig maybe,” he muttered after a moment.

      “Whatever for?” Her voice held a trace of surprise, much better than the calm weariness she’d assumed for the past little while, he decided.

      “Dogs eat leftovers, and pigs eat most anything.”

      She laughed, a rusty sound. “I wouldn’t know how to go about butchering a pig. And I can’t think of any other use for one. Maybe a dog would be a better idea.”

      “I’ll check in town next time I ride down. Maybe somebody has a litter of pups.”

      She was silent behind him and he turned, leaning against the sinkboard. Her eyes were wary, the blue orbs shot with silver, dark lashes framing their distinctive beauty. She’d gathered her hair atop her head in a careless arrangement, and tendrils had escaped from the silken mass to fall against her neck.

      Her aura of vulnerability, meshed with the graceful beauty of the woman herself, moved him, emotions he’d long since forgotten making themselves known. The need to protect her was uppermost, followed by a longing to touch the soft curve of her cheek, to place his mouth against her brow in a gesture of comfort.

      Yet it was more than comfort he ached to offer, and that need rose in a tumult of desire that shamed him with its fierce strength. She was alone, vulnerable, and on top of it all, she carried a child beneath that enveloping skirt she wore.

      “Next time you go to town?” she asked quietly. “You’re not.”

      “I’m…not moving you from this place, Erin, at least not right now. The weather is changing, you’re not fit to travel and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

      As if that settled the whole thing, Quinn levered himself from his position at the sink and headed for the door.

      “Can I help with the deer?” she asked, rising from the table.

      “Bring out the biggest kettle in the house and I’ll fill it at the pump outside. I’ll want to wash the meat. Then you can cook the neck roast in the oven for supper.”

      “There’s a barrel in the shed. Maybe we could salt some of the meat down in it,” she offered.

      “You got enough salt for that?”

      She looked puzzled. “I don’t know how much it’ll take, but I’ve got ten pounds.”

      He nodded. “We can put some of it in brine. In the meantime, I need to sharpen my knife.”

      

      With a vengeful reminder of her vulnerability, the pain returned, sweeping from her belly to wash against her spine in waves that took her breath. She’d only carried the kettle outside—certainly not a heavy chore—then returned to the kitchen to sort out her dirty clothes for washing.

      Not that she had any amount to worry about, but two dresses were ready for a scrubbing, and probably Quinn Yarborough had an assortment of laundry she could wash out for him. It was the least she could do, with him furnishing meat for her table.

      She’d bent to empty the box she kept the soiled laundry in when the steadily rising ache turned to pain, a clawing pain that took her breath and brought tears to her eyes.

      Erin lowered herself to a chair and held her breath. Her head bent, she waited out the grip of harsh discomfort, then released the air within her lungs in a steady stream.

      She slid her palm across the rounding of her belly and waited, but no answering pressure greeted her seeking fingers. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated. Surely the baby had moved this morning? But the hours since rising had been fraught with worry over Quinn’s disappearance and the conflict he’d revealed on his return.

      If the baby had moved, she’d been wrapped up in her thoughts, unaware of the small shifting and wiggling it might have done.

      Last night. Maybe she’d noticed it then. But her mind drew a blank, the long ride up the mountain a dim memory as she thought of the day past.

      “Please move, baby.” It was an anguished whisper, and Erin felt hot tears slip from beneath her closed eyelids.

      To no avail. The firm swelling that was her child was unmoving, and she rose to her feet, unwilling, unable to consider the fears that pressed upon her.

      

      The daylight hours were spent tending the deer and working at the stove. At noon Erin fried thin slivers of meat from its haunch in her skillet, making sandwiches from the leftover biscuits for their dinner. It was as tender as Quinn had predicted, and she cooked up three apples for a lumpy bowl of sauce to go with it.

      At twilight they ate supper. The neck roast was juicy, the meat falling off in long strings, but easily cut. She’d baked potatoes in the oven with it, and they ate by lantern light. Quinn refused to allow her to milk Daisy, and told her that his talents had grown to include the care of the cow.

      She smiled at his quip, and gave in gracefully. The walk to the shed for chores was almost beyond her strength, and she nodded as he told her to stay inside.

      The pain had come again, over and over during the afternoon, each time increasing in force, until she thought she’d drawn blood from biting at her lip.

      In the midst of eating his supper, Quinn noticed, his watchful gaze finding the small swelling.

      “What did you do to your mouth, Erin?” he asked, leaning across the table to lift her chin with his index finger.

      She drew back, for months unused to a man’s touch against her flesh. She’d borne—almost welcomed—the weight of Quinn’s hands on her shoulders, felt their heated width through the material of her dress.

      But this was different Like a caress, it was imbued with a personal quality of caring she’d seldom felt in her life.

      Certainly not in those three years past, while she’d lived in the same house with Damian Wentworth.

      “Erin?”

      “I must have bitten it,” she said, turning from him.

      He waited, unmoving. “Are you all right?” As if he sensed her discomfort, he touched her again, this time with the palm of his hand at the small of her back.

      She closed her eyes, suppressing a groan. There, where his hand pressed with care, the pain had dwelt with harsh tentacles. Now her flesh felt as though it quivered, seeking the comforting presence of his palm.

      “Are you all right?” His tone was genuinely worried now and he turned her to face him. “Erin?”

      Another sweeping, drawing sensation began, centering in the depths of her belly this time, quickly spreading to release an avalanche of pain to the middle of her back.

      “No, I’m not,” she admitted in a thin, anxious wail. “I think something’s wrong, Quinn. I don’t know what it feels like to birth a child, but I think that’s what’s happening.”

      “How long have you had pains?” He clutched her shoulders as if he would squeeze the answer from her flesh.

      “Today, since early on. Several times over the past week or so, but just once in a while.” She chewed at her lip, and he nudged her chin with his finger.

      “Don’t, Erin. You’ll draw blood.”

      “If the baby comes now, it’ll be too early. He’ll be too small!” Her voice sobbed the final words and he drew her to lean against him, her head drooping to rest on his broad chest.

      The pain surged, hitting her again,