The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

protest was almost mute, only a small, wounded sound that might have been acquiescence as she crumpled beneath his touch.

      He relented. “I’ll pull the chair over to the window. You can watch from there,” he told her, waiting until she nodded agreement. Placing the small box…at the end of Erin’s bed, Quinn pulled the rocker the short distance to the window and then returned for the woman who waited.

      He lifted her, wrapped in a quilt, and placed her in the chair, tucking the warm covering in place. From the window, the spot he’d chosen was visible, though snow was now beginning to fall steadily.

      “Will you name him? Or shall I?” he asked, returning to her side.

      “You.” The one syllable, harsh and borne on a breath that touched his hand with its warmth, answered him as she bent low oyer the box he held.

      He lifted the lid and then placed his hand against the window, where moisture dampened the glass. He transferred the bit of water, touching the downy head with two fingers.

      “I baptize you John Wentworth, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

      Within his chest Quinn felt pain of his own, that he should be the one to bury not only the babe, but the hopes and dreams of its mother, in that hole he’d dug. His gaze swept over Erin, pausing on the tender bend of her neck, her dark hair haloed in the light from the lamp on the table.

      She pressed her index finger against her mouth and transferred the caress to her child’s forehead, then sat erect once more.

      “I’ll not be long,” Quinn told her, easing the lid back over the still form. Four nails were in his pocket, the hammer on the table, and he snatched it up as he moved to the door.

      “Quinn.” Her voice halted him and he turned back.

      “Thank you.” Her lips barely moved as she spoke the words. Her eyes held immense sorrow, but no tears, and he nodded, closing the door behind him.

      Strangely, he’d feel better about the whole thing if she’d weep, he thought, trudging across the small clearing. But from the looks of her, she’d shed tears enough, at least for today.

      

      The snow fell heavily for two days, and then the sun came out, rising like a pale golden ball in the east. Quinn peered from the window, still tousled from sleep, his bare feet-feeling half-frozen. His gaze turned to the small mound, covered with snow, just across the clearing. And behind him he heard the rustle of bedcoverings as Erin roused from sleep.

      “Quinn?” She spoke his name with a distinct lack of emotion in her voice, and his eyes closed as his head bowed, forehead touching the damp window glass.

      “You’re awake.” He turned, his gaze seeking hers, scanning her wan features. She hadn’t eaten enough in the past two days to keep her alive. He’d vowed to him-self that today would be the turning point. Today he’d sit beside her until she finished breakfast, or at least made a good attempt.

      There wasn’t enough flesh on her bones to draw from. Either she began to gain back some strength or he would fear for her health.

      “Are you hungry? We’ve got eggs up the gump stump, honey. I thought we could scramble up a panful for breakfast.”

      Erin watched him, her mouth pinched as if she held back words that bore a tart taste in her mouth. And then she smiled, a wan little grimace, but better than the solemn look he’d dealt with for two long days. “I’ll try, Quinn. I don’t want you to worry about me. Except.”

      He stirred, reaching for his heavy shirt, and buttoned it as he walked toward the bed. “Except what, Erin? What’s wrong?”

      She flushed, the pink tinge of her skin changing the look of her, and her gaze dropped from his face to where her fingers tangled in her lap. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” she said finally. “My chest.” Her hands rose to spread across the fullness of her breasts and she hesitated, biting at her lip.

      “Do you feel congested, like a bad cold or pneumonia, maybe?” Quinn asked harshly. God above knew he wasn’t ready for this fragile woman to fall sick on him.

      She shook her head. “No, I don’t mean inside my chest, Quinn. I mean here.” She touched her breasts and winced as she pressed gently against her gown. “I feel swollen and hot. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

      He wanted to unbutton the front of that sedate flannel gown. He ached with the urge to lay his hands on the fevered flesh beneath it, and his heartbeat increased as he considered that thought.

      It was not a good idea. Even for a valid reason such as this, Erin’s bosom was out-of-bounds for him. Even though her body had been exposed to his eyes, this was a different kettle of fish.

      “Quinn? I wonder if. Do you think maybe it’s because I had the baby, and now I’m filling up with milk?”

      Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? The most natural thing in the world. He’d seen newborn calves and colts nurse and thought nothing of it. It only made sense that a woman would have the same function, the same milk forming in her body as any other creature.

      He’d just never had access to a nursing mother, or any other mother, for that matter.

      “I’d say you hit the nail on the head,” he told her. “The problem is, I’m not sure what to do about it.”

      She shrugged. “Maybe if we just wait, it’ll be all right. Maybe, since I’m not.” Her hands reached out in mute appeal. “You know what I mean. I don’t have a baby to nurse, so maybe it will go away.”

      She sounded so hopeful, he could scarcely bear it. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that, Erin. But I have to admit I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe.” His mind searched for an answer.

      “How about putting cold cloths on you, maybe make you feel better?” It was a very poor solution, to his way of thinking, but taking care of a new mother was a far cry from his usual line of work.

      She looked doubtful. “If you think it will help, I’ll do it, Quinn.”

      “It sure can’t hurt anything,” he said quickly. “Let me get some snow in here and I’ll pack a towel with it.”

      It was cold, that was for sure, Erin decided a few minutes later. She held the makeshift compress to her breasts, welcoming the numbing chill against her skin.

      At the stove, Quinn broke eggs into her iron skillet and stirred them as they cooked, intent on fixing breakfast. He opened the oven, stabbing the toasted bread with her long fork and dropping it onto a plate. His expertise was not in the kitchen, she decided, her mouth curling in the barest trace of a smile.

      For this man she would do most anything right now, Erin thought, straightening in the rocking chair. Even if it meant gulping down eggs and gnawing on a piece of stale bread turned to dry toast. And from the looks of things, that was about all they were going to have for breakfast. She hadn’t baked in three days and she doubted Quinn Yarborough was handy with bread dough.

      “I’ve been thinking,” he said, casting a quick look at her. “Maybe I should go down to town and talk to the doctor, see if there’s something you should be doing to help with your.” His hand waved at her, as if he hesitated to name the cause of her problem.

      Again Erin came close to smiling, her eyes catching sight of the faint color that rode his cheekbones. Bless his heart, the man was embarrassed. After all he’d done for her.

      “What do you think, honey?” he asked, lifting the skillet to turn a mound of eggs out onto her plate.

      “Yes, all right,” she answered, agreeable to anything that would relieve the tight throbbing in her breasts.

      Quinn carried her plate to where she sat in the rocking chair. “Here, I’ll trade you,” he said, reaching for her wet towel. “Eat first, then