The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

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

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

      “The cow, too?” he asked.

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

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

      “No, from city people, actually.”

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

      “How long you been here on your own?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Make that seven. “Are you?” he mused.

      She glanced up at him, her eyes watchful.

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

      “You have a name, I assume?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      

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

      He said as much.

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

      “I’d be happy to give you a hand with