The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

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

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

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

      “You sending me on my way?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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