The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

of the woman, her ability to cope with circumstances, even the long ride today. With not a moment’s complaint.

      She’d been foolish to come to this place, this deserted cabin, where her existence was riding a fine edge. And yet he couldn’t help but admire the courage of her choice; even as he wondered why she had shunned the help offered by the Wentworths.

      He wasn’t surprised that Ted and Estelle Wentworth wanted her back in their home. She was a daughter to be proud of. Perhaps not their daughter, he amended silently, but the next thing to it. And the chances were good that the child she carried would be equally as fine.

      But how Damian had ever wooed and won this prize was beyond him. From all he’d heard, the boy Quinn had known had come to be something of a scoundrel, chasing women as if it were more important than his studies, back at university. He’d been handy at gambling, and whiskey had been his downfall, so the stories went. Strange that this fine-featured woman, with so much to offer a man, should have settled for Damian Wentworth. And even stranger that her beauty and strength of character had not been enough to keep him faithful.

      Perhaps it was the money that had wooed her to his cause. No…not likely, he decided. If hard, cold cashand what it could buy for her benefit-was her priority in life, it wasn’t readily apparent now. Although she wasn’t hurting for money. Somewhere she’d gotten a nest egg.

      He’d looked the other way as she unearthed the box from beneath the floorboards of the cabin earlier. But his glance had encompassed a pile of money before he’d turned aside.

      It was a problem he stood no chance of solving tonight, he decided, catching a yawn with his open palm. And leaving the warm cabin now for another night in the cold shed was less than appealing. He cast another glance at her, there beneath the covers, her hair tangled around her face, her eyes deeply circled with weariness.

      She would never know if he stayed inside. He could be back out in the shed before she woke. He lifted a quilt from atop her, replacing it with her heavy cloak. Another yawn made him shake his head in weariness.

      He’d leave early to bring the deer back. He’d rise before dawn and be gone before she stirred.

       Chapter Three

      “Mr Yarborough!” Her words bore more than a trace of shock.

      He rolled over, tangling the quilt around him, and struggled to his feet. “I thought we’d decided on ‘Quinn,’“ he growled. The quilt fell to the floor and he turned to look at her.

      The image was one of early-morning sensuality. One cheek creased by her pillow, hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes blinking away the residue of sleep, she stood by the bed, wrapped in the second quilt.

      “’Quinn’ was when I thought you were a gentleman.”

      “Hell, sleepin’ on your floor didn’t turn me into an outlaw, Erin,” he muttered, bending to pick up the quilt that threatened to trip him. He folded it, aware that her look scorned his attempt.

      She held out a hand, baring her arm to the elbow, and his eyes narrowed as he handed her the bundled-up quilt. What she was wearing beneath her own bulky coverlet was anyone’s guess. She must have discovered his presence while she was getting dressed or undressed.

      “I planned on being out of here before you woke up, Erin.” Although he’d have hated missing the sight of her, all sleepy eyed, with that halo of dark hair shimmering around her face.

      “I’d planned on you using the shed.” She dropped the quilt on the bed and wrapped her own covering around her a little tighter, her arm disappearing beneath the protection of patchwork.

      “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” It was the best he could do, being all primed with his usual early-morning problem, and the sight of her adding to it by leaps and bounds.

      “Well?” She watched him impatiently, her nostrils flaring, her chin high as she waited.

      “I’m goin’…I’m goin’.” Quinn snatched at his boots and struggled into them, hopping on one foot at a time as he slid his stockinged feet into place. At the sink he pumped once and caught the water as it ran from the spout, splashing it over his face and neck, running his fingers through his hair.

      He’d hung his coat over the back of a chair in front of the stove last night and it was warm when he slid his arms into it. At the door he shot another glance in her direction. She hadn’t moved, just stood there like a statue, all full of indignation.

      Made a man want to give her something to be mad about, Quinn thought with a twinge of exasperation. About one more day with this woman and he’d be more than halfway to forgetting what he’d come here to accomplish.

      Damn! What a way to start the day.

      Erin drew in a deep breath. She’d stripped almost to the skin in front of the man. Down to her drawers and chemise anyway, ready to dig into her carpetbag for a clean dress. And then she’d heard him grunt as he shifted about on the wood-planked floor.

      That it didn’t frighten her was a miracle. Heaven knew she wasn’t used to finding a man sleeping in front of her stove, but some inner awareness identified the culprit even before she peered around the table to where he lay.

      The coverlet had been handy and she’d hidden quickly behind its concealing folds, then called his name with the proper amount of indignation. She’d almost smiled when he’d staggered to his feet, his hair every which way and his eyes blinking at her.

      She sank onto the edge of the bed. That look he’d given her…that knowing light in his eyes as he scanned her well-covered form, his gaze alert after only a moment. She’d felt warmed by it. Still did, if the truth be known.

      Yet, despite that, he was a gentleman. She owed him an apology for that remark. He’d only sought a warm spot to spend the night, and borrowed a quilt to add to his comfort.

      And that gentleman would be looking for breakfast before too long, if she knew anything about it. Bending to her carpetbag, where she stored her clean clothing, Erin drew forth a dress and donned it quickly. Her soft shoes were by the stove and she made her way there, buttoning her bodice as she went.

      And then waited.

      The sun was over the meadow by the time she heard his horse whinny. She was at the door in an instant, drawing it open to seek his whereabouts. Across the yard, just beyond the shed, Quinn rode at an easy trot, the carcass of the deer across his horse’s haunches.

      He raised a hand to wave at her and she lifted hers in response, trying in vain to suppress the delight that would not be denied.

      For over an hour she’d thought he was gone, that her fit of pique had sent him on his way. If she’d used her head she’d have remembered his promise to head out first thing and bring back the deer he’d shot.

      “The coffee’s hot,” she called out, and smiled at his answering wave.

      “Give me fifteen minutes,” he answered. “Have you milked yet?”

      “No, I knew you’d done it late last night. I found the pail in the corner, so I knew she’d be all right for a while.”

      Quinn nodded, dismounting and leading his horse to a tree near the cabin. “I did. Just let me hang this deer and I’ll wash up.”

      She’d baked biscuits earlier and kept them warm on the back of the stove. Her skillet was full of gravy, made with freshly ground sausage she’d bought yesterday. The gravy had thickened, and Erin dipped milk from the pail he’d brought in last night to thin it out.

      She was pouring coffee when he came in the door.

      “That buck’s a young one. Should be tender,” he told her, scooping soap from the crock she kept on the sinkboard. He washed up, then dried his hands, his gaze pinning her in place.

      “You