The Outlaw's Bride. Carolyn Davidson

planned, it boded no good for her, she’d already decided.

      He chose not to argue with her, apparently, for he simply waited as Debra opened the sacks on the kitchen table, feeling the familiar items within. Coffee, peaches, a tin of sugar, lard in a five-pound can, a bit of bacon and a sack of flour. With quick steps, only the faint light of moon and stars to guide her, she carried them into the small pantry, putting them in place on the almost empty shelves.

      “Now we’ll go out and tend your cow.” His voice was low, his touch firm against her arm as he steered her toward the back door. She walked ahead of him, knowing her cow would be miserable if she were not relieved of her milk tonight.

      Outdoors, the moon was high in the sky, illuminating the rough path to her barn—realistically more a shed, she thought, as the structure loomed before them. Her cow lowed impatiently from her stall, and Debra pushed the door aside, entering the dark, musty stable, able to find her way by touch, so familiar was she with the contents of the building. Her milking pail was covered by a towel, just inside the door, the three-legged stool she used beside it.

      She bent to them, picking them up as she neared the stall where her Jersey cow waited. In moments she was seated near the animal’s flank, holding the bucket between her knees as she began the process of emptying the bag of its burden. The small Jersey lowed once more, as if in greeting, and Debra murmured soft words to her, soothing her unease.

      Fifteen minutes later, she’d given the animals their hay for the night, her horse in a standing stall nearby, three other mares tied in narrow seclusion farther down the aisle of the barn. Without words spoken, the man, Tyler, helped her fill the mangers, then followed her from the stable and into the yard.

      She looked up at him, his face more distinct in the moonlight and her heart sank within her. Probably not more than thirty, but well-worn, she decided. He was hard, his features forming a harsh visage, a straight blade of a nose, dark hair badly in need of a barber’s scissors and eyes that hid behind lowered lids and lashes.

      Without speaking, he led her back to the house and as they entered Debra removed her shoes on the mat just inside the kitchen. Tyler followed suit and then stood silently behind her as she contemplated her next move.

      “If that’s all the chores you need done tonight, go in the bedroom and get out of your clothes,” he said harshly, not offering any more excuses to put off the inevitable.

      “I can sleep in my clothing,” she said sharply. “I’m not getting undressed in front of you.”

      “I didn’t expect you to. I’ll wait out here ’til you tell me you’re in bed.”

      She was abruptly released from his hold and with four steps she was in front of her closed bedroom door. She opened it, stepping inside and then turned to close it against him. It was not to be. His foot jammed it open and he laughed.

      “I may not be allowed to watch, but I’m not taking a chance on you skinnin’out that window, sweetheart.”

      The moonlight was brighter in here, flooding her bedroom, and Debra sought out her nightgown from beneath her pillow. She went behind the screen in one corner, where her slop jar and basin were kept. In moments she had pulled her clothing off and the nightgown was in place. She hung her dress and chemise over the screen, then walked toward the bed.

      “I’d be happy to sleep on the rug over here,” she suggested and was not surprised to hear his gruff laughter again as he entered the room and closed the door.

      “Not a chance, Nightsong.”

      “You know my name?”

      “I heard it in town,” he said. “I like it.”

      “It’s only my surname. I’m Debra.”

      “Who named you Nightsong? A family name?”

      “My mother gave me her name. She was The One Who Sings, and they called her Nightbird. When I was born she said I was the song she was meant to sing. She called me her Nightsong.” She spoke the words softly, remembering the woman who had been her protector and champion during those early days of her life. They’d both been outcasts from the tribe, her mother because she’d borne a half-breed child, and Debra because she carried the blood of the white man in her veins.

      “Get into bed.” He gave the order with no inflection in his voice and she did as he said, knowing that she could not win a battle against him. At least not now. The sheets were cool against her, and she placed her pillow behind her, choosing to sleep without it, in order to keep a barrier between their bodies.

      He only laughed beneath his breath as he slid into the other side of the bed, snatched the pillow up and put it atop his own. “That won’t work, sweetheart,” he told her. “You’re going to be right next to me all night. We can make our living arrangements tomorrow, but for tonight, we’ll just do our best to be friends.”

      “You’re suffering a delusion,” she said sharply. “We’ll never be friends. I’m your prisoner for now, but…”

      “It won’t be easy to escape me, Debra Nightsong. In fact, I’d say don’t even try. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll not let you get away from me.”

      She sat up abruptly and faced him. “You’re in my house, holding me prisoner and threatening me. I don’t owe you anything, mister. I don’t know who you’re hiding from, but I suspect it’s the law, and I refuse to hide you here.”

      She saw the flash of his white teeth in the moonlight. “Right now, you don’t have a choice, sweetheart. I’m the man with the gun, and about a hundred pounds on you. Not to mention that I’m a good foot taller than you are. That settles it, I’d say. You’ll do as I tell you, at least for the next few days.”

      “Days? You plan on keeping me your prisoner for a matter of days?” Her heartbeat increased as she considered his words.

      His hand reached for her and his long fingers clamped around her wrist. “Don’t worry about the days ahead, Nightsong. For now, we just need to get through the night. And you have only two choices. It’s either me holding your arm or I’ll tie you to my waist. What’ll it be?”

      She was silent. His fingers were hard against her skin, but not cruel, not enough to cause bruises, unless she fought his touch. The thought of being tied to him was unacceptable and she lay back down, accepting his imprisoning fingers binding her close.

      He turned toward her, as if accepting her surrender, and laughed, a sound smacking of derision. “Close your eyes, Debra Nightsong. It’s going to be a long night.”

      She did as he said, knowing that for now, she was under his control, and God forbid she make him angry with her.

      But her mind was spinning like a child’s top on Christmas morning. All she’d ever asked for was a peaceful life, alone here on the property her father had bequeathed to her. She’d done well, raising chickens, one of them a rooster who kept her hens in line, and awoke early every morning to hail the new day. Then there was the cow she cared for, and her golden mare. Now her herd had increased with the arrival of the three mares.

      A garden thrived behind the house and her nearest neighbor cut the acres of hay she shared with him for his work. It was a good life, one she’d thought held a measure of safety and peace.

      The dark-haired man beside her was a stranger, tall, well-built, and, as he’d said, probably a hundred pounds heavier than she. A big man, whose dark eyes had frightened her with their lack of emotion. As though he felt nothing, as if his feelings were locked up somewhere inside, he gave no hint of softness, no apology for his hands on her body, his presence in her bed.

      She trembled, fearful of him, his presence in her home and the fate that might await her. Physically, she was no match for him, leaving her only her wits to depend upon.

      The mystery was too much for her tonight, she decided. Just getting through the hours ’til morning was what concerned her right now. Her mind was whirling again, her wrist was held in an unshakable grip