The Outlaw's Bride. Carolyn Davidson

it with a dish towel and turned his attention to slicing enough bread for toast.

      “I should have used a knife last night. Looks like I made a mess of it.”

      “It doesn’t matter. At least you left enough for breakfast. And if you hadn’t, I have another loaf put up.”

      He sawed at the loaf before him, and then looked up. “Shall I put it in the oven?” He waited for her reply, three slices in his hand, and received a patient look from her direction. Her free hand waved at the oven door and he took the blatant hint, placing the bread on the rack within, backing quickly from the heat.

      The eggs she’d brought from the shed rested now in a crock on the table and she lifted five of them, cracking them into a shallow dish, then waved a hand at the container. “Put this in the pantry, if you would. Right-hand side, second shelf.”

      He nodded, willing to be accommodating, since she held the spoon that would be stirring his eggs and he was of a mind to enjoy her cooking. The pantry was lined with shelves, Mason jars lined up precisely, many of them empty on the bottom shelves, awaiting the harvest to come from the kitchen garden.

      Neatness seemed to be her motto, for even the canned goods she’d brought from town were stowed according to content, and beside them jars of coffee beans and sacks of sugar and flour vied for shelf space. She was an orderly sort, he decided quickly, her supplies sufficient to hold them for at least a week.

      “Bring that churn out with you,” she called from the vicinity of the stove, where he heard the splatter of bacon grease on the hot surface as she turned the thick slices in the skillet. “The bread should be toasted by now,” she told him, and he opened the oven door, forking out the three slices of browned bread.

      A generous slab of butter lay beneath a glass dome on the table, and he found a knife from the drawer, then set about slathering a thick layer of golden butter on his toast. He’d watched her put together a pot of coffee as soon as she made her way to the kitchen early on and now the aroma of the strong, fresh brew reached him.

      His plate was readied, scrambled eggs with four slices of bacon edging the offering, a thick china mug filled to the brim with black coffee and toast he’d buttered on another plate. His mouth watered, and he did not hesitate, only taking time to find forks in the drawer before he sat down.

      Debra sat across from him and her movements were fluid, her hands graceful as she ladled jam from a pot onto her toast. For a moment, she paused, lifting her eyes to the window, her lips moving silently, and he thought she might be speaking a blessing on her food.

      He picked up his fork and loaded it with eggs. The steam rose from the golden pile on his plate and he tucked in readily, the fresh eggs a delight to his tastebuds. The bacon was crisp, the coffee strong and black, just as he liked it, and he bent a look of appreciation on the woman seated across from him.

      “You’re a good cook, Debra.”

      She shrugged easily. “It doesn’t take much talent to scramble eggs and fry bacon.”

      “Perhaps not, but someone baked the bread and churned the butter. I suspect you’ve learned well how to run a kitchen.”

      “My mother was a fine example to follow.” She spoke softly, her eyes holding a faraway look. “She taught me all I know.”

      “Were you brought up in this house?” He found himself more than curious about her, his thoughts on the girl she’d been, the woman she’d become over the years. And yet, she was more girl than woman, he realized, surely not out of her teen years.

      “How old are you?”

      She looked up at him in surprise. “I was born and raised here. And now I’m old enough to live alone and take care of myself.”

      He grinned. “Maybe.” The pause was long and then he supplied her with his thoughts. “You weren’t thinking last night when you walked into an empty house, Debra. You should have left a light on, or carried a gun.”

      “It would have been a waste of kerosene,” she said sharply, “and my gun was already in the house.” Her eyes met his with a dark look that offered scorn. “I’ve never had to fear having my home invaded before. This has always been a safe place to live. Until now.”

      “I mean you no harm, Debra Nightsong. I only need a place to stay for a while. I’ll help you with chores, lend a hand wherever I can, in exchange for a bed and three meals a day. And when I leave, you’ll be no worse for it.”

      “Entering my home uninvited makes you unwelcome. I didn’t ask for your company, and I don’t mind telling you that I don’t appreciate your being here.”

      His grin was quick. “Sorry, ma’am. But, I’ll be hanging around for a while. I’d thought to pay my way by working. I’d thought you might be some widow lady who needed a man to do some heavy work for her.”

      “Well, it must be obvious that I don’t need a man for anything, Tyler, if that’s really your name.”

      He thought her cheeks took on a rosy hue at that, and his chuckle appreciated her viewpoint. “It’s my name, sure enough. And for your information, a good man can come in right handy, ma’am. For any number of things.”

      “I’ve gotten along without one for a long time. No sense in changing my life now,” she said pointedly. “I like things just the way they are.”

      “Living alone? Doing the work of a man? Trying to keep up a farm by yourself?” He knew his voice was impatient, and he modified it a bit. “I’d think having a man around for a few days might be a good thing for you. Give you a chance to order me around and have me handle some chores.”

      She looked at him from beneath dark lashes and he felt her mockery as she spoke. “How about weeding the garden then? Or perhaps putting up fence posts for a corral for my horse. I have any number of little jobs to be done.”

      She looked surprised at his smile. “I follow orders real good, ma’am. Where are the fence posts and a shovel?”

      “I’ve had posts delivered from the sawmill. They’re out behind the shed. The shovel is on the wall, next to the hoe. You’ll need both if you plan on chopping weeds and digging holes.”

      “And what do I get in return?” He watched her as her mind worked, the smooth lines of her face giving him no clue as to her thoughts. And yet he thought she might be hiding a smile.

      “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He’d startled her with that, he decided, for she blinked and looked unsettled for a moment.

      “No. If you’d wanted to harm me, you would have already.”

      And if she only knew how tempted he’d been, last night when the moon had turned its face on her and illuminated the beauty of dark hair and smooth skin. Not to harm her, but to touch her woman’s flesh, to bring her the warmth of his own. His control had been tried when he’d watched her as she slept. When his hands had craved the soft heat of her, his body had ached for the comfort of hers.

      And yet, his intent would not have been to cause her pain, although that might have been an end result if he’d touched her slender form. She was no doubt a virgin, and would remain so while he lingered here, he vowed.

      He’d never been prone to taking a woman who was not willing—indeed, not eager—to fill his bed. And there had been no lack of takers. Yet none of them had appealed to him in quite the same way as this female, this slim creature whose dark hair and eyes lured him with their mystery, whose slender fingers held the strength to milk a cow or wield a knife, whose home offered him a resting place where he might sort out his future.

      And so he again spoke his intent, wanting to reassure her that his presence would bring her no harm. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, Nightsong. I’ll only be here as long as it takes to make my plans. As soon as I’ve decided my next move I’ll be on my way and you’ll be no worse off for having me here.” And if he could tear himself away from the lure of her, from the soft