Читать книгу The Tender Stranger - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 10

“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 still mad at me?” The question was blunt and to the point, and she felt a flush sweep up over her cheeks.

“No.” She motioned to the table. “Come sit down.

I’ve made gravy for the biscuits. I suspect you’re hungry.”

“Never thought I’d be tempted by raw meat before, but that deer was lookin’ pretty good by the time I got back with it.” Quinn’s voice held more than a hint of good humor, and Erin chanced a look at him.

He was opening biscuits, three of them making a circle on the chipped plate. The skillet of gravy was in the middle of the table and he took the handle with care, holding it with her dish towel.

“Looks good,” he said, and then glanced up. “You ready for some?”

She nodded and he ladled a generous portion onto her single biscuit. The steam rose and he inhaled sharply, sniffing the spicy aroma with appreciation. With the first forkful on its way to his mouth, he remembered his manners.

“Thanks for cooking, Erin. I appreciate it.”

She felt the flush return. “It was the least I could do…Quinn. You’ve been more than generous with your time.”

He shrugged. “Seems to me we’re about even on that score. You let me take shelter from the weather, and I returned the favor another way.”

Her question, burning in her mind for three days, could wait no longer. “Where are you headed, Quinn? After you leave here, I mean,” she asked cautiously, knowing it was an infringement on his privacy. She’d heard in town that one never asked questions in the West, but took folks at their face value.

“Nowhere for a while,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got a deer to butcher and take care of.”

She made an impatient gesture. “You know what I mean. Where were you going when you showed up here? Where will you go when you leave here?”

His smile vanished, and his look was that of a man who didn’t relish explaining himself. “I’ve been looking for someone,” he said finally.

“Up here?” Her brow rose and her heart beat just a bit faster.

“In this general direction.”

The thought that had been nudging at her urged her on. “Will you still be looking when you leave here?” she asked carefully, a sudden sheen of perspiration dampening her forehead. Would Ted Wentworth have gone this far, sending a man to find her?

Quinn bent over his plate and ate, allowing her words to hang between them. Another pair of biscuits found their way to his plate, and he ladled more gravy with careful precision.

“Quinn?”

He looked up. “Probably not.”

“Did the Wentworths.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, they did. I’ve been on your trail for almost three months, Erin. You did some fancy footwork, but buying this cabin, using your real name, was a mistake.”

The perspiration turned her clammy and she rose, suddenly unable to face the food before her. Her chair fell with a loud clatter and she hurried to the door, intent on gaining the porch.

She’d barely inhaled a deep breath, her lungs filling with blessed clean air, chilled by the early-morning frost, when he was there behind her.

His fingers held-her shoulders with a firm grip and he was silent, as if he willed her to speak.

She filled her lungs again and felt the sweat on her forehead evaporating in the clear, crisp breeze. “I’m not going back.”

His fingers tightened; she shivered, aware of his masculine strength, aware that he could easily bundle her atop her horse and take her down the mountain, to where the stagecoach line ran into Denver.

“Are you a bounty hunter?” she asked, despising the thready whisper her voice had become yet unable to strengthen it in the face of imminent disaster.

“I’ve been called that.” He stepped closer, until the heat of his body sheltered her back with seductive warmth. “You’re cold, Erin. Come back inside.”

“You lied to me.” Her words were bleak.

“No, I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

She shivered again, wondering at her foolishness, taking warmth from the man who would be her undoing. “You’re not a miner.”

“I’ve worked the mines.”

“Not Big Bertha, I’d be willing to bet,” she said, her words gaining strength.

“You’d win.”

She watched a hawk circle over the meadow, then swoop to its quarry, rising with a shrill cry of triumph, claws grasping a small creature. She felt a sudden kinship to that rodent, her shoulders held in a grip not unlike that of the bird of prey she watched.

“Come inside. It’s cold out here.” It was a command this time, and she obeyed, unwilling to waste her small reserve of strength on such a useless battle.

Quinn sat back down and picked up his fork. “You need to eat.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.” The words were sharp with reproof.

His lips jerked as if they might curve into a smile and his dark eyes narrowed, as if he appreciated her sarcasm. “You need the food. The baby needs nourishment.”

Erin sat down and pushed at the cold gravy with her fork.

“You’d do better to start fresh,” he said mildly, taking her plate in hand and scooping the remains of her meal to one side. His big hands swallowed a biscuit as he broke it apart, then he spooned warm gravy over it.

“Try that,” he suggested, watching her closely.

She nodded and accepted his offering. “Does the sheriff know that you’re here, looking for me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any need to tell him. You’re not a hunted criminal, Erin.”

“Damian’s father believes I killed his son.” She ate, chewing and swallowing, as the words rang in her ears. She’d said it aloud, finally.

“Does he?”

She glanced up, her look impatient. “You should know. He obviously hired you to bring me back to New York. He must have decided that he can prove I pushed Damian down those stairs that night.”

“Did you?”

Quinn waited, unaware that he held his breath, watching as her mouth twitched and trembled, just as her hands lifted to cover her face.

“Does it matter? I wished him dead. Perhaps that’s almost the same thing.”

“Not by a long shot, honey.” He stood, still unsure whether or not she’d answered his question. He’d been hell-bent on hauling the woman back to New York, set on justice for the man he’d once claimed as a childhood friend.

Now, after less than a week, he wasn’t at all sure what he was doing. Ted Wentworth’s motive was less than honest, it seemed. For the first time, Quinn had begun a search without being fully aware of the facts. He’d had only Ted’s insinuations to go on.

Quinn had been determined to give an elusive peace of mind to Damian’s parents, in thanks for their kindness to the boy he had been. They’d been more than generous with their funds, and he’d assumed that Estelle truly cared for the daughter-in-law who’d run off.

Nothing added up at this point, he decided. The woman was not what he’d expected—not by a long shot. Never in his years of hunting down one criminal after another had he doubted his own judgment to this extent.

It had taken this little bit of a woman to stop him in his tracks.

“Ted Wentworth told me he and his wife want you to live in their home. He’s worried that you can’t take care of yourself.”

Erin nodded. “He asked me to stay. I couldn’t. And then when Estelle pushed and pushed, and said insinuating things about the night Damian died, hinting things.” She shuddered and looked up at him, her eyes bleak.

“I couldn’t live in the same house with a person who hated me. Not again. Not ever again.” She looked down at her empty plate and smiled, a sad travesty. “I ate it all. You were right.”

“If he had proof, he’d have sent the law after you,” Quinn said firmly, rising to take their plates to the sink. His fork scraped the residue of their meal into the pan she kept there for the purpose. “You need a dog around here, or a pig maybe,” he muttered after a moment.

“Whatever for?” Her voice held a trace of surprise, much better than the calm weariness she’d assumed for the past little while, he decided.

“Dogs eat leftovers, and pigs eat most anything.”

She laughed, a rusty sound. “I wouldn’t know how to go about butchering a pig. And I can’t think of any other use for one. Maybe a dog would be a better idea.”

“I’ll check in town next time I ride down. Maybe somebody has a litter of pups.”

She was silent behind him and he turned, leaning against the sinkboard. Her eyes were wary, the blue orbs shot with silver, dark lashes framing their distinctive beauty. She’d gathered her hair atop her head in a careless arrangement, and tendrils had escaped from the silken mass to fall against her neck.

Her aura of vulnerability, meshed with the graceful beauty of the woman herself, moved him, emotions he’d long since forgotten making themselves known. The need to protect her was uppermost, followed by a longing to touch the soft curve of her cheek, to place his mouth against her brow in a gesture of comfort.

Yet it was more than comfort he ached to offer, and that need rose in a tumult of desire that shamed him with its fierce strength. She was alone, vulnerable, and on top of it all, she carried a child beneath that enveloping skirt she wore.

“Next time you go to town?” she asked quietly. “You’re not.”

“I’m…not moving you from this place, Erin, at least not right now. The weather is changing, you’re not fit to travel and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

As if that settled the whole thing, Quinn levered himself from his position at the sink and headed for the door.

“Can I help with the deer?” she asked, rising from the table.

“Bring out the biggest kettle in the house and I’ll fill it at the pump outside. I’ll want to wash the meat. Then you can cook the neck roast in the oven for supper.”

“There’s a barrel in the shed. Maybe we could salt some of the meat down in it,” she offered.

“You got enough salt for that?”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know how much it’ll take, but I’ve got ten pounds.”

He nodded. “We can put some of it in brine. In the meantime, I need to sharpen my knife.”

With a vengeful reminder of her vulnerability, the pain returned, sweeping from her belly to wash against her spine in waves that took her breath. She’d only carried the kettle outside—certainly not a heavy chore—then returned to the kitchen to sort out her dirty clothes for washing.

Not that she had any amount to worry about, but two dresses were ready for a scrubbing, and probably Quinn Yarborough had an assortment of laundry she could wash out for him. It was the least she could do, with him furnishing meat for her table.

She’d bent to empty the box she kept the soiled laundry in when the steadily rising ache turned to pain, a clawing pain that took her breath and brought tears to her eyes.

Erin lowered herself to a chair and held her breath. Her head bent, she waited out the grip of harsh discomfort, then released the air within her lungs in a steady stream.

She slid her palm across the rounding of her belly and waited, but no answering pressure greeted her seeking fingers. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated. Surely the baby had moved this morning? But the hours since rising had been fraught with worry over Quinn’s disappearance and the conflict he’d revealed on his return.

If the baby had moved, she’d been wrapped up in her thoughts, unaware of the small shifting and wiggling it might have done.

Last night. Maybe she’d noticed it then. But her mind drew a blank, the long ride up the mountain a dim memory as she thought of the day past.

“Please move, baby.” It was an anguished whisper, and Erin felt hot tears slip from beneath her closed eyelids.

To no avail. The firm swelling that was her child was unmoving, and she rose to her feet, unwilling, unable to consider the fears that pressed upon her.

The daylight hours were spent tending the deer and working at the stove. At noon Erin fried thin slivers of meat from its haunch in her skillet, making sandwiches from the leftover biscuits for their dinner. It was as tender as Quinn had predicted, and she cooked up three apples for a lumpy bowl of sauce to go with it.

At twilight they ate supper. The neck roast was juicy, the meat falling off in long strings, but easily cut. She’d baked potatoes in the oven with it, and they ate by lantern light. Quinn refused to allow her to milk Daisy, and told her that his talents had grown to include the care of the cow.

She smiled at his quip, and gave in gracefully. The walk to the shed for chores was almost beyond her strength, and she nodded as he told her to stay inside.

The pain had come again, over and over during the afternoon, each time increasing in force, until she thought she’d drawn blood from biting at her lip.

In the midst of eating his supper, Quinn noticed, his watchful gaze finding the small swelling.

“What did you do to your mouth, Erin?” he asked, leaning across the table to lift her chin with his index finger.

She drew back, for months unused to a man’s touch against her flesh. She’d borne—almost welcomed—the weight of Quinn’s hands on her shoulders, felt their heated width through the material of her dress.

But this was different Like a caress, it was imbued with a personal quality of caring she’d seldom felt in her life.

Certainly not in those three years past, while she’d lived in the same house with Damian Wentworth.

“Erin?”

“I must have bitten it,” she said, turning from him.

He waited, unmoving. “Are you all right?” As if he sensed her discomfort, he touched her again, this time with the palm of his hand at the small of her back.

She closed her eyes, suppressing a groan. There, where his hand pressed with care, the pain had dwelt with harsh tentacles. Now her flesh felt as though it quivered, seeking the comforting presence of his palm.

“Are you all right?” His tone was genuinely worried now and he turned her to face him. “Erin?”

Another sweeping, drawing sensation began, centering in the depths of her belly this time, quickly spreading to release an avalanche of pain to the middle of her back.

“No, I’m not,” she admitted in a thin, anxious wail. “I think something’s wrong, Quinn. I don’t know what it feels like to birth a child, but I think that’s what’s happening.”

“How long have you had pains?” He clutched her shoulders as if he would squeeze the answer from her flesh.

“Today, since early on. Several times over the past week or so, but just once in a while.” She chewed at her lip, and he nudged her chin with his finger.

“Don’t, Erin. You’ll draw blood.”

“If the baby comes now, it’ll be too early. He’ll be too small!” Her voice sobbed the final words and he drew her to lean against him, her head drooping to rest on his broad chest.

The pain surged, hitting her again, this time with the strength of a runaway train, and she almost collapsed under the sudden onslaught. Her groan escaped before she could close her lips against its release, and she reached with both hands for the tight rounding of her belly.

“Come on,” Quinn told her, lifting her with ease. “You’ll feel better on the bed.” In moments he’d pulled back the quilts and sheet, easing her down, watching as she curled on her side.

“Let me take off your shoes and stockings,” he said quietly, as if unwilling to mar the silence of her misery.

She nodded, allowing his touch as he slid his hands up her calves beneath the folds of her dress to draw down the round garters she wore, bringing her knit stockings with them. His hands turned her to her back, and she complied.

“Do you think you should get undressed?” he asked, clearly awkward at this stage of her disrobing.

Erin nodded, aware of the cessation of the pain. It had held her in its grip longer, much longer, than the last one and she feared its return.

“I’ll put on my nightgown,” she told him, swinging her legs in an awkward movement to the edge of the bed.

“Where is it?” He watched her, and she realized with a blend of embarrassment and relief that he Was not going to leave her alone.

“Under my pillow.”

He reached past her and grasped the gown, shaking it out and holding it up before himself. “Get your dress off,” he told her, and his tone would brook no argument.

Her fingers were shaking as she unbuttoned her dress and slid it from her arms to the bed. The chemise was next, and she forced herself to tug it up, rising a bit from the bed to draw it over her head, then holding it against her breasts.

Her face flaming, she reached for the hem of the gown, hanging like a shield between man and woman. Quinn was there, just two layers of flannel from view, and she slid the gown over her head, tugging at it, until he lowered it in place.

She pushed her arms into the sleeves and he bent to straighten it on her shoulders, meeting her gaze. He smiled, a mere twitch of his lips, as if he would encourage her thus.

“Stand up and let me get rid of your clothes,” he told her, and she obeyed, rising with his help, as if the process of birth, barely begun, had already robbed her of her strength.

He reached beneath the gown, his hands impersonal and circumspect as he drew her petticoat and drawers down with the voluminous fabric of her dress. Balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder, Erin stepped out of the rumpled pile of fabric, and drew in a deep breath.

The pain was returning. Too soon…too soon! Fear wrapped her in greedy arms as she bit against the bruised lip once more. Only the knowledge that Quinn Yarborough stood between her and the terrible night to come gave her courage.

Only his quiet presence and his hands holding hers in silent support allowed her to close her eyes, gritting her teeth against the raging beast that consumed her.