Читать книгу The Outlaw's Bride - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

THE MORNING SUN HOVERED just below the horizon in the east as Debra left the porch, the shed her destination. Behind her, the silent shadow she’d acquired last evening followed apace, and she shivered as she felt his mood, aware that he intended she be fearful of him.

The man apparently planned to move in to her home, and she seemed to have no choice in the matter. He’d already proven his superior strength, sleeping in her bed, giving her only as much freedom from his presence as he allowed, and she yearned for moments of privacy so that she might gain some sort of control over the situation. Living in his shadow was no option, and the thought of him in her home, watching her every move, caused a chill of fear to travel the length of her spine.

Now Debra bent to rinse her milk pail in the clear water that flowed from the pump, sloshing the water and dumping it away from the path before she sought out the relative privacy of the shed. Anticipating the soothing routine of milking her cow, the soft clucking of her hens, and the strutting rooster who claimed her attention, she pulled aside the shed door and entered the shadowed interior.

Then, milk pail between her knees, she squatted on the stool and rested her forehead against the Jersey’s warm side. The milk sprayed the inside of the pail, the rhythm was one she’d learned early on, after much trial and error. The patient Jersey knew her well now, and they had established an unspoken communication. Not as satisfying as the presence of another woman might be, but better than nothing, Debra had long since decided.

The chickens were another matter. She tolerated their waspish behavior, aware that her own may not have been any better, should she have been forced to exchange places with them. They were at her mercy, being fed when she rattled the metal feed pan, having their eggs scooped up and stolen away for her benefit and only allowed the freedom to roam during the daylight hours.

And at that, they might be faring better than she, if the man behind her had his way. He’d apparently decided that Debra Nightsong would dance to his tune, that her day would be circumscribed by his choices.

“Debra.” His voice spoke her name and she controlled the impulse to ignore him.

“Am I not milking this cow to your standards?” She knew her voice was cool, knew she invited his anger and cared little. It was daylight, her fear from the night just past had faded, and the thought of escape had invaded her mind.

Perhaps she could watch until he visited the outhouse, or even take a chance on leading her mare from the back of the shed later on. Once on the back of her golden horse, she would be gone, out of his control, and the thought made her smile.

He stood behind her, his shadow over her, and she refused to look up, concentrating instead on stripping the last of the milk from the cow’s udder. “I wouldn’t attempt to better your skills, Debra,” he said smoothly. “Milking is not one of the finer arts, so far as I’m concerned. But I’m pretty adept at carrying pails. When you finish your chore, I’ll tote the milk to the house.”

“Why don’t you gather up the eggs while you wait?” She shot a look beneath her lashes, noting his widespread stance beside her now. He was too close for her comfort, and she silently urged him to move away, only too aware of his presence.

“Chickens don’t like me,” he said flatly. “I don’t choose to have bloody spots on my hands. I get along better with horses and dogs.”

“Then by all means you need to become better acquainted with mine. The pitchfork is on the wall and the stalls are in need of cleaning.”

He laughed, a short sound of amusement, and did as she suggested, lifting the tool from its place and bending to with a vengeance. He opened the back door of the shed and tossed the soiled straw toward a pile just outside.

“There’s a wheelbarrow there if you’d like to use it,” she told him. And then watched as he hauled in the conveyance and finished the task she’d assigned him. Loading the barrow from the straw stack behind the shed, he returned to where the horses waited and pitched clean bedding within their stalls.

The golden mare followed him tamely as he led her to the door. “I’ll just stake her out back,” he said. Not waiting for a reply, he walked into the brilliant light from the rising sun and snatched up her hammer as he passed the wall of tools near the door. The long stake she used for the mare lay against the shed and he picked it up as he went.

“Do you stake all of your horses?” he asked, motioning at the other three who stood placidly awaiting his touch.

“I just took delivery of those three days ago. I haven’t decided yet what to do with them.”

His words were decisive. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe not right now, but by the time the day is over.” He halted and looked back at her a moment. “I have a horse out back, tied to the wall of your shed. Not mine, exactly. One I borrowed from a farmer nearer to town. I’ll feed him, too, and then decide how to return him to where I found him.”

“Horse thieves hang in this part of the country,” she said without pause, not deigning to look up at him.

“I know. Where I come from, too. But I didn’t steal the poor creature, only borrowed him. I’ll return him later today. Probably the poor soul who owns him won’t even have noticed his absence. Probably had just put him out to pasture anyway. He’s not exactly a fine example of horseflesh.”

Taking an armful of hay with him, he went out the back door and she wondered briefly just whose horse he’d made away with. There were several behind fences between here and town, none of them much to look at, but probably all broken to saddle.

She heard the muted thumping of her hammer as he staked the mare, and in moments he reappeared, reaching for the milk pail as she rose and settled the stool against the wall.

“I’ll gather the eggs, since you have a problem with my hens,” she told him, holding her apron together to form a nest for the hen fruit. Nine eggs lay warm and waiting in the nests, an abundant harvest for one day, and she cradled them carefully against herself, taking care lest they bump and shatter the fragile shells.

Tyler watched her as she left the shed, followed close behind her as she walked the distance to the house, noting the easy stride she possessed, the natural grace of a woman, the fluid movement of her hips and the shimmer of the sunlight on black hair that hung like a curtain of midnight down her back.

She was a sight to behold, he decided. He’d come here looking to find an older woman, a widow lady perhaps, living alone, in need of a helping hand. And found, instead, a beautiful woman who looked at him with eyes that weighed him and found him wanting. And he, who had so often been the object of a woman’s admiring gaze, found only scorn in the dark eyes of Debra Nightsong.

He followed her into the kitchen, settled the milk pail next to the sink and then sat down to watch as she began preparations for breakfast. She washed quickly at the sink, dried her hands on her apron and lifted a skillet from atop the warming oven over her stove.

A small slab of bacon from the pantry made an appearance as she gathered up the food she would cook. Her knife was sharp, slicing with precision through the savory meat, and he watched the silver blade with a degree of appreciation for her use of it. She would be a formidable opponent should she decide to use her domestic tools as weapons.

The bacon was placed neatly in the skillet, and before many seconds had gone by, the meat began to sizzle and send forth an aroma that made his mouth water. It had been too long since his last meal, and breakfast had ever been his favorite meal of the day.

He went to the sink and washed up quickly. “Do you have any bread left?” he asked, his quick gaze searching out the kitchen dresser for a sign of her baking prowess.

“Wrapped up in that towel,” she told him, nodding at a package on the surface before him. He picked it up and opened the clean towel, exposing almost a full loaf of unsliced bread, the end of the loaf ragged where he’d torn off a piece late in the evening while he awaited her return. Lifting her knife from the counter, he wiped 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 scent of woman she exuded, the vision of beauty she offered to his hungry eye, he’d leave. And never forget the short time he’d spent in her presence.

“You’ll leave me as you found me?” The question seemed to be as much a surprise to her as it was to him, and he refused to reply, only met her gaze in silence, not willing to offer an assurance he could not guarantee.

She rose and took her plate to the sink, then turned to retrieve his from the table. “Are you finished?”

He nodded, holding the last bit of toast in his hand. “Breakfast was good, Debra. Thank you.” He watched as she poured hot water from the stove’s reservoir into her dishpan, added soap from beneath the sink, and then sloshed her dishcloth to form suds.

“You didn’t answer me.” She turned to face him, holding the dishcloth in her hand as she approached the table. With smooth strokes, she wiped the surface clean, catching the crumbs in her hand and then looking up into his face, as if she would find some trace there of his intentions.

“Let’s just take it one day at a time,” he suggested. “For today, I’ll dig post holes and lay out the corral for you. Do you have fencing or do you want a board fence?”

“I’ve had lumber delivered for the whole job. It’s under a tarp behind the shed.”

“Who were you planning to hire to do the work?”

She sent him a look of scorn. “I have two good hands and I’m strong. It might have taken me longer than it will you, but I’d have done the job.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He acknowledged her determination with a nod. “Let’s leave the garden ’til tomorrow. Today, I’d like you with me out back.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Should I?”

She laughed. “Probably not. But then, having my corral built without putting forth an effort on my part is tempting enough to keep me submissive for today.”

“But not tomorrow?” His gaze held hers and he felt himself sinking into the depths of her soft brown eyes.

“I won’t make any promises.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

And so they left the house and within an hour, he’d dug several holes and the posts were leaning drunkenly into each of them, awaiting the dirt he would pack around each. Debra picked up a shovel and he shook his head. “I’ll do that. Why don’t you mark out the area you want to enclose? Use that stick over there and draw a line for me.”

She nodded, shooting a wary glance his way, but did as he’d said, skirting a large tree and forming a rectangle that would give her horses ample room to exercise when she didn’t want to stake them out in the meadow, yet still give them the shade of a tree during the heat of the day.

“You need a fence around the whole area, to pasture your cow,” he told her.

“Right.” The single word hummed with disdain. “Have you any idea how much it costs for wood from the lumberyard?” She looked beyond the limits she’d circumscribed for her corral and her gaze was wistful, as if she could see a fenced pasture, with her livestock feeding on the lush meadow grasses.

“Your problem is in finding cheap labor, I’d think,” he said, following her gaze to where the trees offered shelter for animals from the sun’s harsh rays.

“I can’t afford to hire help, cheap or not. Things will get done when I’m able to do it myself. It may take a while, but I’ll have a pasture full of animals one day.”

“Animals? What do you have in mind?” He found he really wanted to know, had a desire to search out the crevices of her mind, seek out the dreams she sheltered there.

“Horses, maybe. I’d like to breed my mares. There’s money to be made. It just takes time and a lot of effort.”

“Do you have a stud available?”

She shook her head. “My nearest neighbor has a sorrel he might be persuaded to let me use for my riding mare. I need a bargaining tool, and I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Tyler nodded, thinking about the unknown neighbor and what he might ask for payment in exchange for the use of his stud, and found his thoughts straying into forbidden territory. The woman was too vulnerable, too open to hurt.

“How much hay do you have here?” He waved a hand at the far-off field, where the crop of hay was tall, ready to cut, awaiting the scythe of harvest.

“About twenty acres. I’m thinking about having him bring his crew over to cut it and keeping some for my own use. I had a man from closer to town come out last year and we worked out a share plan. I thought I might gain the use of the sorrel stallion for a few days in exchange for my hayfield.”

“Keep what you need and offer him the rest,” Tyler advised.

“Easy for you to say,” she said with a harsh burst of laughter. “You’re a man, and men make the rules in this world, I’ve found. I’ll no doubt have to abide by whatever he’s willing to offer me.”

“So long as you have enough from the first cutting to fill your loft, you can stake your animals all summer and probably have another cutting of hay to bargain with in August.” He looked around the space behind the shed. “Where did your straw stack come from?”

“The same farmer. He kept the wheat from my back acres and left me the straw for my animals.”

“I think you came out on the short end of the stick.” And he bristled as he thought about the neighbor who had taken advantage of a woman alone. “He kept all the wheat?”

“I have enough from my eggs and butter to cover what flour I need at the general store,” she said readily. “I’m well aware that the man takes advantage of me, but as long as my needs are met, I can afford to be generous.”

“Is your neighbor married?”

Her eyes widened again at his query and she nodded quickly. “Of course, with several children. He has a profitable operation.”

“And is he a gentleman?” His gaze pinned her and he watched as his meaning struck home.

She shifted her gaze, her lip trembling as she sought a reply. “He hasn’t had much choice. I won’t put up with any shenanigans.”

“You’re a woman alone, Debra. You’re in danger of his shenanigans, no matter that you have a gun and a lot of spunk.”

She was silent for a moment and then her words told of the fear she lived with. “I’m careful. Usually,” she inserted, as if she thought of her rash behavior last night, when she’d stumbled into danger in her own kitchen.

“If your neighbor knows you have a man here, he might not be so eager to take advantage of you.”

“And he might spread the word around town that the Indian has taken a man into her bed.” She spoke the words in a rush, as though she’d already considered the idea.

“And would that be difficult for you to live with?”

“Only if I plan on buying from the general store and being made welcome in town. A woman alone is always under scrutiny, with men waiting for her to make the wrong move. I can’t afford to leave myself open to public scorn. I walk alone, and I have to watch every move I make.”

“Well, your neighbor might be more amenable to a fair division of your hay if I’m out there in the field doing your share of the work. You can tell him you’ve hired a man to help out.”

“And ruin my name in town? I don’t think so.”

“You’ll let him take advantage of you instead?”

“It’s the price I pay for being what I am.” Her tone was one of a woman beaten down by circumstance, and Tyler could not countenance it.

“You’re a woman alone, a woman who should be given the respect due her.”

“I’m a half-breed.” Her words were spoken firmly, as if they were familiar to her.

“And I’m a white man, which makes me neither better nor worse than you. You are a woman, first and foremost, Debra. Was your mother white? Or your father?”

“My father. He owned this place, and brought my mother here when they married. When he died, she took the deed with her. He’d made it out to me, and it was my legacy after my mother was gone.”

“How long have you been here alone?” And how had she survived? How had a young woman alone been able to cope with the running of a farm?

“Three years, since I was sixteen. It hasn’t been simple, but I’ve managed to support myself. And now I have the beginnings of my herd of horses.”

“Where did you get the mares?”

“Bought them from a man who sold his place and moved farther west. He had too many animals to take along, and gave me a good price on the three out back. One is already bred.”

“I can see that.” He looked out beyond the corral line she’d drawn in the dirt, out to where the meadow grasses grew and flourished. Where one of her mares stood apart, her sides bulging a bit with the foal she would drop months from now. She might one day have a herd of horses if luck was with her and the mares she cherished produced colts and fillies of merit.

“Have you thought of expanding? Buying more horses?”

She laughed, a short, sharp sound that scorned his idea. “And what would I use for money? Horses are expensive. I was fortunate to get the ones I already have.”

“Where did you get your mare? The one you ride.”

“I brought her with me from the tribe. She’d been running wild and I caught her and tamed her for myself. Then after my mother was gone, I left and came back home, brought the mare with me.”

“You tamed her?”

Her chin tilted and a look of pride lit her eyes. “Yes. The finest day of my life was when I got up on her back and rode away from the village of my mother’s people.”

“They weren’t your people?”

She tossed him a look of scorn and disbelief. “I don’t fit there, any more than I do in town. I’m an outcast, Tyler, as you well know. I don’t have a place in this world, but the one I make for myself.”

“Will you take my help, Debra Nightsong? Will you let me give you a hand, and work for my keep for a while?”

“Why?” It was a single word that asked for more than he was willing to give.

“Maybe because I’m an outcast, too.”

She gave him a measuring look. “Are you? Or are you on the run?”

“You might say that. There are those who’d like to find me, and if I can find a safe place for a while, I’d be more than happy to earn a few weeks of peace.”

“Should I ask who is looking for you? Or am I better off not knowing?”

“Just know that I mean you no harm, Debra.” And with that she’d would have to be satisfied, he thought. For knowledge of his past would only frighten her, perhaps put her in danger.

“I’m foolish, I fear,” she said slowly. “But I’m smart enough to know that your help would benefit me greatly.” She inhaled deeply and let the breath escape slowly. “I’ll take a chance on you. You can stay, I’ll give you your safe place for a while, and you’ll work for me.”

His hand shot out, silently asking her to take it, to seal their bargain, and she responded as he’d thought she would. Her slender fingers formed to his palm, and he held them there, firmly, yet carefully, as he might shelter a small, helpless creature in his grasp.

But the woman who met his look with a level gaze of her own was not a creature who would ask for anything but what was due her. Respect, first and foremost. A measure of friendship, perhaps an honest day’s work. He could do all of that. So long as she understood that the rules were his to make, hers to follow.

“I’ll be staying in the house with you,” he said firmly. “You’ll not put up a fuss about me sharing your home. And I’ll be sleeping in your bed.”

She was silent, as though she accepted his terms, and then her head turned and he met the challenge in her gaze. “I’ll not be tied to you at night, nor will I let you touch me during the day.”

It was almost a dare on her part, for she lacked clout, and they both knew it. He was stronger by far, she perhaps more devious, but without the power to make him abide by her wishes.

“I won’t tie you, Debra, and I’ll keep my hands to myself. That far I’ll go, not because I fear your knife or your skill with a gun, but because I respect you. Does that suit you?”

She nodded, slowly, but with a definite acceptance of his terms. “If you build my corral and set posts for a pasture fence for me, I’ll give you a place to stay and cook for you.”

His nod was a tacit approval of her terms, and he breathed more easily. Staying one step ahead of the man who followed him had been nerve-wracking. A respite would be welcome.

“Who are you hiding from?” Debra asked, as if the question had been fermenting in her mind and now begged to be spoken aloud.

If he expected her to give him refuge, he owed her an explanation, Tyler decided. “I killed a man.” It was the truth so far as it went, and he watched as she digested his words, her eyes widening a bit, her mouth forming a soft “Oh” of surprise.