Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Copyright

“Who’s going to help you when the baby comes?”

His playful look was gone.

Her heart thudded heavily within her breast. The bottom line, the end of the road she traveled, and he’d nailed her right where she was most vulnerable. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided what I’ll do when the time comes.”

His brow lifted. “Seems like that would have been the first thing you thought of.”

No, the first thing had been escape. Finding a place to hide, where no one could seek her out. A sanctuary for herself and her child.

“Erin?” Quinn tasted her name, relishing the breathless sound of it. His gaze appreciated the look of her, his mind wondered at the unexpected appeal to his senses.

He hadn’t looked for this attraction, and yet it could not be denied. She was the quarry, he the hunter, her capture the goal.

Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

Carolyn Davidson is one of those writers. Critics have described her books as “moving,” “explosive” and “destined to delight.” Her latest, The Tender Stranger, is no exception. It’s the touching story of a pregnant widow who flees from her conniving in-laws to a secluded cabin in Colorado. Alone and frightened, Erin welcomes the handsome, caring stranger who appears on her doorstep—not knowing that he’s the bounty hunter her in-laws have hired to bring her back. Don’t miss it!

Rory by Ruth Langan, is the terrific first book of Ruth’s new medieval series, THE O’NEIL SAGA. In it, an English noblewoman falls madly in love with a legendary Irish rebel. And Ana Seymour returns this month with a heartwarming Western, Father for Keeps, about a wealthy young man who returns to Nevada to win back the woman who secretly had his child.

Be sure to look for Robber Bride by Deborah Simmons. In the third DE BURGH story, the strong, arrogant de Burgh brother, Simon, finds his match in a free-spirited runaway bride who is hiding from her despicable would-be husband.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.®

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Tender Stranger
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Reading and writing have always been major interests in Carolyn Davidson’s life. Even during the years of raising children and working a full-time job, she found time to read voraciously. However, her writing consisted of letters and an occasional piece of poetry. Now that the nest is empty, except for three grandchildren, she has turned to writing as an occupation.

Her family, friends and church blend to make a most fulfilling existence for this South Carolina author. And most important is her husband of many years, the man who gives her total support and an abundance of love to draw on for inspiration. A charter member of the Lowcountry Romance Writers of America, she has found a community of soul mates who share her love of books, and whose support is invaluable.

Watch for her next Harlequin Historical novel, The Midwife, a September 1999 release. She enjoys hearing from her readers at P.O. Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445-2757 and promises to answer your letter.

Men with the quality of tenderness in their emotional makeup make wonderful heroes, and the woman who is fortunate enough to be truly loved by one of them is indeed blessed. I am married to such a man, and have found that each of our five male offspring has, in some way, inherited their father’s nature. And so this book is dedicated to my sons, Bobby, Michael, Jon; Larry and Tim, because each of them, in his own way, is a hero to the woman he loves.

To my granddaughter, Erin Elizabeth, whose innocent and loving spirit was the inspiration for my heroine, and who shared with me the days and weeks spent in the writing of this book, I give my appreciation.

But as always, and with deep devotion, this story is for Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Chapter One

October, 1875

Pine Creek, Colorado

They’d told him she was easy on the eyes, and that her hair was darker than midnight.

Quinn Yarborough peered through the spyglass at the woman so aptly described. A grunt of aggravation marred the silence and he shifted, seeking a more comfortable spot. The rock beneath him was ungiving, and he settled for edging closer to the rim of the flat, overhanging cliff.

She was all they’d said, at least from the rear view. Her hair hung free, a black curtain, reflecting and yet somehow absorbing the tantalizing light that comes just before dark shrouds the land. Erin, for that was her name, he reminded himself, was slim but rounded, her hips womanly.

And then she disappeared behind the barn door, and he settled down to wait. It wasn’t a barn, actually, more of a shed. Probably didn’t have more than two or three stalls, from what he could tell.

Quinn tilted his hat to shade his eyes and focused his vision, then waited. He’d been on her trail for almost three months, from New York City to St. Louis and westward. She’d been smart, changing conveyances often, hiding behind other names. But not smart enough to thwart his prying and prodding. Buying this cabin, having her legal name put on the deed, had been a grave error in judgment.

Erin Wentworth, widow of Damian. Wanted by her former father-in-law, wanted enough to warrant the hiring of Quinn Yarborough, obtaining exclusive rights to his time in order to find her. Time he should, by all rights, be spending running the profitable agency he owned in New York City.

In years past, Quinn Yarborough had been known to haul men back from their hiding places when others had long since given up the search. But those were the early years. Now he had men working for him, highly trained, ruthless in their diligence, and usually successful at their job.

That this case was unusual went without saying. He’d long since given up the personal touch, sending others out in his stead. The price of success involved sitting behind a desk these days, he’d found.

Until now.

He didn’t think he’d have much problem nailing one small woman. And with that thought in mind, he watched as the shed door slid open.

They’d told him she was just a bit of a thing, a slender woman, innocent appearing. They hadn’t been specific about their reasons, only that it was imperative she be found.

And once she was found, he was faced with the task of persuading her to return to New York City with him. Since he considered this job to be along the lines of fulfilling an obligation, he was prepared to be most persuasive.

A chicken squawked loudly, the sound carrying to where he lay, and he chuckled as it half flew, half scrambled from the shed. The woman burst through the door in its wake, bent over, arms outstretched, as if to catch a stray leg or wing.

With a yelp of anger, Erin Wentworth stood erect, one arm bent, the hand resting on her hip. Through the spyglass Quinn watched her lips move, and he grinned, the curse all too apparent to his knowledgeable gaze.

He set the glass aside and blinked, then put it to his eye once more. Focusing again on the feminine figure, he growled his own oath. They’d managed to give him all the facts he’d needed to seek out and find this runaway female. All but one.

They hadn’t told him she was pregnant.

Erin clutched at her side, the hitch catching her unaware. Chasing the stupid chicken away from the door, then across the width of the shed, had been a mistake. The crafty hen loved a challenge, and these days most anything, even a squawking chicken, was swifter moving than Erin’s pregnant self.

“Stay out here and go hungry, for all I care,” she muttered, watching the truant hen, who had stopped to peck at a stray bug. “I’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid to a dumb chicken.”

She turned back to the shed, reaching inside to pick up the milk pail, frothing with warm milk. She peeked inside the dim structure before she slid the door closed, then nodded with satisfaction. Her saddle horse, packhorse and the small Jersey cow she’d hauled up the mountain at the end of a leading rope were nosing their allotment of hay. Across the shed, five laying hens, clucking softly to themselves, pecked lazily at the handful of feed she’d spread before them.

By the time she took care of the milk, it would be just about dark, and supper was almost done in the oven. Her stomach growled in response to that thought, and she grinned, rubbing her side reflectively.

“If nothing else, I’m feeding you well, baby of mine. With fresh milk and eggs every day, you should be growing like a bad weed.” Before long the child within her would respond to her words. The thought was cheering.

She carefully made her way across the grassy clearing toward the cabin. Along with the small meadow she used for pasture, it was the only level spot on this side of the mountain. The rough cabin held almost everything she needed to get her through the coming winter. One more trip down to Pine Creek and she’d have supplies enough to last till spring.

The chicken clucked as she passed it by, cocking its head to one side to keep her in view, and Erin laughed aloud. “You’ll be ready to scoot inside by morning, I’ll warrant,” she said to the frisky hen. “If you don’t freeze overnight.”

And that might not be a bad idea. She’d have chicken for dinner three days in a row should that happen.

She climbed the two steps to the shallow porch and opened the door, inhaling the scent of baking cornbread. Carrying the milk pail to the farthest corner from the stove, she covered it with a clean cloth and headed back to latch the door for the night.

From the shed a whinny pierced the air. An answering call resounded from beyond the clearing, and Erin held the door in place, only a crack allowing her to peer outside.

“Hello, the house!”

It was a deeply masculine voice, rough and forceful, and she drew in a quick breath, sensing danger there in the twilight. Beneath the trees edging her property she could barely make out the horseman, silent now, mounted upon a horse so dark it almost blended into the dusk.

“May I come closer?” the man called.

Erin’s heart was pounding at a rapid pace, and she felt a moment’s dizziness as she leaned against the barely opened door. Then with a deep breath she forced strength into her words.

“What do you want? I have a gun.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t, ma’am.” The horse stepped from the trees and walked toward the cabin, the man a shadowed figure, hat drawn down, shoulders wide, seemingly at one with the animal he rode.

Erin reached for the shotgun she kept in the corner, then pushed the door open a bit farther.

He’d almost reached the porch, and she shivered at the unknown danger he represented. It might be more sensible to shoot first and ask questions later, she supposed. Still, if he were set on harming her, he probably wouldn’t have ridden up so openly. Besides, it would be a mess she’d rather not clean up if she didn’t have to.

“Ma’am? I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?” His rough tones were more like a west wind in the pines, not rasping as she’d first thought. It was as if he hadn’t spoken in a long while and his words had grown rusty in the meantime.

“Stay where you are, stranger,” she said forcefully, the gun barrel in full view. “Speak your piece.”

“I need a place to harbor for the night. It’s settin’ to storm out there and my horse is averse to getting wet. Can I use your shed for shelter?”

Erin squinted in the twilight, unable to see his features. “Take off your hat, mister.”

He obeyed, his fingers long against the wide brim. The other hand rose to sweep through his hair, combing it back with a casual movement.

Her gaze swept over him, the long length of his body apparent even astride the big horse. He was deeply tanned from what she could tell, dark hair hanging to his collar, a somber look about his features. A long gun in a scabbard alongside his saddle was the only visible weapon, though she doubted if it was the only one he carried.

“Get down, mister. I’ll leave a plate of cornbread on the porch for you. You can stay the night, but I don’t have an empty stall. Your horse will have to be tied to the wall.”

He nodded. “Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll appreciate the meal. It’s been a long time since noon.”

“You come up the mountain from Pine Creek?” she asked, suspicion rife in her tone.

He shook his head. “No, across from Big Bertha on the other side.”

The mine was about played out, but there were still men working it. Maybe he’d been let go, like so many others, once the mother lode had ceased to produce in any measure. The clerk in the store at Pine Creek had filled her in on the surrounding territory when she arrived, and Erin had listened avidly. It paid to know her surroundings.

“All right, you can stay the night,” she repeated abruptly, closing the door as he turned toward the shed.

Drawing the pan of cornbread from the oven, she cut a large square, centering it on a thick plate, one of the two that had come with the cabin. A dollop of butter at the edge of the plate, along with a knife and fork, completed her offering. She opened the door slowly and bent to place the food at the edge of the porch, once ascertaining he was not in view.

“On second thought.” she said after a moment, turning back to the stove. Her common courtesy demanded more, and she filled a mug with steaming coffee from the pot resting on the back burner.

As she opened the door again, the visitor looked up from the edge of the porch, his hand reaching for the plate. His eyes were dark, narrowing as the light from inside illuminated his face.

“Ma’am? Something wrong?” he asked. And then his mouth twisted into a one-sided smile as he spotted the cup she held.

She stepped warily from the doorway, holding the coffee in his direction, and he took it from her, his fingers careful not to infringe on her grip.

“Thank you. It’s most appreciated.” His eyes widened a bit as he scanned her form, then hesitated as his gaze came to rest on her swollen belly.

“You all right, up here by yourself?” he asked quietly.

“What makes you think I’m alone?” she asked, backing into the cabin. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks felt flushed, and she leaned against the doorjamb.

“Dunno. Guess I took it for granted. Didn’t see a man around. Not much room in there to hide anybody, is there?” His smile was wider, but his look was unchanging, dark and piercing.

“I do all right, mister. Just go eat your meal.” She closed the door and leaned against it, her head back. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for, this stranger at her doorstep.

She’d hoped for solitude here, prayed for safety and expected to be ignored. No one back east knew where she was. Even the man at the store thought she was a widow lady named Mrs. Peterson. That he also probably thought she was a bit eccentric, maybe even unbalanced, living alone on the side of a mountain all winter, could not be avoided.

Her cornbread tasted flat, the coffee strong, and the milk she drank was too warm to be refreshing.

“You ruined my supper, mister,” she muttered, turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp before she readied herself for bed. Her flannel gown was big, bought large enough to accommodate her increasing bulk, and she wrapped it around herself as she curled in the middle of the bed.

The window allowed moonlight to cast its glow against the floor, and she watched as shadows flitted across the glass panes. An owl, from the size of it, then another night bird. Leaves from the hardwoods at the edge of the clearing would be on the ground by morning, what with the wind blowing up a storm.

Her eyes closed and she opened them with effort, hearing a horse call from the shed. Maybe the chicken would cluck outside the door and he’d let her in. Probably wasn’t cold enough to freeze the creature, anyway.

The morning dawned with a red glow, the sun behind hazy clouds, barely peeking through. It hadn’t rained much, but there was a storm still brewing out there.

Erin dressed quickly before she turned to the stove, shaking down the ashes and stoking the fire with three chunks of wood. She set six thick slices of bacon in her skillet and placed it on the back burner, the coffeepot, freshly filled with water and ground coffee, at the front.

She broke an egg into the pot, added the shell and closed the lid. The thought of a stranger coming had taken on a lesser feel of danger. He probably meant well. Coming at twilight, and being built on such a grand scale, he’d appeared to be a threat, right off. He might look less forbidding in the light of day.

She separated the milk and put a pitcher of cream on the table, then poured the skim into the bucket. It broke her heart to pour it on the ground, but the little Jersey was a good milker and she had more than she could use. The cream she shook in a jar for butter, and she managed to drink over a quart of whole milk a day. Still, some went to waste.

At the rate she was going, she’d be fatter than a pig by the time the baby came. Her hand pressed against the familiar rounding of her belly, and a small foot shifted, meeting her touch. A smile nudged her lips and she acknowledged the possessive thrill that shivered through her at the evidence of the miniature being inside her flesh.

He didn’t move much, not as much as she’d expected or hoped, but each twitch, every tiny kick, was a reminder of her reason for being alive. She was bearing a child, a living extension of herself.

Her mouth drew down. That it should also be a reminder of the man she had married could not be helped. Damian Wentworth had been a two-faced—

She shivered. Better that she not think of him.

Her warm sweater buttoned up to the throat, she lifted the pail and set forth. First to the edge of the clearing, where she poured the leftover milk upon the ground. Then to the outdoor pump, where she rinsed and scrubbed out the pail.

Finally she turned to the shed. The door was open, and she blinked in surprise. Surely it had been shut when she ventured from the cabin.

“Good morning, ma’am.” From behind her, near the outhouse, came the voice of her guest.

She turned, a bit awkwardly, and faced him. He was even larger than she’d realized from her vantage point on the porch last night, with him on the ground below. He towered over her and she watched warily as he waited, unmoving.

“I didn’t know you were stirring already this morning,” she said after a moment. She watched as a half smile curved his mouth. He needed a shave, dark whiskers hiding half his face, suddenly making him appear a danger once more.

“I tend to be quiet, I suppose,” he said, apparently in lieu of an apology for startling her. His eyes met hers and he cleared his throat. “I’d be more than willing to help with the chores. Maybe I could earn another cup of coffee.”

“You know how to milk a cow?”

His grin turned wry. “Afraid not, ma’am. But I’m handy with horses. I could probably even gather up the eggs, if you like.” He chuckled. “That scallywag of a hen of yours woke me up before dawn, wanting back in the shed.”

Erin felt a smile crease her face, unbidden, but perhaps welcome. “I usually give the horses a good measure of hay at night. I try to stake them out in the morning, when the weather’s good.”

“The cow, too?” he asked.

She nodded. “After I milk her. The chickens can run free for the morning. They Won’t go far. I don’t feed them till afternoon. When they hear the feed rattling in the tin pan, they come running.”

“You come from farm folk?” he asked, turning to lead the way to the shed.

“No, from city people, actually.”

At least she told the truth there, he thought with satisfaction. Best to keep your story as straight as possible, he’d always felt. Less confusing that way.

“How long you been here on your own?”

She looked up at him, then glanced away, as if not willing to…answer his query.

“A while,” she said finally, reaching to open the shed door. It creaked mightily and she shoved at it.

“Here, I’ll do that.” He eased her to one side, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand on her arm, then backed away.

The cow lowed impatiently, looking over her shoulder as the young woman approached. It was time and past for milking, her solemn expression said, and in answer Erin went to her, speaking softly, her hands touching the pretty face.

“I’m here, Daisy. Did you think I forgot you?” Her low, musical laugh was misplaced here, he decided. It belonged over a tea table, or better yet, in a bedroom. That image flashed in his mind unbidden, and he suppressed it quickly, irritated with himself, even as he admired her dark hair and elegant features. He’d been too long abstinent when a pregnant woman held this much appeal.

“The cow’s name is Daisy?” he asked, steering his mind in another direction.

She nodded. “I’ve named most everything. The mare is Socks and the gelding is Choreboy.”

“Not the chickens?” His voice held a touch of humor, almost as if he expected an affirmative answer.

She cast him a look over her shoulder as she moved to put the milking stool in place. “I’m not that lonesome, mister. I can refrain from calling chickens by name.”

“What shall I call you?” He ventured the query as she settled herself on the low stool, and he watched warily lest she tip the three-legged seat.

Her hesitation was minute, but he noted it, making a bet with himself on her degree of honesty. She was having a hard time keeping her stories straight. Between New York and Denver she’d used six different names.

“I’m Erin Peterson,” she said quietly, her forehead leaning against the soft brown hide of her cow.

Make that seven. “Are you?” he mused.

She glanced up at him, her eyes watchful.

“Pretty name.” His nod was friendly, his smile bland.

“You have a name, I assume?”

He nodded. “My mama called me Quinn Yarborough, after my pa.”

“Really? Where was he from?” Her fingers were adept at the milking chore. He figured she’d had three months to perfect the task. The milk squirted in a satisfactory manner against the walls of the pail and the odor was almost sweet.

“Pa came from Scotland. My mother was a farmer’s daughter in New York. They settled in upstate New York, where I was born.”

“What are you doing in Colorado?” she asked, shifting on the stool a bit, her dress tucked between her legs, making room for the pail. She lifted a hand to wipe her forehead, where wisps of dark hair had fallen from place.

“Gold.” It was as good an answer as any, he decided. Probably better than most. Gold miners were scattered throughout the mountains like ants on a rotten log, running every which way, looking for sustenance.

She peered at him over her shoulder. “Find any?”

His grin was automatic. “Sure enough. The mother lode, as a matter of fact.”

His smile faded. She wouldn’t appreciate the humor of that statement, should she know of what he spoke. The money he would gain from her capture was minimal. The satisfaction would far outweigh the monetary gain.

Damian Wentworth had been his boyhood friend, both of them living in the same household. And there the similarity ended.

The Wentworths were high society. Quinn Yarborough’s mother had been their housekeeper, a job she found after her farmer husband died at a young age and left her to raise a son on her own.

In those early years, Damian had shared his toys, his pets and his waking hours with the housekeeper’s son. Then, when the time came, they had parted, Damian to attend a fine university, Quinn to make his own way in the world.

They’d lost touch, only an occasional article in the newspaper keeping Quinn up to date. First the notice of Damian’s wedding, then three years later, an obituary. Sudden death was always suspect, in Quinn’s book.

The young woman frowned at him, her tone dubious as she questioned his claim. “You found the mother lode? I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “When you’re working for someone else, you don’t get your proper share, you know. I made a bundle, and since I wasn’t lookin’ to be a rich man, it was time to skedaddle. Men have been known to be killed for less than what I carry with me.”

“Aren’t you afraid to spread that news around?” Her fingers were brisk, stripping the milk from the small cow’s udder, and she concentrated on her task.

“The only person I’ve told is you, and somehow I don’t think you’re about to rob me blind.”

She laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You’re probably right, Mr. Yarborough. I’m not much of a threat to anyone.”

She rose from the stool and bent to pick it up, placing it by the wall. Her hand snatched the pail from disaster as the cow shifted position, one back hoof coming precariously close to the bucket.

“What would happen if you got hurt out here, all by yourself?” he asked quietly, aware suddenly of her risky situation.

“These animals are no danger to me,” she answered. “I tend to fear more the two-legged variety that happen this way.”

“Like me?” He took the bucket from her and carried it to the doorway. She followed, into the daylight where he could see her better.

She leveled a glance at him, unsmiling. “You could have hurt me already, if you’d a mind to, Mr. Yarborough. Let the chickens out and stake the horses and cow, will you? I’d like them to graze a bit before the storm hits.”

She took the milk from his grasp, making her way to the cabin, slowly, lest the milk slosh over the edge of the pail. Daisy had given more than usual this morning. Jerseys were not known for quantity of milk, rather the richness of the cream. She’d have plenty for rice pudding today.

“I didn’t plan on having breakfast, Mrs. Peterson.” He’d managed to put away two bowls of oatmeal, swimming in rich cream. The bacon was a little old, but better than none at all. She must be about ready to go to town for supplies.

He said as much.

“Winter’s coming on,” she admitted. “I’ll need to stock up. Things will keep better once it gets colder out.”

“I’d be happy to give you a hand with supplies before I move along.” He leaned back in his chair, the casual suggestion coming as if it were of no account one way or the other.

She looked at him across the table, her face flushed from the heat of the stove. “You mean, go to town with me? And wouldn’t that make me the talk of Pine Creek?”

His jaw tightened, and he felt the clench of it narrow his gaze. “Not with me around, ma’am. I’d not treat you as anything but a lady. Any man with eyes in his head could see that you might need a hand, getting ready for winter.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her mouth thinned, and she bent over her bowl.

“You sending me on my way?”

She looked up, and her eyes skimmed his features, as if she looked for assurance of his credibility. “Not till after the storm,” she said finally, waving her spoon at the window. “It looks like it’s going to blow up very soon now.”

The sky had indeed darkened, the trees being whipped by the wind. He rose and walked to the door, opening it to look outside. The chickens gathered in a clutch near the shed, pecking away at anything that moved, clucking softly as they stepped carefully about in a tight circle.

A shimmering flash of lightning lit the sky across the valley below, and a crack of thunder met his ears. The cow lifted her head from the edge of the meadow and lowed impatiently. The horses shifted their ears, grazing as if they must eat their fill before the rain came down.

Behind him, Erin stirred, her chair scraping across the rough floor. He set his jaw. Getting her to town was taken care of. From there to New York promised to present a multitude of problems.

The cow would be left on her own, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d take the horses and enough supplies to get them through the mountain passes. It would take a couple of days to reach Denver, with her being a good size already.

Ted Wentworth was a sly one, all right. Not one word about the girl being in the family way. Whether that would have made a difference or not was a moot question, Quinn decided. He was here now. And if he were making a guess, he’d say she was well past the halfway mark.

“Mr. Yarborough?” She was behind him, and he turned to face her.

“Don’t you think the animals should be brought in? I’d not like them to be hit by lightning.” She moved to the window and looked outside. Her hand was pressed against her back and she wore the trace of a frown.

“I’ll get them in,” he told her quickly

“I’ll help.” She turned away from the sight of lightning, and winced as the thunder clapped overhead.

“You stay indoors.” There was no sense in her trotting to the meadow and back, hauling animals around. The dumb Chickens would no doubt be glad of the chance to get inside once he opened the door. The rest he could handle in ten minutes.

She didn’t argue, and he left with a last glance in her direction. She was pale, biting her lip, and if he was any judge at all, he’d say she was hurting.

The pain was back, this time a little harder, spreading from her front to the back, where it gripped with a tenacious hold on her spine. She’d had it several times lately, but this was the worst, and without any reason she could see. No bending, stretching or lifting to bring it on. Just a sudden hot flash of pain that took her breath.

She sat down carefully and leaned her head forward, cradling it with her arms against the hard table. The baby hadn’t moved much lately, and it worried her. Her eyes were damp with tears, and she held them back ruthlessly. She would not cry, not now, not with that man here to see.

She stood, the pain easing a bit. The dishes were a small matter, barely taking up space in the dishpan. Her utensils were sparse—only a skillet, a stew pot and a tin for pone. They soaked in warm water from the stove, her big kettle always heating. She’d had to pack lightly, coming here, but fortunately, old Mr. Gleason had left behind everything he owned.

None of his belongings had been clean, but she knew how to scrub and scour, and the place was as tidy as she could make it. She’d bought lye to make soap and followed the directions from the storekeeper’s mother.

Quite a pioneer she’d become, she thought with a smile. There, the pain was gone. Just a random hitch in her back, she decided, relieved as she bent and twisted a bit, only to find it vanished.

Another flash of lightning lit the inside of the cabin, and she shivered as the thunder cracked ominously on its heels. From outside a sharp whinny sounded, and she caught sight of Quinn Yarborough striding across the meadow with two horses in tow. They were cavorting, their ears back as they reared against the restraint of the lines he held.

He drew them in, and within seconds had them close to the shed. As he opened the door, the hens fluttered and squawked, fighting to get inside. He followed them in, the horses eager to be out of the weather.

Erin moved to the porch, looking anxiously to where her cow was staked. Quinn’s big stallion tugged at his tether just beyond Daisy, and in no time at all Quinn had run across the yard and onto the meadow to snatch their lead ropes from the stakes he’d driven into the ground.

The stallion pranced sideways and Daisy lowed piteously, both of them apparently fearful of the coming storm. The sky opened and a cloudburst hit the man and beasts without warning. One moment it was windy and dark, bulging clouds scudding across a lowering sky. The next, they had opened and poured out their burden.

Within a minute, Quinn had hightailed his charges inside the shed and the door had slid shut. And just that quickly, the rainstorm changed, turning to a steady but softly falling shower.

Quinn opened the shed door and looked across the yard at her. She’d backed up against the house, only the shallow porch roof sheltering her, and he frowned, waving his hand.

“Go on in the cabin,” he called. “I’ll be right in.”

“Bossy!” She sniffed her irritation at the man. They were all alike, wanting to tell the women around them what to do. Almost as bad as Damian Wentworth had been. Certainly as bad as his father.

Just stay here, with us. It’s what Damian would have wanted. We’ll take care of you, he’d said, his arrogance matching that of his late son.

And take care of her they would have. But all they wanted was the baby, of that she was certain. She’d have been out in the cold once the baby was born, had she stayed.

And if she knew anything about it, they were probably scouring the country for her, even now.

Men! It would be forever before she was ready to allow another one to run her life. The memory of harsh hands and cruel words was too fresh to be forgotten, and she had determined to put the past behind her and form a new life for herself and her child.

The sight of Quinn Yarborough’s long legs jumping over the worst of the low spots in the yard brought her to herself, and Erin opened the door for him. He paused at her side on the porch, glaring at her damp cheeks, where an occasional raindrop had blown beneath her shelter.

“I told you to go inside.” He stripped off the soaking wet shirt he wore and shed his boots, picking them up to carry them within. Then he waited for her to step through the doorway ahead of him.

“So you did. I don’t take orders well.”

His look was shot with wry humor. “I noticed.” He moved to the stove, pulling a length of twine from his pocket. A line from one wall to the other was quickly strung and he laid his shirt over it. His boots stood in front of the oven door, and he looked at Erin with the first trace of uncertainty she’d seen on his face.

“I want to strip off my pants to dry. Do you mind?”

She shook her head and walked to the window, giving him the privacy he’d asked for. She’d lit the kerosene lamp earlier, and now its glow permeated corners of the small room.

It wasn’t until she’d gazed for several moments out into the rain that she realized the window was acting much like a mirror, and his every move was apparent to her view.

Quinn was stripping her quilt from the bed to wrap around himself, and she caught a glimpse of his tall frame and an abundance of pale flesh as he did so.

Her cheeks flaming, she closed her eyes, bending her head forward to rest against the glass pane. “Oh, dear!” The whisper was soft but fervent, barely discernible.

“Mrs. Peterson? Erin? Are you all right?” His murmur was low, the warmth of his big body directly behind her, and she drew in a deep breath.

How had she gotten into this mess?

Chapter Two

She watched his approach in the windowpane, as he moved behind her in the room. Then warm hands gripped her shoulders and Erin stifled the urge to relax beneath their weight. For too long she had been building her courage to remain isolated from the world. She could not allow the presence of this man to make her soften, dependent once more on others.

“Erin?” He repeated her name and his fingers shifted, turning her to face him.

She shrugged, a gesture meant to rid herself of his touch, but to no avail. Her feet moved at his bidding and she looked up into eyes that searched hers.

“I’m fine, just worrying about the animals, I suppose.”

He laughed, a muted chuckle, and shook his head. “They’re about as well off as we are. The shed’s pretty weathertight. You’d do better to worry about yourself. That wind’s blowin’ rain under the eaves. It’s my guess our feet’ll be getting wet before we know it.”

She glanced down to where the door met the floor. A thin line of water had formed along the crack and begun to invade the room. Even as she watched, it widened and seeped forward, the boards darkening from the dampness.

“I’ll get a towel,” she said quickly, tugging herself from his grip.

“Hold on! Tell me where to look. I’ll take care of it.”

He pulled a chair from the table and lowered her onto it, allowing no excuse. His hands were firm, and Erin subsided quietly. She’d not had anyone show this degree of concern for her well-being in longer than she could remember, save for the storekeeper in the town below.

“In the box beside the bed,” she directed. Probably one towel wouldn’t do the trick, she decided, watching as the water crept into the room. “You might have to use more than one.”

“You got that many to spare?” he asked, bending to locate the designated box.

“Four, but I’d rather keep at least one of them dry.”

“There were some burlap bags in the shed. Too bad you didn’t store them in here.”

“They were here to start with,” she said with a downturning of her mouth. “In fact, this whole place was cluttered with more junk.” She shook her head as the memory filled her mind. “The former owner was something of a pack rat, I found. I cleared his trash out the first day I arrived.”

One hand held the quilt high off the floor as he pushed the towel against the threshold with the other. Then he turned to face her. “How long have you owned this place?”

She hesitated, wary at his interest. “Three months,” she said reluctantly.

“I’m curious. You’re a beautiful woman, living on the edge of nowhere all alone. Why.”

“You’re old enough to know how to contain your curiosity. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to ask personal questions?” She attempted to insert a note of humor, but the words sounded stark and ungiving to her ears.

He nodded. “Yes, and she probably would be ashamed of my manners right now. I beg your pardon, ma’am. There are more of us, people like you and me, than I could begin to count, living in the present and trying to forget the past. The West is full of folks looking for a new life.”

“I’d rather not speak of the past,” Erin told him, more gently, since he’d deigned to apologize.

“Your choice.” His nod was almost genteel, and she answered it with a like gesture.

She felt the heat of his gaze as he faced her, his eyes skimming her face before his mouth twitched in an admiring grin. “Is there any coffee left in the pot?” he asked, turning to the stove. “Let me get you some.”

Erin rose, needing respite from those eyes that regarded her so freely. She shook her head, denying his offer. “I’ll get it. You need to hang your britches over that line. They’ll never get dry, there on the floor. Either that or drape them over the chair in front of the oven door.”

“You’re right. My other things are in the shed, and I don’t think the weather is going to break for a while. I’m reduced to the quilt, it seems, for now.” He bent, picking up the pants he’d shed, and spread them across the back of the second chair. The underwear he draped on the line, which by now was drooping precariously close to the stove.

“I’ll add some wood,” Erin said. “I need to put my soup on to cook for dinner.” She poured a cup of steaming coffee for Quinn and motioned to the cream. “There’s plenty if you’d like some to lighten up the flavor. It’s pretty strong.”

He nodded and splashed a dollop into his cup, watching her as she dug potatoes from a sack she’d hung from the rafters. “Don’t you think we sound pretty formal for a pair of refugees from a storm, sharing your cabin, me wearing your quilt?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re the refugee. As soon as the storm is over, you’ll be gone.”

He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. “I’ve been thinking about that. You know, I’d feel a lot better if you agreed to let me stay on at least long enough to help you with the supplies, like I mentioned before.”

She turned back to the potatoes, considering his offer. To all appearances, he seemed to be a gentleman, though what such a creature was doing roaming the mountains of Colorado was another puzzle. Perhaps he was a miner. Perhaps.

“Did you work the mines for a long time?” she asked, depositing three potatoes on the table. Knife in hand, she began peeling them, awaiting his reply.

“Long enough to know it wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.” His tone was dry, his mouth twisted in a grin. Leaning back in his chair, he allowed the quilt to slide from his shoulders, freeing both arms. “How about you? Were you born in Denver?”

She shook her head. “No, back east.”

“St. Louis?” he prodded.

The man was downright irritating, she decided. Him with all his talk about good manners. “No.” Her reply was a single syllable, firm and to the point.

He ducked his head, hiding a grin, almost.

“I’m a widow. I’m going to have a child, and I like living alone. Does that answer all your questions?”

“No, ma’am, it sure doesn’t. But I suspect that’s all I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

“If I wanted to be neighborly I’d have found a place with houses on either side of me,” she said quietly. “I came here to be alone, Quinn.”

“Just one more question, Erin? Please?”

She looked up at him. He was about as persistent a man as she’d ever met up with. “Just one,” she said finally.

“Who’s going to help you when the baby comes?” His playful look was gone. Even the admiring light was dimmed as his eyes darkened with concern.

Her heart thudded heavily within her breast. The bottom line, the end of the road she traveled, and he’d nailed her right where she was most vulnerable. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided what I’ll do when the time comes.”

His brow rose. “Seems like that would have been the first thing you thought of.”

No, the first thing had been escape. Finding a place to hide, where no one could seek her out. A sanctuary for herself and her child. And of all the godforsaken spots she could have come up with, she’d ended up on the side of a mountain west of Denver. How ironic.

She laughed, a strained sound that made him wince.

“Erin?” Quinn tasted her name, relishing the breathless sound of it. His gaze appreciated the look of her, his mind wondered at the unexpected appeal to his senses. He hadn’t looked for this attraction, and yet it could not be denied. She was the quarry, he the hunter; her capture the goal.

Yet for the life of him, for whatever reason, he’d lost any incentive he had to cart her back to New York. For the first time in years he found himself willing to put his own needs and concerns on the back burner. All in the interests of a pregnant woman who had a past—but not much of a future, from what he could see.

Erin moved quickly, rinsing the potatoes at the pump, then slicing them into a pan, ignoring the sound of his voice speaking her name. The last of the bacon was cut into small pieces, then dropped into the skillet to fry up. An onion, chopped with rapid slashes of her knife, joined the bacon and sizzled in the grease.

“Erin? I have an idea. Why don’t you hear me out?” So quickly his thoughts had spun out of control. Watching her, listening to her, he’d already juggled his plans twice. Now Quinn was about to commit himself in a new measure, perhaps allow a time of grace in which to consider the woman.

She stirred the bacon in the skillet, her back straight, only the proud tilt of her head making him aware that she listened to his words.

“I’ll take you to town and help you get supplies, then bring you back here. That’ll give you a bit of space to maneuver, not having to do it on your own.”

“You’ve already made that offer,” she said crisply.

“But you never gave me an answer,” he reminded her.

“Let me think about it.”

He drained the coffee cup and rose, walking to the window. “It’s not going to let up much. I think we’re stuck inside for a while.”

“Do you like rice pudding?”

“My mother used to make it for a special treat when I was a boy,” he said, his memory of that time fresh in his mind as he spoke the words.

“I’ve got a lot of milk and eggs to use up. We’ll have some for dinner.”

“I hope the rain lets up in time for you to milk Daisy tonight. She won’t be happy if she has to wait till morning.”

Erin turned from the stove. “I’11 have to go out there, rainy or not. 1 couldn’t do that to the poor thing. I can’t imagine anything more cruel.”

Which was what he’d had in mind earlier, he reminded himself. Leaving the cow to fend for herself while he hustled her owner down the mountain and back to the big city. He traced a circle on the steamy glass of the window. It seemed that this issue was going to be more complicated than he’d thought at first.

Even if he went through with his original plan, there would be no carrying her off from here without a bit more forethought involved. She wasn’t in any shape for him to instigate a battle. In fact, fighting with the girl was not what he had in mind. That image brought a sense of shame to the surface.

If he were to follow his baser instincts, Quinn’s hands would touch more than her shoulders. His eyes would do more than take in the beauty of her profile, the soft, tempting fall of hair that caught shimmering highlights from the lantern.

How he could so easily overlook the rounding evidence of her impending motherhood was beyond him. He’d never thought to find a woman in her condition so all-fired appealing. And yet she was. More so, in fact, than any other female he’d come across in years.

If Ted Wentworth could only see him today, within arm’s reach of his quarry and unable to commit himself to her capture. Forty-eight hours ago, two short days past, he had been hot on her trail and ready to roll back to Denver, Erin Wentworth in hand.

Quinn’s common sense told him he’d had no concept of a woman in Erin’s condition. He could no more sling her on a horse and head down the mountain than he could flap his arms and fly. There didn’t seem to be any way out of it. He’d have to let Ted Wentworth know what was going on, and then make plans to winter here. At least until Erin had the baby and they were both ready to travel.

Would he be ready to earn money at her expense then? Or ever, for that matter?

The rain let up just before dark. His clothes were as dry as they were going to get, Quinn decided. He hurried to put them on as soon as Erin left the house to go to the shed, wearing boots that came almost to her knees. They’d been a legacy of the old man who lived here before her, and although she scuffled along to keep them on, they served the purpose, she’d told him.

His trousers were still damp, but usable, and his boots were hot on the inside, curling his toes with the storedup heat from the woodstove. He slapped his hat on with haste and headed out the door, dodging raindrops as he ran for the shelter.

Erin had made a detour to the outhouse, and he met her halfway between the cabin and the shed. His hand took her arm and he held her steady as they trekked through the mud.

The cow was making anxious noises when Quinn pushed the door open, and the horses nickered softly in greeting. The hens were settling in for the night and looked impatiently at the intruders as they entered.

Quinn found the lantern and lit the wick. Erin had already settled herself to milking, obviously able to find the cow without benefit of light. He smiled as he watched her work, grinned as he listened to her softly crooning assurances to the pretty little Jersey.

“For a city girl, you sure caught on fast to taking care of stock, didn’t you?”

She laughed softly. “When it’s a matter of food, you learn or go hungry. I depend on the animals for transportation, eggs, and milk and butter. In turn, I feed and tend to them. Works out pretty well, I’d say.”

“You got your list made up for the general store in town?”

“Pretty much. Flour, sugar, lard and cornmeal are the heavy items. I can’t carry much canned goods, so I’m limited there. A farmer down below will be bringing up feed for my chickens. The young man at the store said he’d try to get up here during the bad months and bring supplies once in a while. I’ll shoot some game for myself.”

“You? Shoot a deer? What would you do with it then?”

She made an impatient noise. “Probably not a deer. Maybe rabbits. There are traps overhead in the cabin, too. One way or another, I’ll survive.”

The thought of her setting a trap sickened him, the image of it closing on her fingers as she struggled to pry the cruel jaws open a harsh picture in his mind. He set it from his thoughts.

“You know how to gut a rabbit?”

“I’ll manage. I watched the cook clean chickens when I was a child. It can’t be much different with a rabbit.”

His admiration for this fragile woman increased. She was not what he had expected while heading across the country with one goal in mind. And now, in one short day, she’d managed to turn his life in another direction.

“Let’s plan on going down to town tomorrow,” Quinn told her. A door at the back of the shed provided a place to pitch the badly soiled wood chips from the stalls and he opened it wide. The pitchfork he found on the wall had a tine missing, but it would do for now, and he bent to with a will.

“All right.” Her words were slow, as if she considered the matter even as she agreed to his plan.

“You want to feed the chickens tonight?” he asked.

“I’ll do it first thing in the morning. They’ve gone to roost already.” She leaned her forehead on the cow’s flank, almost as if she communicated somehow with the animal. A soft lowing met his ears as he watched the two of them, the woman and the animal she tended.

“She’s talking to you,” he said softly.

Her look was distracted, surprised, and she grinned, the first real humor he’d seen. “Of course. We understand each other.”

The hay was tossed to the horses and Daisy, the hens were ignored, and the lantern turned off within minutes. Quinn carried the pail of milk, closing the shed door with one hand, then reaching to grasp Erin’s arm as they headed to the cabin.

The trip to town hung in abeyance for two days. The trail was too wet to travel in safety, Quinn decided, and Erin had to agree.

“I didn’t plan on going down the mountain for at least another week,” she told him after three days of watching him take over her chores, with the exception of milking. He’d shot a pair of rabbits and skinned them out, gutting them at the edge of the woods, then washing them in the creek.

She’d been pleased, frying the small pieces in the skillet and cooking rice atop the stove. “They sure don’t carry a lot of meat on their bones, do they?” she’d said over supper.

“Run it off, probably.”

“Do you think it will snow before long?” she asked, her thoughts darting ahead to the long winter months.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t- already.” He licked his fingers and reached for another piece of meat. “We’re pushing it, waiting till tomorrow to head out.”

“I’ll be ready early,” she told him. “I got out my heavy cloak and a pair of britches I bought to ride in.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right? Riding, I mean?” His look was dubious.

She glanced up. “Of course I will. I’m healthy.” She forced from her mind the harsh pains she’d suffered through twice since he’d arrived.

“We’ll leave as soon as we take care of the animals.”

She gave him a nod, rising to clear the table and clean up the dishes.

The sky was cloudy, but the mud had dried considerably. Leaves covered parts of the trail and Quinn rode slowly, keeping Erin behind him, lest the mare lose her footing and send her rider tumbling.

“It’s going to take all day to get there if we don’t move faster,” she complained behind him.

“Then we’ll stay there overnight if we have to,” he said patiently. “There’s no way to hurry when you don’t know what’s under the leaves, and the ground is still mushy in spots.”

She subsided, aware of his greater knowledge, and tried for good humor. The jolting when the mare broke into a trot jarred her back and made her bite her lip, but there was no way she would snivel. The least she could do was ride along without complaining.

They gained the edge of town well after noon and spent an hour in the general store. The storekeeper wanted to talk, and Quinn was hard-pressed to be polite. Only the advent of the sheriff bursting in the door to haul the merchant away to help fight a fire on the outskirts of town halted the man’s stream of conversation.

“Do we need to stay and help?” Erin asked, looking over her shoulder at the red blaze in the sky. They rode in the opposite direction, and she felt somehow guilty for leaving while others might be in peril.

“The sheriff said the woman was safe, and it was too late to do anything for her husband. We need to be out of the trees before it gets full dark, Erin. I don’t want to be straggling around looking for the trail at midnight.” His words sounded sensible to her, but the urge to remain and offer aid was strong within her breast.

She subsided, following him down the rutted road, the trail climbing quickly once they passed the last of a long string of houses. “The farther from the middle of town we go, the shabbier the houses get, Quinn. Did you notice?” she asked.

“Folks out here can’t afford much,” he said. “They need room for a garden. Most of them can’t get everything store-bought.”

Just beyond the last dwelling, a woman dug determinedly beside her home, and Erin slowed down. “Do you think she’d have any extra potatoes? I’ll bet that’s what she’s digging.”

Quinn pulled his horse up, the packhorse halting behind him. “Could be. You want some?”

She nodded. “I’m almost out. I’ve been pretty stingy with them. They weigh too much to carry.”

“My horse can handle them,” Quinn offered, riding to the side of the fenced-in area that held a small house where several children played near the doorway.

He paid rather more than Erin thought the potatoes were worth, but the woman looked surprised and pleased at her good fortune as she provided a sack to contain them, and Erin didn’t have the heart to scold Quinn for his generosity. She smiled a last time at the bedraggled creature, waving at the children, before she turned forward to follow his lead.

The trees enclosed them in a cocoon of stillness, the wind muted by the tall trees and dense undergrowth. They rode for hours, mostly in silence, Quinn holding up a hand once as Erin would have spoken to him.

And then she understood as he slid his rifle from the scabbard and motioned again with a finger against his lips. Just ahead, a buck deer stood in the middle of the trail, its spike horn antlers proudly angled. She almost called out, dreading the sight of the elegant creature lying on the ground, its life’s blood draining.

Her good sense prevailed and she only winced as Quinn’s shot went home, downing the buck without any flurry. He keeled over as if he’d been struck on the head, and Quinn was off his horse in an instant, looping his reins over a branch.

“This won’t take long,” he assured her. “I’ll just gut it out and hang it. I can come back in the morning and haul it to the cabin.” Taking off his coat, he hooked it on the saddle horn and drew his knife.

She watched in awe and with more than a trace of reluctance as he cleaned the deer, finally tying its back feet together and throwing the rope over a branch. He hauled the carcass high, with what looked like a minimum of effort to her, yet his muscles strained against the gray fabric of his shirt. The end of the rope was tied to a second tree, and they were on their way once more.

The rest of the ride was a blur in her mind, her body weary, her eyes yearning for slumber. Finally, the cabin a shadowed haven before them, Quinn came to her, lifting her from the mare and holding her shoulders while she gained her balance.

“Thank you.” She looked up at him, savoring the warm touch of his hands, which penetrated the heavy coat. Then, as if she could not meet his gaze any longer, looked over his shoulder where the moon chased the last of the twilight from the sky. “I can’t thank you enough for your help,” she said softly, moving from his touch to reach for her saddlebags.

His big hands halted her attempt, and he shook his head. “You go on in the house and get washed up for bed,” he told her. “I’ll be done in no time. I’m going to try milking Daisy. If I can’t get the job done, you can come out and finish. Is that a deal?”

She nodded, too tired to argue, too weary to be prideful. “I’ll cut some cheese from the round I bought and slice some bread.”

“Put the coffeepot on the front burner. There should be enough left from this morning to heat up,” he told her. He watched as she made her way to the porch, then up the two steps to the door.

She lit the lantern, fed the ever-hungry stove and found warm water in the big kettle. The cloth was rough, but the warm, clean water was refreshing, and she closed her eyes at the pleasure.

She was asleep when he came in, the lantern over the table flickering at its lowest level. The simple food was ready for him and he ate it, washing it down with coffee.

He eyed her for a moment, curled in the center of the bed, boots off, but still clothed. Her body weighed less than he expected, he thought as he lifted her and pulled the quilts down. He placed her back in the spot she’d already warmed with her body heat and covered her with care.

So easily, he’d come to appreciate the quiet strength 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 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.

Chapter Four

Quinn’s hands were gentle, promising kindness, as did the warm glow of his eyes. Against her chilled flesh his fingers soothed, kneading the muscles of her calves as cramps beset her. His gaze comforted her, though how she sensed the compassion Erin could not have said. Yet there was, within his dark eyes, a generosity of spirit, a silent bathing of her pain, as if he would take it as his own.

And at the same time he was forthright, willing her with his soft-spoken encouragement to be at ease with his presence. For surely he sensed that she was totally unused to being viewed and handled in such a familiar manner by a man. Certainly not a man whose acquaintance she had made only several days ago.

“I’d say this is one hell of a time to get charley horses, ma’am,” he muttered, his hands working-to ease her pain. And as he spoke, he cast her a grin that could only be described as impertinent.

Erin bit at her lip, torn between embarrassment and gratitude. That this man would accept the task of delivering her child was more than she could imagine If he’d hightailed it down the mountain and left her to fend for herself, she would not have blamed him.

Indeed, she’d been stunned speechless when Quinn had taken it upon himself to ready her as best he could for the imminent birth of her babe. He’d lifted her from the bed to deposit her in the rocking chair while he spread a piece of canvas from the shed over her mattress, then covered it with the sheet.

She’d watched, her body convulsing twice in the throes of labor before he finished his task. Quinn’s eyes had watched her closely as she rubbed her belly and moaned at the peak of each throbbing pain. Then, with care, he had held her arm and lifted her from the rocking chair as she made her way back to the bed.

Giving birth was a messy business, she’d already discovered. Her water had broken midway across the floor, and only Quinn’s easy manner had allowed her any degree of calm.

“Happens every time one of God’s creatures gets ready to deliver its burden,” he’d said cheerfully. Then as he cleaned up both her and the floor he’d told her about the various animals he’d helped into the world.

The cramps in her legs had begun soon afterward, and she shivered within the folds of her last clean nightgown.

“You’ve not delivered a child, have you?” Erin managed to ask, trying not to notice as his hands massaged her thigh, where another knotted muscle made her cry out.

“Would you feel better if I told you a tall tale?” he asked, and then smiled as she hesitated to answer.

“I’ve hauled calves and colts into this world. I’ve watched cats and dogs deliver more blind little creatures than you can shake a stick at. And in every case, things worked out as they were supposed to.”

He eased his body straighter, tugging her gown down to cover her knees. “There, that seems to have done the trick.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the flush creep up from her breasts to bring heat to her face. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m just not used to.”

Quinn smiled again, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners. “We’re in this together, honey. I can’t say it’s what I’d have chosen, but I’m sure as hell glad I’m here. You’d be in sad shape if you were facing this alone.”

Erin nodded. “I know that.” And then she drew up her legs, turning her head aside as another pain began its assault. Again the tension mounted, and once more the muscles of her belly and back rebelled as her womb drew in upon itself. Erin closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, her fingers widespread against the hard surface of her abdomen.

“Try to relax,” Quinn said, his own big hands covering hers, as if he would lend his strength to her endeavor.

She nodded, inhaling sharply as the pain reached a pinnacle. It began a downward slide, and she counted the throbbing beats of her heart as her body softened and relaxed against the sheet beneath her.

It was the middle of the night before the pain took a new twist, and Erin cried out for the first time as she was caught up in the vise that gripped her. Barely had she caught her breath when the onslaught began anew.

“Don’t fight against your body,” Quinn murmured, his fingers offering hers a place to grip. She clutched at him, abandoning all pretense of dignity as she was engulfed by the white-hot torture her body could only accept.

Whether it lasted for minutes or hours, she could not have judged. Only the blurred edges of Quinn Yarborough’s face remained in her line of vision, and she squinted her eyes as she sought some measure of reassurance there. If his smile was strained, she ignored it. If his brow was furrowed, she was too intent on her own suffering to pay it any mind.

Survival was the issue, and Erin was determined to find ease from the agony of this night. If that meant using her muscles to push the baby into the cruel realities of the world, then she would do as this man asked and push with all of her strength.

“That’s the way,” Quinn said, his voice coming to her in the mist of her misery. “Push, Erin. Push hard.”

She heard her wail of despair as if it came from another’s mouth, and cringed at the message it delivered.

“I can’t. I can’t do this anymore!” Surely that wasn’t her speaking those words of surrender. Her breath rasped loudly as she inhaled and concentrated on the words Quinn spoke once more.

“Yes, you can! Listen to me, Erin. Take a deep breath again. Now, push. Hear me? Push!” His tone was filled with command now. He’d done with being kind, she decided, and almost laughed at the thought. As if a laugh could have been formed from her throat. As if she could think of anything but the rending of her body.

And then there was a silence that threatened to swallow her whole, perhaps lasting for only a moment after all, ending with the fragile wail of her child. Her mind welcomed it as she was swallowed up by the bed beneath her.

Just so quickly, every bone in her body relaxed from the strain of the battle fought and won. Just so brutally, she felt an overwhelming weariness seize her, and she could only reach a hand to the man who held her babe.

“Let me see.” Erin’s words whispered from between dry lips. She blinked, willing her vision to clear, only vaguely aware that tears flowed in a steady stream. And then she saw the tiny, wizened face of a being so minute, so infinitely precious, it came near to halting the beat of her heart.

“I’m going to put him on your stomach, honey,” Quinn said quietly. “I’ll clean you up a little here and then tend to him.”

Erin felt a new series of tugging pains, felt Quinn’s hands against her flesh, but knew only the joy of watching the movements of her child. Quinn had wrapped him in a length of flannel from her belongings, and only the tiny face was visible to her. But his body trembled beneath the covering and she felt an urgency to hold him.

“Give him to me,” she whispered, holding up her arms, fearful of snatching him up from his precarious resting place, lest she drop him.

Quinn stood erect, his stance weary, and shot her a glance that pierced her to the depths. “Let me get rid of this first,” he said, wrapping a bundle and depositing it near the door. He turned back, and she felt a moment’s dread as he hesitated.

“What is it?” she asked hoarsely, lifting herself to her elbows to better see the mite of a babe.

“I fear he’s not big enough, Erin. He’s trying hard, but his breathing isn’t too good.” Quinn stepped quickly to where she lay and picked up the small bundle, cradling it in his two hands. He bent over her and she turned to her side, the better to hold his offering against her breast.

“He’ll be fine,” she said quickly. “Look, he’s moving his mouth.”

Quinn sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, one big hand against her back, giving welcome support. “I see him, honey.”

It was almost more than he could stand, watching this valiant woman cradling the poor little scrap of humanity against her bosom, as if she could pour strength into the baby she held. With blue lips parted, the child struggled to inhale, his efforts bringing harsh reality to the forefront.

“Erin…I’m afraid for him,” Quinn said, bending low to turn the baby to his back. He leaned to touch the blue lips with his own and blew his own breath in tiny puffs of air within the boy’s mouth. He watched as the miniature nostrils pinched in an effort to inhale.

Once more Quinn attempted to instill his own life force in the babe. And again he watched as the struggle worsened.

Erin’s eyes widened, pinning Quinn in place with her gaze. Her hands loosened their hold and she gave full access to the baby he’d delivered. As if she placed her trust in his knowledge, she joined his vigil, inhaling as he did, breathing small bits of air in time with his.

The small body they watched shivered, and Erin cried out, a wordless agony of sound. Again the soft bundle convulsed, and Erin’s cry was softer, desolate, as she sensed the end of the short, futile battle.

Quinn shook his head. “I don’t think we can help him. He’s so little, Erin. He didn’t have long enough to gain strength for this world.”

She was silent now, as if she accepted his words, and he shifted his attention to the pale oval of her face. Her eyes were no longer wet with tears, her lips barely trembled, as if she faced and accepted the pain of her loss.

“Poor little mite,” she crooned, gathering the still, silent bundle to her breast. She bent her head low, her mouth touching the soft, dark down upon bis head.

Quinn felt the tightening of his muscles, long misused in the hours of bending over the bed, his back and legs taut with pain of their own. Yet his would ease with movement. His would be forgotten by tomorrow.

That Erin’s hours of suffering should produce only more pain to come for this small, brave woman seemed hardly fair. And yet, during the years of his childhood, his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that no one had ever been guaranteed equality, that fair was a relevant word, that he could count on only whatever the Fates decreed.

He rose to his feet and backed to the rocking chair. If, for these few moments, Erin Wentworth needed to bid farewell to the babe she’d delivered, he could only grant her that. He’d spent the whole night waiting and watching. A few more minutes weren’t going to make much difference now.

Quinn wasn’t nearly so stoic in the light of day as he swung a pick and shovel at the hard side of the mountain. Such a tiny grave would have been simple to dig back in New York State. Here, the very roots of the trees wove together to thwart his efforts, and he began to reconsider his choice of a burial spot for Erin’s child.

And then the pick broke through the root he had been chopping at, and he found the going easier. Even the harsh cold surrounding him could not touch him this morning, it seemed. The day was dreary, the sun hiding above the low-hanging clouds, but he felt the chill wind as if it mattered little. He was already cold to his depths, dealing with the sense of defeat he’d carried with him since before dawn, when the baby had struggled for his last breath and lain peacefully at last in his mother’s arms.

Erin hadn’t cried since. She, who had borne pain and suffering to a degree he wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it himself, had seemed to wither like a flower without rain. She’d tucked that small body against her heart as if she could warm its fast-cooling flesh with her own.

Even when he bent to take the tiny mite from her hold, placing it in a wooden box he’d put together with a few nails, she’d shown no emotion. Only lifted sad eyes to his and watched as he wrapped a second piece of blanket about the still form.

“What will you name him?” he asked, fitting the lid to the box. No bigger than a shoe box, he held it in one hand, tucked against his side as he awaited her reply.

“Name him?” Her voice was thin, her eyes dark pools of pain.

“I’ll baptize him, if you like, Erin.” He’d never done such a thing, didn’t even know if it was proper, but if saying words over the boy would comfort her, he’d sing hymns and recite a hundred prayers.

“Call him John,” she said after a moment. “It was my father’s name. I think his soul must already be in heaven, but I doubt saying the words over him would hurt anything.”

Quinn nodded, silently agreeing.

“Quinn! Let me go with you,” she cried, suddenly a bundle of motion as she threw back the covers. Her feet touched the floor before he could gain her side, and with one hand he reached for her, his fingers spread wide across her chest.

Beneath his palm her heart beat rapidly, and for that he was thankful. She was stronger than he’d thought, sturdier than he’d given her credit for. Her breasts rose and fell beneath his hand and he held her thus, shaking his head.

“No. It’s too damn cold out there for you, Erin. I don’t war r to have to dig another grave.” His words sounded harsh to his own ears, and he hesitated a moment. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but I don’t think you can make it, honey. It’s bitter cold and coming up snow again.

Her protest was almost mute, only a small, wounded sound that might have been acquiescence as she crumpled beneath his touch.

He relented. “I’ll pull the chair over to the window. You can watch from there,” he told her, waiting until she nodded agreement. Placing the small box…at the end of Erin’s bed, Quinn pulled the rocker the short distance to the window and then returned for the woman who waited.

He lifted her, wrapped in a quilt, and placed her in the chair, tucking the warm covering in place. From the window, the spot he’d chosen was visible, though snow was now beginning to fall steadily.

“Will you name him? Or shall I?” he asked, returning to her side.

“You.” The one syllable, harsh and borne on a breath that touched his hand with its warmth, answered him as she bent low oyer the box he held.

He lifted the lid and then placed his hand against the window, where moisture dampened the glass. He transferred the bit of water, touching the downy head with two fingers.

“I baptize you John Wentworth, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Within his chest Quinn felt pain of his own, that he should be the one to bury not only the babe, but the hopes and dreams of its mother, in that hole he’d dug. His gaze swept over Erin, pausing on the tender bend of her neck, her dark hair haloed in the light from the lamp on the table.

She pressed her index finger against her mouth and transferred the caress to her child’s forehead, then sat erect once more.

“I’ll not be long,” Quinn told her, easing the lid back over the still form. Four nails were in his pocket, the hammer on the table, and he snatched it up as he moved to the door.

“Quinn.” Her voice halted him and he turned back.

“Thank you.” Her lips barely moved as she spoke the words. Her eyes held immense sorrow, but no tears, and he nodded, closing the door behind him.

Strangely, he’d feel better about the whole thing if she’d weep, he thought, trudging across the small clearing. But from the looks of her, she’d shed tears enough, at least for today.

The snow fell heavily for two days, and then the sun came out, rising like a pale golden ball in the east. Quinn peered from the window, still tousled from sleep, his bare feet-feeling half-frozen. His gaze turned to the small mound, covered with snow, just across the clearing. And behind him he heard the rustle of bedcoverings as Erin roused from sleep.

“Quinn?” She spoke his name with a distinct lack of emotion in her voice, and his eyes closed as his head bowed, forehead touching the damp window glass.

“You’re awake.” He turned, his gaze seeking hers, scanning her wan features. She hadn’t eaten enough in the past two days to keep her alive. He’d vowed to him-self that today would be the turning point. Today he’d sit beside her until she finished breakfast, or at least made a good attempt.

There wasn’t enough flesh on her bones to draw from. Either she began to gain back some strength or he would fear for her health.

“Are you hungry? We’ve got eggs up the gump stump, honey. I thought we could scramble up a panful for breakfast.”

Erin watched him, her mouth pinched as if she held back words that bore a tart taste in her mouth. And then she smiled, a wan little grimace, but better than the solemn look he’d dealt with for two long days. “I’ll try, Quinn. I don’t want you to worry about me. Except.”

He stirred, reaching for his heavy shirt, and buttoned it as he walked toward the bed. “Except what, Erin? What’s wrong?”

She flushed, the pink tinge of her skin changing the look of her, and her gaze dropped from his face to where her fingers tangled in her lap. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” she said finally. “My chest.” Her hands rose to spread across the fullness of her breasts and she hesitated, biting at her lip.

“Do you feel congested, like a bad cold or pneumonia, maybe?” Quinn asked harshly. God above knew he wasn’t ready for this fragile woman to fall sick on him.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t mean inside my chest, Quinn. I mean here.” She touched her breasts and winced as she pressed gently against her gown. “I feel swollen and hot. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He wanted to unbutton the front of that sedate flannel gown. He ached with the urge to lay his hands on the fevered flesh beneath it, and his heartbeat increased as he considered that thought.

It was not a good idea. Even for a valid reason such as this, Erin’s bosom was out-of-bounds for him. Even though her body had been exposed to his eyes, this was a different kettle of fish.

“Quinn? I wonder if. Do you think maybe it’s because I had the baby, and now I’m filling up with milk?”

Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? The most natural thing in the world. He’d seen newborn calves and colts nurse and thought nothing of it. It only made sense that a woman would have the same function, the same milk forming in her body as any other creature.

He’d just never had access to a nursing mother, or any other mother, for that matter.

“I’d say you hit the nail on the head,” he told her. “The problem is, I’m not sure what to do about it.”

She shrugged. “Maybe if we just wait, it’ll be all right. Maybe, since I’m not.” Her hands reached out in mute appeal. “You know what I mean. I don’t have a baby to nurse, so maybe it will go away.”

She sounded so hopeful, he could scarcely bear it. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that, Erin. But I have to admit I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe.” His mind searched for an answer.

“How about putting cold cloths on you, maybe make you feel better?” It was a very poor solution, to his way of thinking, but taking care of a new mother was a far cry from his usual line of work.

She looked doubtful. “If you think it will help, I’ll do it, Quinn.”

“It sure can’t hurt anything,” he said quickly. “Let me get some snow in here and I’ll pack a towel with it.”

It was cold, that was for sure, Erin decided a few minutes later. She held the makeshift compress to her breasts, welcoming the numbing chill against her skin.

At the stove, Quinn broke eggs into her iron skillet and stirred them as they cooked, intent on fixing breakfast. He opened the oven, stabbing the toasted bread with her long fork and dropping it onto a plate. His expertise was not in the kitchen, she decided, her mouth curling in the barest trace of a smile.

For this man she would do most anything right now, Erin thought, straightening in the rocking chair. Even if it meant gulping down eggs and gnawing on a piece of stale bread turned to dry toast. And from the looks of things, that was about all they were going to have for breakfast. She hadn’t baked in three days and she doubted Quinn Yarborough was handy with bread dough.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, casting a quick look at her. “Maybe I should go down to town and talk to the doctor, see if there’s something you should be doing to help with your.” His hand waved at her, as if he hesitated to name the cause of her problem.

Again Erin came close to smiling, her eyes catching sight of the faint color that rode his cheekbones. Bless his heart, the man was embarrassed. After all he’d done for her.

“What do you think, honey?” he asked, lifting the skillet to turn a mound of eggs out onto her plate.

“Yes, all right,” she answered, agreeable to anything that would relieve the tight throbbing in her breasts.

Quinn carried her plate to where she sat in the rocking chair. “Here, I’ll trade you,” he said, reaching for her wet towel. “Eat first, then we’ll try this some more.”

She nodded, willing herself to eat every bit of the food he offered. She’d lost any appetite she’d ever had, but if Quinn was good enough to cook for her, eating was the least she could do.

His gaze was hopeful as he crouched beside her chair. “If you eat every bite I’ll feel better about leaving you for the day,” he told her. “If I set out now, I stand a good chance of making it back by nightfall.”

She placed the fork carefully on her plate. “I hate for you to put yourself in danger for my sake, Quinn. But I know I need to get back on my feet. Maybe if I feel better while you’re gone I can set a batch of bread to rise.”

His hand covered hers and he squeezed, getting her attention. “Not on your life, girl. I don’t want to have visions of you falling against that stove while I’m riding down the mountain. You just rest until the fire gets low. You’ll have to put in a chunk of that firewood, but other than that, you park your little carcass on that bed and stay warm. You hear?”

She nodded, a bit reluctantly, aware that he deserved her obedience in this, yet unwilling to give up her independence. “I’ll mind, this time,” she said with a smile.

“Promise?”

“Yes…promise.” Her gaze was held by the determination she read in his face, his eyes dark and piercing as he watched her. Then he nodded, as if to underscore her words.

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