The Outlaw's Bride

“Hold still, ma’am. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll be all right.”

His voice was graveled, rough and deep. She’d never felt less secure in her life, and he had the nerve to tell her that all was well. She stiffened in his grip, her breath rasping in her lungs, as she forced her bruised lips to open.

“I doubt anyone could hear you shout or cry out,” he said mockingly, looking down at her from dark eyes that were barely visible in the light of the moon and stars from the windows. “You’ve chosen to live alone, a mile from the nearest neighbor, and let me tell you, that isn’t a safe choice for a woman by herself.”

“I have no intention of calling for help, you bastard!” she whispered. “What do you want with me? Or is that a stupid question?” A vision of violence filled her mind, with herself as the victim, and she shivered as if a wintry chill had passed down her spine.

“I’ve already told you that I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said quietly. “You certainly weren’t what I expected to find here. You’re only a girl.”

His voice rang with disgust, and he shook his head, as if denying his thoughts. “I just need a place to stay for a few days. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

She laughed scornfully. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. You’re too big to sweep under the rug, and I have nowhere to keep you. I only have one bed in the house. It belongs to me.”

“Have you never heard of sharing?” A touch of humor, bordering on teasing, colored his voice, and he allowed his index finger the privilege of tracing a line down her cheek. She pulled away from the touch, shivering as the rough pad of his finger took stock of her smooth flesh.

“I don’t share my bed with anyone,” she said adamantly. “If you insist on sleeping in the bed, I’ll take the floor. I spent a lot of years without a mattress beneath me. Another night won’t hurt me.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there,” he insisted firmly. “You’ll be where I can reach you. And I’ll warn you right now, I’m a light sleeper. One move out of you and I’ll be on you like a bear on a honey tree.”

Somehow the picture that brought to mind lacked much, Debra decided. For a moment she wished fervently that she’d stayed in town with the storekeeper’s daughter. The invitation had been given in an undertone, while Mr. Anderson was with a customer, and Debra had shaken her head, knowing that, if she were discovered in her friend’s bedroom, there’d be hell to pay. And she’d be the one paying it.

A half-breed was tolerated in town, so long as she had enough money to pay for her purchases at the general store, but there could never be any friendships formed. Julia was the exception, having made it her business to drive her buggy out of town on the occasional Sunday afternoon, finding her way to Debra’s small holding.

Now there was no choice, no friend to keep her company through the night, only this stranger who appeared even more menacing as he warned her of the night to come.

“Do you have anything to tend to before you go to bed?” he asked.

“The cow will need milking, the horses will need feeding, and my food must be put up. I ate in town and the chickens were fed this afternoon.”

He bent and picked up the bundles beside her, and she took them from him, feeling the warmth of his hands against hers. “Who are you?” she asked, wanting the truth from him, but not expecting to hear it.

“My name is Tyler.”

“Tyler as your first name or your last?” she asked.

“Just Tyler,” he said with finality. “Now put away your foodstuffs.”

“I’ll light the lamp,” she said, walking toward the table, over which hung her kerosene lantern.

“No light,” he said quickly. “I’ll warrant you can find a place to stash your food in the dark.”

“There’s no one around to see the light,” she told him, aggravated at being a prisoner of this man. Whatever he planned, it boded no good for her, she’d already decided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a chance, Nightsong.”

“You know my name?”

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

“It’s only my surname. I’m Debra.”

“Who named you Nightsong? A family name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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