The Tender Stranger

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 (#ulink_5a6f40a8-e894-5739-920c-e1d8d4d6bb5b)

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.