The Outlaw's Bride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrapped up in that towel,” she told him, nodding at a package on the surface before him. He picked it up and opened the clean towel, exposing almost a full loaf of unsliced bread, the end of the loaf ragged where he’d torn off a piece late in the evening while he awaited her return. Lifting her knife from the counter, he wiped it with a dish towel and turned his attention to slicing enough bread for toast.

“I should have used a knife last night. Looks like I made a mess of it.”

“It doesn’t matter. At least you left enough for breakfast. And if you hadn’t, I have another loaf put up.”

He sawed at the loaf before him, and then looked up. “Shall I put it in the oven?” He waited for her reply, three slices in his hand, and received a patient look from her direction. Her free hand waved at the oven door and he took the blatant hint, placing the bread on the rack within, backing quickly from the heat.

The eggs she’d brought from the shed rested now in a crock on the table and she lifted five of them, cracking them into a shallow dish, then waved a hand at the container. “Put this in the pantry, if you would. Right-hand side, second shelf.”

He nodded, willing to be accommodating, since she held the spoon that would be stirring his eggs and he was of a mind to enjoy her cooking. The pantry was lined with shelves, Mason jars lined up precisely, many of them empty on the bottom shelves, awaiting the harvest to come from the kitchen garden.

Neatness seemed to be her motto, for even the canned goods she’d brought from town were stowed according to content, and beside them jars of coffee beans and sacks of sugar and flour vied for shelf space. She was an orderly sort, he decided quickly, her supplies sufficient to hold them for at least a week.

“Bring that churn out with you,” she called from the vicinity of the stove, where he heard the splatter of bacon grease on the hot surface as she turned the thick slices in the skillet. “The bread should be toasted by now,” she told him, and he opened the oven door, forking out the three slices of browned bread.

A generous slab of butter lay beneath a glass dome on the table, and he found a knife from the drawer, then set about slathering a thick layer of golden butter on his toast. He’d watched her put together a pot of coffee as soon as she made her way to the kitchen early on and now the aroma of the strong, fresh brew reached him.

His plate was readied, scrambled eggs with four slices of bacon edging the offering, a thick china mug filled to the brim with black coffee and toast he’d buttered on another plate. His mouth watered, and he did not hesitate, only taking time to find forks in the drawer before he sat down.

Debra sat across from him and her movements were fluid, her hands graceful as she ladled jam from a pot onto her toast. For a moment, she paused, lifting her eyes to the window, her lips moving silently, and he thought she might be speaking a blessing on her food.

He picked up his fork and loaded it with eggs. The steam rose from the golden pile on his plate and he tucked in readily, the fresh eggs a delight to his tastebuds. The bacon was crisp, the coffee strong and black, just as he liked it, and he bent a look of appreciation on the woman seated across from him.

“You’re a good cook, Debra.”

She shrugged easily. “It doesn’t take much talent to scramble eggs and fry bacon.”

“Perhaps not, but someone baked the bread and churned the butter. I suspect you’ve learned well how to run a kitchen.”

“My mother was a fine example to follow.” She spoke softly, her eyes holding a faraway look. “She taught me all I know.”

“Were you brought up in this house?” He found himself more than curious about her, his thoughts on the girl she’d been, the woman she’d become over the years. And yet, she was more girl than woman, he realized, surely not out of her teen years.

“How old are you?”

She looked up at him in surprise. “I was born and raised here. And now I’m old enough to live alone and take care of myself.”

He grinned. “Maybe.” The pause was long and then he supplied her with his thoughts. “You weren’t thinking last night when you walked into an empty house, Debra. You should have left a light on, or carried a gun.”

“It would have been a waste of kerosene,” she said sharply, “and my gun was already in the house.” Her eyes met his with a dark look that offered scorn. “I’ve never had to fear having my home invaded before. This has always been a safe place to live. Until now.”