Carolyn Davidson (2 page)

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.