The Tender Stranger. Carolyn Davidson

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      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.”

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