The Tender Stranger

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