The Outlaw's Bride

Praise for Carolyn Davidson

“Carolyn Davidson creates such vivid images,

you’d think she was using paints

instead of words.”

— Bestselling author Pamela Morsi

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in

the midst of heart-wrenching challenges.”

— Publishers Weekly

Redemption “[An] unflinching inquiry into the serious issues of the day.” — Booklist

Oklahoma Sweetheart “Like Dorothy Garlock, Davidson does not stint on the gritty side of romance, but keeps the tender, heart-tugging aspects of her story in the forefront. This novel is filled with compassion and understanding for characters facing hardship and hatred and still finding joy in love and life.” — Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Marriage by Chance “This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skilful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.” — Romantic Times BOOKreviews

She was lovely, and definitely not what he’d expected when he’d heard of an Indian woman living alone beyond the edge of town.

She couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty years. Her dress clung to her form, and the black hair she’d flung over her shoulders formed a dark cape that hung past her waist.

She carried two sacks, one in either hand, hefting them easily. Tyler felt a heaviness in his groin as he watched her approach the house, and fought it with a sense of scorn. He wasn’t here to take advantage of a woman, but to find a sanctuary of sorts. At least for a week or so.

Her footsteps were silent as she walked across the porch and the sound of the door opening seemed magnified in the stillness of the night. He moved swiftly to stand behind the door as it opened…and waited.

Reading, writing and research – Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel – her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.

I love brides…grooms, too, for that matter. And none are so precious to me as brides and grooms within our own family. My son Jon has given three of his four daughters to the men of their choice during the past year or so, and our family has become all the richer for their presence as couples in the far-reaching web of the Davidson clan.

So to the three beloved grandchildren who have newly entered the realm of marriage, an institution of which I am very fond, I’d like to dedicate this book, with its own message of prevailing over the hardships life has to offer to those embarking on this course. To Rachel and David, karen and Rob, and finally to Jennifer and Tom, I offer my best wishes as a grandmother and a veteran of marriage. May God richly bless your unions, and may His presence be alive in the years you spend together.

And, as always, I dedicate my work to my own love, the man who has been a beloved companion and has devoted himself to me for many years…to Mr Ed, who loves me.

Dear Reader,

As a writer I enjoy travelling in new directions, and writing this book was indeed a switch for me. I have the greatest respect for those who lived in the great land of America before my forefathers ventured to the shores. I thought long and hard before deciding to attempt the telling of a story that would reveal some small part of the Native Americans and the impact they have had on individuals – those who knew them and those who joined with them in marriage, thus increasing the blend in the melting pot of our country.

Debra Nightsong was a very special heroine to me. She was strong, a woman of her people who chose to live her life with a man of another race, and did it well. The union she formed with Ethan Tyler changed her life, changed her as a woman and sent her on an adventure like no other. Unions such as Debra’s with Ethan form the complex civilisation we live in in America, for such marriages seem to produce strong people, perhaps blending within them the finest of both races. And, like Debra, each of us has our own story to tell, an adventure that is ours alone, one I feel we are compelled to pass on to the generations who will follow. I hope my story will appeal to all of my readers, and that your hearts will open to those who are a result of marriages such as that of Debra and Ethan. For beneath the skin we are all brothers.

Carolyn Davidson

The Outlaw’s Bride

Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

Holly Hill, The Dakota Territory June 1888

STEALING A HORSE was guaranteed to give a man sleepless nights. And Ethan Tyler was no exception. Only the fact that the poor nag should have long since been put out to pasture aided his insomnia, but the fact that he’d taken another man’s animal weighed heavily on his mind. He was tired of running—it was time to call a halt and make decisions.

Even as he rode the trail from Holly Hill to the small farm he sought, he thought of the man who was even now missing his nag and his conscience bothered him with the theft he’d committed. Sending the horse back to town would be a problem, but one he’d figure out one way or another.

With that settled, Tyler looked ahead toward the farmhouse he’d been told was just three miles from town, at the end of a long lane, shaded by tall trees. A woman lived there, alone and unprotected. A woman whose parentage was in question, some saying she had a native mother, an unknown father and was probably no better than she should be. Others said she was to be respected, a woman alone, no matter her heritage.

Whichever she was, Tyler knew he could prevail upon her to hide him, for how long he didn’t know, but at least he would convince her that he needed a hiding place for a while, and his skills at working around a farm would pay her well for her help.

He rode as quickly as the nag he’d borrowed would allow, hoping against hope that his arrival would preface hers by at least an hour. He needed time to put his horse behind the barn, should there be one, break in to her house and then lie in wait for her to arrive. His senses told him he was being followed and it was time to go to ground.

He would be gentle with her, for she was no doubt a crone, a woman of years who kept to herself and lived quietly. A grandmotherly sort, he imagined, a woman set in her ways, but perhaps thankful for a helping hand for a short while. Not a woman who would tempt him to abandon his celibate lifestyle for want of her charms.

He rode down the narrow lane toward her holdings, admiring the clean lines of her buildings, the neatly kept yard and the buildings surrounding it. There was a shed, less than a barn, but a sturdy structure, and a smoke house, side by side with another small structure, probably a milk house or corncrib.

The house was a typical farmhouse, with a wide porch and windows that looked out upon the backyard. Ridiculously simple to break in to, he thought, sliding a kitchen window upward without much nudging. He climbed within, relishing the scent of the bread she must have baked this morning. Before she went to town and left herself open to a scalawag such as he, a man who climbed through her window and into her house, awaiting her return.

The sun had set, painting the sky with soft colors, promising fair weather for tomorrow, and he waited, his patience long, his stomach well tended by the loaf of bread he found on the kitchen cabinet. Old or not, the woman could bake bread, he thought, and then tensed as he heard the sound of a horse, the soft whicker that sounded from the yard.

He rose and stood by the window.

The woman rode astride, defying the rules society back east had set down for a female on a horse. No saddle darkened the back of the golden mare she rode, only the flowing skirt that hung halfway down her legs, catching the breeze as she rode. Double saddlebags lay across the animal’s rump, apparently balanced there, for they did not depend on a saddle to hold them in place.

As Tyler watched from the window in her house, she brought the horse to a halt there in the first light of the moon, never touching her reins. Only the pressure of her knees against the animal’s sides caused the mare to slow her rapid pace and then stand, head lowered, next to the watering trough.

In a smooth motion, the rider slid to the ground, exposing a slender thigh as her dress pulled up, then she approached the horse’s head, rubbing her knuckles against the mare’s long nose, speaking to the animal as she removed the bit and bridle from the pale horse. The mare bent her long neck gracefully and drank from the trough, her rider waiting patiently. And then they were headed for the small stable that sat in utter darkness just beyond an enclosed chicken coop, the mare following her mistress as might a faithful pet. The woman’s dress swayed against her body, exposing moccasins beneath its hem.

The barn door was opened and the woman and her mare went inside. In less than five minutes, the slender female emerged, tossed her dark hair back and lifted her face to the skies. The glow of moonlight illuminated her and Tyler inhaled sharply.

She was lovely, and definitely not what he’d expected when he’d heard of an Indian woman living alone beyond the edge of town. She couldn’t be more than eighteen or twenty years. Her dress clung to her form, and the black hair she’d flung over her shoulders formed a dark cape that hung past her waist. She carried two sacks, one in either hand, hefting them easily. Tyler felt a heaviness in his groin as he watched her approach the house, and fought it with a sense of scorn. He wasn’t here to take advantage of a woman, but to find a sanctuary of sorts. At least for a week or so.

Her footsteps were silent as she walked across the porch and the sound of the door opening seemed magnified in the stillness of the night. He moved swiftly to stand behind the door as it opened…and waited.

DEBRA SLIPPED HER FEET from the moccasins she wore, kicking them to one side of the open kitchen door, then stepped inside and pushed the heavy portal closed behind her.

Without warning, a rough hand covered her mouth, forcing her head against a solid wall of muscle, and the burlap sacks of foodstuffs she’d been carrying landed on the floor beside her. A powerful arm circled her waist, and held her firmly.

From behind the door, where he’d apparently been lying in wait, a tall figure shadowed her. He’d hidden there, and now he had the advantage over her. She was, of necessity, silent, his hand not allowing her mouth to open. But she could fight soundlessly, and her hands reached back over her head, fingers curved and aimed at his face.

She felt a fingernail dig deeply into flesh, and the indrawn breath of the man who held her. With a quick move he captured both her hands and drew them behind her back, turning her in his arms to face him.

“Hold still, ma’am. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll be all right.”

His voice was graveled, rough and deep. She’d never felt less secure in her life, and he had the nerve to tell her that all was well. She stiffened in his grip, her breath rasping in her lungs, as she forced her bruised lips to open.

“I doubt anyone could hear you shout or cry out,” he said mockingly, looking down at her from dark eyes that were barely visible in the light of the moon and stars from the windows. “You’ve chosen to live alone, a mile from the nearest neighbor, and let me tell you, that isn’t a safe choice for a woman by herself.”

“I have no intention of calling for help, you bastard!” she whispered. “What do you want with me? Or is that a stupid question?” A vision of violence filled her mind, with herself as the victim, and she shivered as if a wintry chill had passed down her spine.

“I’ve already told you that I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said quietly. “You certainly weren’t what I expected to find here. You’re only a girl.”

His voice rang with disgust, and he shook his head, as if denying his thoughts. “I just need a place to stay for a few days. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

She laughed scornfully. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. You’re too big to sweep under the rug, and I have nowhere to keep you. I only have one bed in the house. It belongs to me.”

“Have you never heard of sharing?” A touch of humor, bordering on teasing, colored his voice, and he allowed his index finger the privilege of tracing a line down her cheek. She pulled away from the touch, shivering as the rough pad of his finger took stock of her smooth flesh.

“I don’t share my bed with anyone,” she said adamantly. “If you insist on sleeping in the bed, I’ll take the floor. I spent a lot of years without a mattress beneath me. Another night won’t hurt me.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there,” he insisted firmly. “You’ll be where I can reach you. And I’ll warn you right now, I’m a light sleeper. One move out of you and I’ll be on you like a bear on a honey tree.”

Somehow the picture that brought to mind lacked much, Debra decided. For a moment she wished fervently that she’d stayed in town with the storekeeper’s daughter. The invitation had been given in an undertone, while Mr. Anderson was with a customer, and Debra had shaken her head, knowing that, if she were discovered in her friend’s bedroom, there’d be hell to pay. And she’d be the one paying it.

A half-breed was tolerated in town, so long as she had enough money to pay for her purchases at the general store, but there could never be any friendships formed. Julia was the exception, having made it her business to drive her buggy out of town on the occasional Sunday afternoon, finding her way to Debra’s small holding.

Now there was no choice, no friend to keep her company through the night, only this stranger who appeared even more menacing as he warned her of the night to come.

“Do you have anything to tend to before you go to bed?” he asked.

“The cow will need milking, the horses will need feeding, and my food must be put up. I ate in town and the chickens were fed this afternoon.”

He bent and picked up the bundles beside her, and she took them from him, feeling the warmth of his hands against hers. “Who are you?” she asked, wanting the truth from him, but not expecting to hear it.

“My name is Tyler.”

“Tyler as your first name or your last?” she asked.

“Just Tyler,” he said with finality. “Now put away your foodstuffs.”

“I’ll light the lamp,” she said, walking toward the table, over which hung her kerosene lantern.

“No light,” he said quickly. “I’ll warrant you can find a place to stash your food in the dark.”

“There’s no one around to see the light,” she told him, aggravated at being a prisoner of this man. Whatever he planned, it boded no good for her, she’d already decided.

He chose not to argue with her, apparently, for he simply waited as Debra opened the sacks on the kitchen table, feeling the familiar items within. Coffee, peaches, a tin of sugar, lard in a five-pound can, a bit of bacon and a sack of flour. With quick steps, only the faint light of moon and stars to guide her, she carried them into the small pantry, putting them in place on the almost empty shelves.

“Now we’ll go out and tend your cow.” His voice was low, his touch firm against her arm as he steered her toward the back door. She walked ahead of him, knowing her cow would be miserable if she were not relieved of her milk tonight.

Outdoors, the moon was high in the sky, illuminating the rough path to her barn—realistically more a shed, she thought, as the structure loomed before them. Her cow lowed impatiently from her stall, and Debra pushed the door aside, entering the dark, musty stable, able to find her way by touch, so familiar was she with the contents of the building. Her milking pail was covered by a towel, just inside the door, the three-legged stool she used beside it.

She bent to them, picking them up as she neared the stall where her Jersey cow waited. In moments she was seated near the animal’s flank, holding the bucket between her knees as she began the process of emptying the bag of its burden. The small Jersey lowed once more, as if in greeting, and Debra murmured soft words to her, soothing her unease.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d given the animals their hay for the night, her horse in a standing stall nearby, three other mares tied in narrow seclusion farther down the aisle of the barn. Without words spoken, the man, Tyler, helped her fill the mangers, then followed her from the stable and into the yard.

She looked up at him, his face more distinct in the moonlight and her heart sank within her. Probably not more than thirty, but well-worn, she decided. He was hard, his features forming a harsh visage, a straight blade of a nose, dark hair badly in need of a barber’s scissors and eyes that hid behind lowered lids and lashes.

Without speaking, he led her back to the house and as they entered Debra removed her shoes on the mat just inside the kitchen. Tyler followed suit and then stood silently behind her as she contemplated her next move.

“If that’s all the chores you need done tonight, go in the bedroom and get out of your clothes,” he said harshly, not offering any more excuses to put off the inevitable.

“I can sleep in my clothing,” she said sharply. “I’m not getting undressed in front of you.”

“I didn’t expect you to. I’ll wait out here ’til you tell me you’re in bed.”

She was abruptly released from his hold and with four steps she was in front of her closed bedroom door. She opened it, stepping inside and then turned to close it against him. It was not to be. His foot jammed it open and he laughed.

“I may not be allowed to watch, but I’m not taking a chance on you skinnin’out that window, sweetheart.”

The moonlight was brighter in here, flooding her bedroom, and Debra sought out her nightgown from beneath her pillow. She went behind the screen in one corner, where her slop jar and basin were kept. In moments she had pulled her clothing off and the nightgown was in place. She hung her dress and chemise over the screen, then walked toward the bed.

“I’d be happy to sleep on the rug over here,” she suggested and was not surprised to hear his gruff laughter again as he entered the room and closed the door.

“Not a chance, Nightsong.”

“You know my name?”

“I heard it in town,” he said. “I like it.”

“It’s only my surname. I’m Debra.”

“Who named you Nightsong? A family name?”

“My mother gave me her name. She was The One Who Sings, and they called her Nightbird. When I was born she said I was the song she was meant to sing. She called me her Nightsong.” She spoke the words softly, remembering the woman who had been her protector and champion during those early days of her life. They’d both been outcasts from the tribe, her mother because she’d borne a half-breed child, and Debra because she carried the blood of the white man in her veins.

“Get into bed.” He gave the order with no inflection in his voice and she did as he said, knowing that she could not win a battle against him. At least not now. The sheets were cool against her, and she placed her pillow behind her, choosing to sleep without it, in order to keep a barrier between their bodies.

He only laughed beneath his breath as he slid into the other side of the bed, snatched the pillow up and put it atop his own. “That won’t work, sweetheart,” he told her. “You’re going to be right next to me all night. We can make our living arrangements tomorrow, but for tonight, we’ll just do our best to be friends.”

“You’re suffering a delusion,” she said sharply. “We’ll never be friends. I’m your prisoner for now, but…”

“It won’t be easy to escape me, Debra Nightsong. In fact, I’d say don’t even try. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ll not let you get away from me.”

She sat up abruptly and faced him. “You’re in my house, holding me prisoner and threatening me. I don’t owe you anything, mister. I don’t know who you’re hiding from, but I suspect it’s the law, and I refuse to hide you here.”

She saw the flash of his white teeth in the moonlight. “Right now, you don’t have a choice, sweetheart. I’m the man with the gun, and about a hundred pounds on you. Not to mention that I’m a good foot taller than you are. That settles it, I’d say. You’ll do as I tell you, at least for the next few days.”

“Days? You plan on keeping me your prisoner for a matter of days?” Her heartbeat increased as she considered his words.

His hand reached for her and his long fingers clamped around her wrist. “Don’t worry about the days ahead, Nightsong. For now, we just need to get through the night. And you have only two choices. It’s either me holding your arm or I’ll tie you to my waist. What’ll it be?”

She was silent. His fingers were hard against her skin, but not cruel, not enough to cause bruises, unless she fought his touch. The thought of being tied to him was unacceptable and she lay back down, accepting his imprisoning fingers binding her close.

He turned toward her, as if accepting her surrender, and laughed, a sound smacking of derision. “Close your eyes, Debra Nightsong. It’s going to be a long night.”

She did as he said, knowing that for now, she was under his control, and God forbid she make him angry with her.

But her mind was spinning like a child’s top on Christmas morning. All she’d ever asked for was a peaceful life, alone here on the property her father had bequeathed to her. She’d done well, raising chickens, one of them a rooster who kept her hens in line, and awoke early every morning to hail the new day. Then there was the cow she cared for, and her golden mare. Now her herd had increased with the arrival of the three mares.

A garden thrived behind the house and her nearest neighbor cut the acres of hay she shared with him for his work. It was a good life, one she’d thought held a measure of safety and peace.

The dark-haired man beside her was a stranger, tall, well-built, and, as he’d said, probably a hundred pounds heavier than she. A big man, whose dark eyes had frightened her with their lack of emotion. As though he felt nothing, as if his feelings were locked up somewhere inside, he gave no hint of softness, no apology for his hands on her body, his presence in her bed.

She trembled, fearful of him, his presence in her home and the fate that might await her. Physically, she was no match for him, leaving her only her wits to depend upon.

The mystery was too much for her tonight, she decided. Just getting through the hours ’til morning was what concerned her right now. Her mind was whirling again, her wrist was held in an unshakable grip and she wanted to turn over. Away from his eyes that were even now focused on her. She could feel his gaze, knew he watched her.

“Let go of me,” she said, as if she expected his cooperation. “I’d like to turn over.”

“Go ahead.” He dropped her hand and she turned away from him, only to feel his heavy arm slide over her waist, settling on her flat belly and then tugging her back against his warm body. “I’ll just hang on to you this way,” he murmured. “And don’t give me a hard time, little bird. It won’t do you any good.”