The Outlaw's Bride
“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply. And even as she spoke, she heard her mother’s voice, soothing her, encouraging her and speaking the words in a gentle voice. “My little bird. Don’t worry. Your mother is here.” She inhaled sharply as a tear slid from her eye and dampened the sheet beneath her. His hand swept up over her waist and breast to spread across her cheek, and she shrank from the touch of those warm fingers on her face.
But to no avail, for the tears she’d thought to keep from him were swept away by his hand, holding the corner of the sheet, fingers that were gentle as he wiped her cheek.
“I upset you. What did I say to make you cry?” She thought his voice softened a bit, losing the harsh edge, the threat of violence she’d sensed earlier.
She resented his knowledge of her weakness and her voice was taut. “Take your hands off me. I don’t cry. And, I’m not going anywhere.”
He chuckled a bit, a low, husky sound and bent his head lower on the pillow, brushing his face over her hair. She felt his breath, warm against the side of her face, and caught the scent of him, that of saddle leather and fresh air.
“My arm and my hand will hold you against me. They will stay on you all night long. I offered you another solution, but you turned it down.”
She shivered. “Tying me up wasn’t much of an option.”
His chuckle was low, offering her no hint of softening. “It’s the only one you’ll get, so make up your mind.”
And with that, he pulled her even closer to himself, curling his big body against her back, his knees pushing her legs upward. “Close your eyes, little bird. I’ll still be right here in the morning, and you can be angry at me then. It sure as hell won’t do you any good to get all upset tonight.”
She thought a trace of amusement coiled through his lazy whisper, and she felt her anger rise in spite of his warning. “I’m not used to sleeping with anyone,” she said, wriggling in a vain effort to put him at a distance. To no avail, for he only pulled her closer and eased his hand across her belly to the hip she lay on, his fingers pressing into her flesh, almost guaranteeing bruises come morning.
“You’re a little bit of a thing, aren’t you?” he mused, measuring the width of her body with his arm. “Sassy and full of piss and vinegar, but not big enough to fight me.”
“I’m big enough to take care of myself,” she said stoutly, “except when a man uses his strength against me. And even then, I’ve been known to fight.”
“Want to tell me about it?” he asked, his tone softly curious. “Who have you fought?”
She was stubbornly silent, and he chuckled again. “I’ll just bet you landed a few good punches before any man ever got the best of you. You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that.” He paused and she sensed that he would speak a warning. “But don’t try to fight me, Debra Nightsong. I don’t play fair, and I always win.”
“Especially against a woman,” she murmured. “I was right about you. You’re a bully.”
“I can be kind,” he told her.
He’d made his move, forced his way into her house, almost guaranteed a place to hang his hat for a few days at least. She’d just come from town, had brought supplies enough to last for some time in those burlap sacks. She wouldn’t be expected by anyone to be seen in Holly Hill for a few days.
“I’ll be up at dawn, when the rooster crows,” she told him. “My cow likes to be milked early on and the chickens will need to be fed.”
“Well, then rest easy. I’ll be with you while you milk and tend your stock. Might even lend a hand,” he whispered against her ear.
The scent of man, of his yearnings for a woman, enveloped her. For the first time in her life, she shared her bed, and resented it mightily. Enough that he held her fast, did she also need the constant reminder that this masculine being presented a danger to her?
He was clean, if she were any judge of it, smelling like the fresh hay in her field, a faint aroma of leather and horse surrounding him. An altogether appealing arrangement that tempted her senses.
He seemed not to be cruel, for if he’d so desired, he could have hurt her badly already, could have taken her body in an act of pure lust. He’d done neither, and for whatever rules of behavior governed him, she was thankful.
She must have dozed off, her body seeking the rest it required, for when she awoke, fully aware of the darkness and the man who lay beside her, she sat upright, his arm gripping her firmly.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
She sought her pillow, remembered that it was under his head, and settled for the sheet beneath her. “I need to use the…” She faltered, unable to speak aloud the need for privacy.
He released his grip on her and rolled from the bed. “Get up, Debra. I’ll be right here. Don’t think to escape or attack me with your hairbrush.” A note of amusement touched his voice and she muttered a curse beneath her breath.
The screen shielding her personal space in the room concealed her from his eyes, and she hastily tended to her needs, then straightened her gown around her before returning to the bed. “Did you think I would be so stupid as to use a hairbrush as a weapon?” she asked, sitting once more on the edge of the mattress.
“You’re not stupid, Debra. I was counting on your intelligence. I only warned you because I don’t want a battle with you in the middle of the night.” He gripped her shoulder and pushed her down against the mattress. Her pillow was soft beneath her head and she cut her gaze to him, his body barely visible in the moonlight.
“Thank you. I’ll be more comfortable this way.”
“I don’t want you angry with me,” he began, lying back beside her. “I know that sounds like a futile wish, but I mean it. I won’t hurt you, Debra, and I knew you needed your pillow returned.” He was silent for a moment and then his voice touched her again. “Decide which side you’ll sleep on and get snuggled in, girl.”
“So you can hang on to me?” She recognized the bitter tone of her own words as she turned to her side, facing the edge of the bed and the window that overlooked the yard.
“So I can make certain that you don’t try to escape in the middle of the night.”
“I’m not going to give you the chance to hold me down, mister. I’ll lie where I am ’til morning.”
“I wouldn’t mind holding you down,” he mused quietly. “As a matter of fact, I might like it more than I should. Let’s not take a chance on it.”
Awake now, Debra lay facing the lone window in her bedroom, watching as the depth of night, the darkness before dawn, began its morning journey into daylight. Her eyes refused to close in slumber and she resigned herself to several hours of waiting ’til the sun rose.
Yet, when she next stirred, it was to find broad daylight in her room, the man behind her still holding her firmly against his body, and the unmistakable nudge of his manhood against her bottom. She’d not experienced such a thing before, but her feminine instincts told her exactly what it was, and she felt the danger as a viable threat, her rapid pulse sounding as a warning, vibrating through her body.
A man’s urges are strongest in the early daylight. Her mother had said those words to her. Debra had filed the knowledge away in her mind, certain that such a worry would never be hers to own, that the challenge of a man’s body in her bed would not be an issue in her life.
The rooster crowed and she became aware that it was not for the first time, for she’d no doubt slept through the sound. She’d spent the night with this man touching her, keeping her at his beck and call. She found herself, in the light of dawn, at Tyler’s mercy, and realized the difficulty of ignoring the blatant presence of the man behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MORNING SUN HOVERED just below the horizon in the east as Debra left the porch, the shed her destination. Behind her, the silent shadow she’d acquired last evening followed apace, and she shivered as she felt his mood, aware that he intended she be fearful of him.
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.”
“I mean you no harm, Debra Nightsong. I only need a place to stay for a while. I’ll help you with chores, lend a hand wherever I can, in exchange for a bed and three meals a day. And when I leave, you’ll be no worse for it.”
“Entering my home uninvited makes you unwelcome. I didn’t ask for your company, and I don’t mind telling you that I don’t appreciate your being here.”
His grin was quick. “Sorry, ma’am. But, I’ll be hanging around for a while. I’d thought to pay my way by working. I’d thought you might be some widow lady who needed a man to do some heavy work for her.”
“Well, it must be obvious that I don’t need a man for anything, Tyler, if that’s really your name.”
He thought her cheeks took on a rosy hue at that, and his chuckle appreciated her viewpoint. “It’s my name, sure enough. And for your information, a good man can come in right handy, ma’am. For any number of things.”
“I’ve gotten along without one for a long time. No sense in changing my life now,” she said pointedly. “I like things just the way they are.”
“Living alone? Doing the work of a man? Trying to keep up a farm by yourself?” He knew his voice was impatient, and he modified it a bit. “I’d think having a man around for a few days might be a good thing for you. Give you a chance to order me around and have me handle some chores.”
She looked at him from beneath dark lashes and he felt her mockery as she spoke. “How about weeding the garden then? Or perhaps putting up fence posts for a corral for my horse. I have any number of little jobs to be done.”
She looked surprised at his smile. “I follow orders real good, ma’am. Where are the fence posts and a shovel?”
“I’ve had posts delivered from the sawmill. They’re out behind the shed. The shovel is on the wall, next to the hoe. You’ll need both if you plan on chopping weeds and digging holes.”
“And what do I get in return?” He watched her as her mind worked, the smooth lines of her face giving him no clue as to her thoughts. And yet he thought she might be hiding a smile.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He’d startled her with that, he decided, for she blinked and looked unsettled for a moment.
“No. If you’d wanted to harm me, you would have already.”
And if she only knew how tempted he’d been, last night when the moon had turned its face on her and illuminated the beauty of dark hair and smooth skin. Not to harm her, but to touch her woman’s flesh, to bring her the warmth of his own. His control had been tried when he’d watched her as she slept. When his hands had craved the soft heat of her, his body had ached for the comfort of hers.
And yet, his intent would not have been to cause her pain, although that might have been an end result if he’d touched her slender form. She was no doubt a virgin, and would remain so while he lingered here, he vowed.
He’d never been prone to taking a woman who was not willing—indeed, not eager—to fill his bed. And there had been no lack of takers. Yet none of them had appealed to him in quite the same way as this female, this slim creature whose dark hair and eyes lured him with their mystery, whose slender fingers held the strength to milk a cow or wield a knife, whose home offered him a resting place where he might sort out his future.
And so he again spoke his intent, wanting to reassure her that his presence would bring her no harm. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, Nightsong. I’ll only be here as long as it takes to make my plans. As soon as I’ve decided my next move I’ll be on my way and you’ll be no worse off for having me here.” And if he could tear himself away from the lure of her, from the soft scent of woman she exuded, the vision of beauty she offered to his hungry eye, he’d leave. And never forget the short time he’d spent in her presence.
“You’ll leave me as you found me?” The question seemed to be as much a surprise to her as it was to him, and he refused to reply, only met her gaze in silence, not willing to offer an assurance he could not guarantee.