The Tender Stranger
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Carolyn Davidson
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Chapter One
October, 1875
Pine Creek, Colorado
They’d told him she was easy on the eyes, and that her hair was darker than midnight.
Quinn Yarborough peered through the spyglass at the woman so aptly described. A grunt of aggravation marred the silence and he shifted, seeking a more comfortable spot. The rock beneath him was ungiving, and he settled for edging closer to the rim of the flat, overhanging cliff.
She was all they’d said, at least from the rear view. Her hair hung free, a black curtain, reflecting and yet somehow absorbing the tantalizing light that comes just before dark shrouds the land. Erin, for that was her name, he reminded himself, was slim but rounded, her hips womanly.
And then she disappeared behind the barn door, and he settled down to wait. It wasn’t a barn, actually, more of a shed. Probably didn’t have more than two or three stalls, from what he could tell.
Quinn tilted his hat to shade his eyes and focused his vision, then waited. He’d been on her trail for almost three months, from New York City to St. Louis and westward. She’d been smart, changing conveyances often, hiding behind other names. But not smart enough to thwart his prying and prodding. Buying this cabin, having her legal name put on the deed, had been a grave error in judgment.
Erin Wentworth, widow of Damian. Wanted by her former father-in-law, wanted enough to warrant the hiring of Quinn Yarborough, obtaining exclusive rights to his time in order to find her. Time he should, by all rights, be spending running the profitable agency he owned in New York City.
In years past, Quinn Yarborough had been known to haul men back from their hiding places when others had long since given up the search. But those were the early years. Now he had men working for him, highly trained, ruthless in their diligence, and usually successful at their job.
That this case was unusual went without saying. He’d long since given up the personal touch, sending others out in his stead. The price of success involved sitting behind a desk these days, he’d found.
Until now.
He didn’t think he’d have much problem nailing one small woman. And with that thought in mind, he watched as the shed door slid open.
They’d told him she was just a bit of a thing, a slender woman, innocent appearing. They hadn’t been specific about their reasons, only that it was imperative she be found.
And once she was found, he was faced with the task of persuading her to return to New York City with him. Since he considered this job to be along the lines of fulfilling an obligation, he was prepared to be most persuasive.
A chicken squawked loudly, the sound carrying to where he lay, and he chuckled as it half flew, half scrambled from the shed. The woman burst through the door in its wake, bent over, arms outstretched, as if to catch a stray leg or wing.
With a yelp of anger, Erin Wentworth stood erect, one arm bent, the hand resting on her hip. Through the spyglass Quinn watched her lips move, and he grinned, the curse all too apparent to his knowledgeable gaze.
He set the glass aside and blinked, then put it to his eye once more. Focusing again on the feminine figure, he growled his own oath. They’d managed to give him all the facts he’d needed to seek out and find this runaway female. All but one.
They hadn’t told him she was pregnant.
Erin clutched at her side, the hitch catching her unaware. Chasing the stupid chicken away from the door, then across the width of the shed, had been a mistake. The crafty hen loved a challenge, and these days most anything, even a squawking chicken, was swifter moving than Erin’s pregnant self.
“Stay out here and go hungry, for all I care,” she muttered, watching the truant hen, who had stopped to peck at a stray bug. “I’ve got better things to do than play nursemaid to a dumb chicken.”
She turned back to the shed, reaching inside to pick up the milk pail, frothing with warm milk. She peeked inside the dim structure before she slid the door closed, then nodded with satisfaction. Her saddle horse, packhorse and the small Jersey cow she’d hauled up the mountain at the end of a leading rope were nosing their allotment of hay. Across the shed, five laying hens, clucking softly to themselves, pecked lazily at the handful of feed she’d spread before them.
By the time she took care of the milk, it would be just about dark, and supper was almost done in the oven. Her stomach growled in response to that thought, and she grinned, rubbing her side reflectively.
“If nothing else, I’m feeding you well, baby of mine. With fresh milk and eggs every day, you should be growing like a bad weed.” Before long the child within her would respond to her words. The thought was cheering.
She carefully made her way across the grassy clearing toward the cabin. Along with the small meadow she used for pasture, it was the only level spot on this side of the mountain. The rough cabin held almost everything she needed to get her through the coming winter. One more trip down to Pine Creek and she’d have supplies enough to last till spring.
The chicken clucked as she passed it by, cocking its head to one side to keep her in view, and Erin laughed aloud. “You’ll be ready to scoot inside by morning, I’ll warrant,” she said to the frisky hen. “If you don’t freeze overnight.”
And that might not be a bad idea. She’d have chicken for dinner three days in a row should that happen.
She climbed the two steps to the shallow porch and opened the door, inhaling the scent of baking cornbread. Carrying the milk pail to the farthest corner from the stove, she covered it with a clean cloth and headed back to latch the door for the night.
From the shed a whinny pierced the air. An answering call resounded from beyond the clearing, and Erin held the door in place, only a crack allowing her to peer outside.
“Hello, the house!”
It was a deeply masculine voice, rough and forceful, and she drew in a quick breath, sensing danger there in the twilight. Beneath the trees edging her property she could barely make out the horseman, silent now, mounted upon a horse so dark it almost blended into the dusk.
“May I come closer?” the man called.
Erin’s heart was pounding at a rapid pace, and she felt a moment’s dizziness as she leaned against the barely opened door. Then with a deep breath she forced strength into her words.
“What do you want? I have a gun.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t, ma’am.” The horse stepped from the trees and walked toward the cabin, the man a shadowed figure, hat drawn down, shoulders wide, seemingly at one with the animal he rode.
Erin reached for the shotgun she kept in the corner, then pushed the door open a bit farther.
He’d almost reached the porch, and she shivered at the unknown danger he represented. It might be more sensible to shoot first and ask questions later, she supposed. Still, if he were set on harming her, he probably wouldn’t have ridden up so openly. Besides, it would be a mess she’d rather not clean up if she didn’t have to.
“Ma’am? I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?” His rough tones were more like a west wind in the pines, not rasping as she’d first thought. It was as if he hadn’t spoken in a long while and his words had grown rusty in the meantime.
“Stay where you are, stranger,” she said forcefully, the gun barrel in full view. “Speak your piece.”
“I need a place to harbor for the night. It’s settin’ to storm out there and my horse is averse to getting wet. Can I use your shed for shelter?”
Erin squinted in the twilight, unable to see his features. “Take off your hat, mister.”
He obeyed, his fingers long against the wide brim. The other hand rose to sweep through his hair, combing it back with a casual movement.
Her gaze swept over him, the long length of his body apparent even astride the big horse. He was deeply tanned from what she could tell, dark hair hanging to his collar, a somber look about his features. A long gun in a scabbard alongside his saddle was the only visible weapon, though she doubted if it was the only one he carried.
“Get down, mister. I’ll leave a plate of cornbread on the porch for you. You can stay the night, but I don’t have an empty stall. Your horse will have to be tied to the wall.”
He nodded. “Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll appreciate the meal. It’s been a long time since noon.”
“You come up the mountain from Pine Creek?” she asked, suspicion rife in her tone.
He shook his head. “No, across from Big Bertha on the other side.”
The mine was about played out, but there were still men working it. Maybe he’d been let go, like so many others, once the mother lode had ceased to produce in any measure. The clerk in the store at Pine Creek had filled her in on the surrounding territory when she arrived, and Erin had listened avidly. It paid to know her surroundings.
“All right, you can stay the night,” she repeated abruptly, closing the door as he turned toward the shed.
Drawing the pan of cornbread from the oven, she cut a large square, centering it on a thick plate, one of the two that had come with the cabin. A dollop of butter at the edge of the plate, along with a knife and fork, completed her offering. She opened the door slowly and bent to place the food at the edge of the porch, once ascertaining he was not in view.
“On second thought.” she said after a moment, turning back to the stove. Her common courtesy demanded more, and she filled a mug with steaming coffee from the pot resting on the back burner.
As she opened the door again, the visitor looked up from the edge of the porch, his hand reaching for the plate. His eyes were dark, narrowing as the light from inside illuminated his face.
“Ma’am? Something wrong?” he asked. And then his mouth twisted into a one-sided smile as he spotted the cup she held.
She stepped warily from the doorway, holding the coffee in his direction, and he took it from her, his fingers careful not to infringe on her grip.
“Thank you. It’s most appreciated.” His eyes widened a bit as he scanned her form, then hesitated as his gaze came to rest on her swollen belly.
“You all right, up here by yourself?” he asked quietly.
“What makes you think I’m alone?” she asked, backing into the cabin. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks felt flushed, and she leaned against the doorjamb.
“Dunno. Guess I took it for granted. Didn’t see a man around. Not much room in there to hide anybody, is there?” His smile was wider, but his look was unchanging, dark and piercing.
“I do all right, mister. Just go eat your meal.” She closed the door and leaned against it, her head back. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for, this stranger at her doorstep.
She’d hoped for solitude here, prayed for safety and expected to be ignored. No one back east knew where she was. Even the man at the store thought she was a widow lady named Mrs. Peterson. That he also probably thought she was a bit eccentric, maybe even unbalanced, living alone on the side of a mountain all winter, could not be avoided.
Her cornbread tasted flat, the coffee strong, and the milk she drank was too warm to be refreshing.
“You ruined my supper, mister,” she muttered, turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp before she readied herself for bed. Her flannel gown was big, bought large enough to accommodate her increasing bulk, and she wrapped it around herself as she curled in the middle of the bed.
The window allowed moonlight to cast its glow against the floor, and she watched as shadows flitted across the glass panes. An owl, from the size of it, then another night bird. Leaves from the hardwoods at the edge of the clearing would be on the ground by morning, what with the wind blowing up a storm.
Her eyes closed and she opened them with effort, hearing a horse call from the shed. Maybe the chicken would cluck outside the door and he’d let her in. Probably wasn’t cold enough to freeze the creature, anyway.
The morning dawned with a red glow, the sun behind hazy clouds, barely peeking through. It hadn’t rained much, but there was a storm still brewing out there.
Erin dressed quickly before she turned to the stove, shaking down the ashes and stoking the fire with three chunks of wood. She set six thick slices of bacon in her skillet and placed it on the back burner, the coffeepot, freshly filled with water and ground coffee, at the front.
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.”
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.
And if she knew anything about it, they were probably scouring the country for her, even now.
Men! It would be forever before she was ready to allow another one to run her life. The memory of harsh hands and cruel words was too fresh to be forgotten, and she had determined to put the past behind her and form a new life for herself and her child.
The sight of Quinn Yarborough’s long legs jumping over the worst of the low spots in the yard brought her to herself, and Erin opened the door for him. He paused at her side on the porch, glaring at her damp cheeks, where an occasional raindrop had blown beneath her shelter.
“I told you to go inside.” He stripped off the soaking wet shirt he wore and shed his boots, picking them up to carry them within. Then he waited for her to step through the doorway ahead of him.
“So you did. I don’t take orders well.”
His look was shot with wry humor. “I noticed.” He moved to the stove, pulling a length of twine from his pocket. A line from one wall to the other was quickly strung and he laid his shirt over it. His boots stood in front of the oven door, and he looked at Erin with the first trace of uncertainty she’d seen on his face.
“I want to strip off my pants to dry. Do you mind?”
She shook her head and walked to the window, giving him the privacy he’d asked for. She’d lit the kerosene lamp earlier, and now its glow permeated corners of the small room.
It wasn’t until she’d gazed for several moments out into the rain that she realized the window was acting much like a mirror, and his every move was apparent to her view.
Quinn was stripping her quilt from the bed to wrap around himself, and she caught a glimpse of his tall frame and an abundance of pale flesh as he did so.
Her cheeks flaming, she closed her eyes, bending her head forward to rest against the glass pane. “Oh, dear!” The whisper was soft but fervent, barely discernible.
“Mrs. Peterson? Erin? Are you all right?” His murmur was low, the warmth of his big body directly behind her, and she drew in a deep breath.
How had she gotten into this mess?
