Carolyn Davidson

by The Tender Stranger

  Quinn nodded. “You were running to help out. The sheriff said a young man was dead already and his wife was safe. He didn’t say she was in the family way.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Quinn Yarborough.”

  “Andy Wescott,” the merchant offered, clasping and shaking Quinn’s hand with vigor. “Who’d have thought that poor soul wouldn’t make it through the birthing? She just got plumb wore out. Mrs. Tobin said she took a deep breath and was gone. Didn’t even hold the little tyke.”

  “Where’s the baby? Where’s the doctor?” he repeated. Quinn’s heart was pumping with anticipation as his mind worked rapidly. Maybe, just maybe, if no one else was able to feed the child. maybe Erin could. Even if it was just for a while, till the woman’s family was located and the baby was claimed.

  “Doc’s housekeeper is watchin’ him.” Andy Wescott pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. “Doc might be home for dinner about now. Just take a ride past the saloon and beyond the barbershop. There’s a tall white house off to the left. Got a fancy picket fence across the front of the yard. That’ll be where Doc Fisher lives.”

  Quinn nodded. “I’ll ride by there. If you’ll bundle up what I need, I’ll be back by to pick it up.”

  The storekeeper nodded. “Glad to, Mr. Yarborough.”

  He shook his head, grinning widely. “Who’d have thought it? Yessir! Old Doc’ll be happy to see you.”

  Old Doc had been happy, speaking above the wails of a hungry baby. From the looks of him, the child was healthy and well formed, Quinn observed. The milk from Jeremy Tobin’s cow down at the livery stable just wasn’t agreeing with the boy, Doc said, shaking his head. Finding a wet nurse was a real stroke of luck. Yessir!

  Quinn set off a half hour later, the sun tilting toward the west as he rode out of town. His pack balanced behind him and tied in place, he rode with the wellwrapped bundle tucked inside his heavy coat. Whether the movement of Quinn’s horse or the soft whistling of a tuneless ditty accomplished the deed, the tiny package Quinn carried settled down and slept away the first part of the journey.

  Erin lit the lamp before dark, dreading the moment when the twilight faded to nightfall and the wind moaned through the tall pine trees at the edge of the clearing. Each night since the small grave had come to be, she’d dreaded the sound whispering in her ears, almost as if it were the cries of her child carried on the wind.

  Throughout the day she’d taken the towel to the door, placing it in the snow, then folding it up to hold the chill before she hugged it to her bare breasts. It seemed to help a little, but her flesh was hard and aching, warm to the touch, once the towel was removed.

  She’d added big chunks of wood to the stove twice during the day, then, contrary to Quinn’s instructions, she had put on a pot of stew to cook. She’d decided against making bread, aware of her own limitations, but cutting up an onion and washing potatoes and carrots and setting them aside had not been beyond her strength.

  Outside the door, Quinn had hung a haunch of venison on a pole. She’d wrapped up warmly before she stepped outdoors to cut a good piece from the meat, then ended up chopping at it with her hatchet.

  Quinn would probably have a fit, Erin thought, but for some reason, the cold air was refreshing and she found herself feeling stronger, for all that she’d barely been able to string the venison back up the pole once she was done.

  Her kettle was half-full by the time the meat was tender and the vegetables were done. The smell was tempting, she was pleased to note, and for the first time in three days Erin was anxious for the meal to be ready. She’d only just lifted the lid to stir the stew a final time when she heard a horse, its whinny a welcome sound in the clearing.

  “Quinn!” With a blend of relief and anticipation, Erin faced the door. He might put the horse away first, she thought, then shook her head. No, he’d probably bring in supplies, then take care of his animal.

  She wrapped her arms across her breasts as they. throbbed anew. Maybe the doctor had sent some medicine or salve or something that would help.

  And then, from outside the door, the wail of a baby reached her ears. Hands trembling, she reached for the latch. Heart thumping at an unmerciful rate, she tugged at the heavy door. It opened, ushering in a blast of cold air, accompanied by Quinn Yarborough, his face halfcovered by a woolen scarf, snow frosting his eyebrows and glistening in the lantern glow.

  His arms supported a bundle beneath his coat, and his eyes sought the woman within the snug cabin. With a gloved hand he tugged at the scarf covering his mouth, revealing a grin of immense proportions. Then white teeth bit at the fingertips of the leather glove, and he flung it to the floor.

  “We have us a problem, Erin, my girl!” His grip was cautious, his hands careful as he undid his coat, then lifted the wrapped, wiggling bundle and placed it on the table. One large palm held it in place as he unfolded the blanket, and his eyes were intent on the contents as he swept the outer covering from its place.

  “This is just what the doctor ordered,” he announced, scooping the wide-eyed occupant into his hands. The slate blue eyes blinked in the glow of the lantern, and the tiny mouth opened to let forth another howl. “Did you ever hear such a pair of lungs in your life?” Quinn asked, as proudly as if he had had some share in producing such a miracle.

  “Oh, my! Oh, my!” Erin’s heart fluttered within her breast as her arms reached for the infant. “Where…what. Oh, my!” Her fingers trembled as she touched the rosy cheek.

  “Let me tell you, this is one hungry little boy,” Quinn said with a chuckle. “He’s turned down everything the ladies of Upper Pine Creek had to offer. He doesn’t like the milk from Jeremy Tobin’s cow, kept tossing it back up, barely holding enough down to keep him going. And sugar tits don’t interest him a bit.”

  He looked his fill at the woman before him. “Do you suppose you could take a turn at trying to make the little fella happy, Erin?”

  Her breasts filled again with painful urgency as Erin’s hands finally grasped the bundle, turning it so the downy, dark head snuggled into the bend of her left elbow. She felt Quinn’s hand on her arm as he guided her to the rocking chair, sensed his touch as he lowered her to the seat.

  And then she was lost. Lost in the lusty yells of a hungry babe. Lost in the unfocused gaze of squinted blue eyes that managed to peer into her soul. Lost in the wonder of a mite of humanity that filled her arms, even as it filled the empty space in her heart.

  Her fingers moved rapidly, undoing the buttons that closed her robe, then the gown beneath. From her breasts flowed a steady drip of milk.

  With shaking hands she guided the tiny mouth to her breast. With teeth pressing into her lower lip, she anticipated the feel of those miniature lips surrounding her nipple. And with a joy beyond all belief, she knew the touch of a baby’s tongue, lapping at the abundance of nourishment she offered it.

  He latched on to her flesh, sucked twice and released his hold, choking as the milk rushed down his throat. He coughed, nuzzling her; then, finding the swollen nipple, he sought once more to suckle from it

  It overflowed his mouth and his eyes opened, widening with his efforts as he swallowed the bounty she offered.

  Quinn thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Not just the firm, curving loveliness of a woman’s breast-although that sight more than brought pleasure to his gaze-but the purity of woman and child, bonded in a moment of giving and taking. A moment so keenly felt, so deeply engraved on his sight, he thought he might never recover from the joy of it.

  “He was hungry.” Probably the understatement of the year, he thought, grinning as Erin’s head tilted back, allowing their eyes to mesh in an instant of pleasure.

  “Tell me, Quinn. Where did you find him?” Her words were whispered, soft as moonlight, as if she were so filled with awe, she could scarcely speak aloud.

  “His mama died, Erin. Remember the fire in town, as we were leaving the other day? His daddy didn’t live through the fi
re, and his mama just didn’t make it when he was born.”

  Erin’s eyes filled with tears, as if she grieved for the woman whose child she held. “There was no one to care for him?”

  Quinn shook his head. “He didn’t want what they had to offer. Doc Fisher’s housekeeper was trying to feed him when I got there, and when I told her about you, she just snatched up a couple of blankets and wrapped him like a length of sausage and handed him to me.”

  Erin laughed softly, and then as if the vision he etched pleased her enormously, she giggled, dipping her head to drop a kiss on the wispy dark hair that crowned the baby in her arms.

  “Did he cry all the way here?” Her toe touched the floor, and she rocked in time with the patting of her palm against the blanketed form.

  “No. Slept the first part of the way, in fact. Poor little mite has been barely getting enough nourishment to keep him going, I guess.” He bent to peer at the tightly closed eyes and the cheeks that suctioned milk from Erin’s breast.

  “You’re crying.” His hand reached to brush at tears that trickled down her cheek and he squatted beside the rocker, his gaze focusing on her face. Her teeth were gnawing on her lip and she shook her head, as if to deny his claim.

  “It’s all right, but it hurts, Quinn. I think I’m just so full and the skin is stretched so tight and he’s sucking so hard.” She bit at her lip again, rocking harder, as if the movement would alleviate the pain.

  “What can I do?”

  She looked at him, shaking her head. “I’m fine. Really I am. I think it’ll be better, after the swelling has gone down.”

  “I almost forgot!” Quinn rose quickly, reaching into the pockets of his coat, fishing out a small bottle between his fingers. “Doc sent some camphorated oil. Said it would take out the soreness. But you’ll want to be careful not to get it in the baby’s mouth.”

  She nodded. “I’ll use it after he’s done.” As if in reply to her words, the babe released his hold and Quinn watched as a trickle of milk flowed from the corner of the tiny mouth.

  Blue eyes opened, and a soft release of air from the infant brought laughter into being. “He burped! All by himself.” She lifted the baby, easing her gown into place, holding the child against her shoulder.

  The small mouth pursed, the brow furrowed and the downy head turned from one side to the other, as if he sought the warmth he’d been deprived of.

  “Do you think he’s still hungry?” Quinn asked, reaching to touch the soft, dark hair.

  “Maybe so.” Erin nodded, turning the infant to her other arm, arranging her clothing and nudging the tiny mouth against her breast.

  He was not nearly so greedy now, his hunger pangs numbed by the milk he’d gulped down. But the overflowing supply he was offered was tempting and he began suckling with enthusiasm. His splayed fingers were the size of matchsticks against Erin’s breast and he snuffled and snorted as he nursed.

  Quinn took off his coat, hanging it by the door, and headed for the stove. The baby had taken his attention for several hours. Now his hunger demanded relief, and the scent of food cooking reached his nostrils.

  “Will you eat with me?” he asked, lifting the lid to peer within the kettle. His sigh of appreciation was heartfelt. He settled the lid into place, heading to the washbasin quickly to make ready for supper.

  “Yes.” Her appetite was back, her stomach ready for nourishment, as if she must be fed in order to satisfy the child she held. The child she’d been sent by the Fates that decreed such things.

  “Will there be someone coming up here looking for him?” she asked. “Does he have any family anywhere?”

  Quinn looked up, his hands busy with dishing up the stew into two crockery bowls. “Doc said they were trying to locate family, but most everything got burned up in the fire. I guess they don’t know where to look.”

  Erin’s arms tightened protectively. “I’ll keep him.” Her words were taut with emotion. “He’s not my own, but I can’t help but think that he’s like an answer to my prayers. I wouldn’t have wished for his mama to die, Quinn.” Her gaze was frightened as she looked at him. “You know better than that. It’s just that…he needs me, and God knows I need him.”

  Quinn nodded. “I wouldn’t think that, honey. I know you well enough, even in just the short time I’ve been here. I’d never think that of you, that you’d wish suffering on another. I’d like to think his mama knows somehow that her child is being cared for.” He grinned, a mere lifting of one side of his mouth. “Sound kinda sappy, don’t I?”

  Erin shook her head. And then stiffened as a whinny from outside sounded loudly.

  “I forgot my horse!” Quinn’s movements were hasty as he dumped the stew back into the kettle. He snatched up his coat and pulled his hat on. “I’ll only be a few minutes, honey. I’ll milk after we eat. There’s a whole satchel of stuff Doc’s housekeeper sent for the baby. I’ll bring it in with me.”

  He was gone, the door latching behind him. Erin leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  That such a miracle could come to be was beyond her wildest imaginings. That such a gift as this could be hers was more than she’d ever hoped. That the tiny mite buried beneath the trees across the clearing was still alive in her heart was a certainty, but the welcome weight of a child in her arms was easing the crushing hurt she’d borne.

  For all of that, and for the man who even now was making his way to the shed, and from there back into her presence, she was filled with gratitude. Her mouth whispered the words and her heart echoed the syllables with each measured beat within her breast.

  “Thank you, God. Thank you.”

  “You’re crying again.” Exasperation lined his words as Quinn tilted Erin’s chin up, his mouth set in a straight line. “Didn’t the camphorated oil help?” Male frustration made his voice harsh and he watched as twin trickles made their way down her face, the tears dampening the front of her gown.

  “I’m fine, Quinn, really.” Erin blinked, as if attempting to halt the tears that overflowed, but to no avail. That single fingertip beneath her chin was unrelenting, and she lifted her hand to clasp his fingers. “Don’t look at me like that-like you’d like to shake the stuffing out of me!”

  His grunt of aggravation was softened by her words. “I’ve done everything I can think of, girl. Tell me what’s wrong, so I can fix it.”

  She shook her head, releasing her grip on his hand. “No one can fix what’s already happened. That poor woman in town is dead, Quinn, and this baby will never know his mama.”

  “That poor baby’s been given the best shot any child could ask for, Erin. We don’t have a lot of choices when it comes to life and death. But we can make the best of what comes along, and that’s what you’re doing.” He sat on the edge of the bed, one big hand reaching to curve against the nape of her neck. His fingers slid beneath the heavy fall of hair, seeking the warmth of her skin, relishing the intimacy she allowed.

  They were strangers who had been thrust into the roles generally assumed by husband and wife. Indeed, he’d played a part in her life that most husbands were never allowed, a role he’d taken on with reluctance. Tending her, delivering her child and sharing her grief had been the most intimate of all his experiences with the female sex.

  In only a few short days they’d formed a marriage of sorts, a blending of lives that allowed him an access to her he might have taken months to gain in other circumstances.

  The simple pleasure of touching the nape of her neck, the sensation of silken tresses against the back of his hand, the pulse beating beneath her ear radiating to his fingertips…all blended to form an arousal that had nothing to do with the act of love. For now, it was enough to watch, to touch, to inhale the sweet scent of mother and newborn child.

  He bent to press his lips against her brow and she squeezed his fingers within her own, offering a smile that trembled on her mouth.

  He returned it, his eyes moving from the tenderness of her smi
le to the small bundle she cradled in her arm. “You know, if that woman knew where her baby was right now, she’d be tickled pink, knowing he’s warm and his belly’s full to overflowing.”

  “Maybe she does know,” Erin whispered.

  “You really believe in heaven, don’t you?” he asked, knowing already the answer she would give.

  And then was surprised at her brittle laugh as she glanced at him quickly.

  “Living in hell gives a woman reason to hope for some sort of heaven,” she said quietly. “My mother used to say we make our own heaven or hell, here on earth. She was right.”

  “Maybe someone else made it for you, Erin.” If she spoke of her life with Damian Wentworth, he needed to hear it all, Quinn decided. “Was your marriage so bad?”

  “I had everything a woman could want,” she told him. “Beautiful gowns, jewelry, a lovely home. everything but.”

  “But what?”

  She shook her head, as if dismissing old memories, and her hand moved against the baby she held. “I can only tell you that I’m happier here, with all that’s happened to me, than I was in New York City.”

  He’d pushed her enough, Quinn decided, and he rose from the bed, strangely unsettled by the words she spoke.

  “We need to decide where to put the baby to sleep,” he said decisively, hoping to rouse her from the memories he’d brought to her mind.

  “I thought I’d put him at the back of the bed, for now, anyway.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see if there’s enough loose wood in the shed to put together a bed of sorts for him tomorrow.”

  She brightened. “Yes, and I’ll need that big pan the grain is kept in,” Erin told him. “And a rope to string across behind the stove to hang wet things on.”

  “Is he wet again?” Diapers had become important items in the past few hours, and it seemed the care of a baby involved a tremendous amount of wrapping and unwrapping, pinning and unpinning.