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
