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
