Carolyn Davidson by The Tender Stranger Page B

beneath her chin was unrelenting, and she lifted her hand to clasp his fingers. “Don’t look atme 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 enoughto 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 smile 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.
    Erin laughed, a welcome sound to Quinn’s ears. “I don’t think