Nightsong

Holly Hill, The Dakota Territory June 1888Stealing a horse was guaranteed to give a man sleepless nights. And Ethan Tyler was no exception. Only the fact that the poor nag should have long since been put out to pasture aided his insomnia, but the fact that he'd taken another man's animal weighed heavily on his mind. He was tired of running--it was time to call a halt and make decisions. Even as he rode the trail from Holly Hill to the small farm he sought, he thought of the man who was even now missing his nag and his conscience bothered him with the theft he'd committed. Sending the horse back to town would be a problem, but one he'd figure out one way or another. With that settled, Tyler looked ahead toward the farmhouse he'd been told was just three miles from town, at the end of a long lane, shaded by tall trees. A woman lived there, alone and unprotected. A woman whose parentage was in question, some saying she had a native mother, an unknown father and was probably no better than she should be. Others said she was to be respected, a woman alone, no matter her heritage. Whichever she was, Tyler knew he could prevail upon her to hide him, for how long he didn't know, but at least he would convince her that he needed a hiding place for a while, and his skills at working around a farm would pay her well for her help. He rode as quickly as the nag he'd borrowed would allow, hoping against hope that his arrival would preface hers by at least an hour. He needed time to put his horse behind the barn, should there be one, break in to her house and then lie in wait for her to arrive. His senses told him he was being followed and it was time to go to ground. He would be gentle with her, for she was no doubt a crone, a woman of years who kept to herself and lived quietly. A grandmotherly sort, he imagined, a woman set in her ways, but perhaps thankful for a helping hand for a short while. Not a woman who would tempt him to abandon his celibate lifestyle for want of her charms. He rode down the narrow lane toward her holdings, admiring the clean lines of her buildings, the neatly kept yard and the buildings surrounding it. There was a shed, less than a barn, but a sturdy structure, and a smoke house, side by side with another small structure, probably a milk house or corncrib. The house was a typical farmhouse, with a wide porch and windows that looked out upon the backyard. Ridiculously simple to break in to, he thought, sliding a kitchen window upward without much nudging. He climbed within, relishing the scent of the bread she must have baked this morning. Before she went to town and left herself open to a scalawag such as he, a man who climbed through her window and into her house, awaiting her return. The sun had set, painting the sky with soft colors, promising fair weather for tomorrow, and he waited, his patience long, his stomach well tended by the loaf of bread he found on the kitchen cabinet. Old or not, the woman could bake bread, he thought, and then tensed as he heard the sound of a horse, the soft whicker that sounded from the yard. He rose and stood by the window. The woman rode astride, defying the rules society back east had set down for a female on a horse. No saddle darkened the back of the golden mare she rode, only the flowing skirt that hung halfway down her legs, catching the breeze as she rode. Double saddlebags lay across the animal's rump, apparently balanced there, for they did not depend on a saddle to hold them in place. As Tyler watched from the window in her house, she brought the horse to a halt there in the first light of the moon, never touching her reins. Only the pressure of her knees against the animal's sides caused the mare to slow her rapid pace and then stand, head lowered, next to the watering trough. In a smooth motion, the rider slid to the ground, exposing a slender thigh as her dress pulled up, then she apprDavidson, Carolyn is the author of 'Nightsong ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373772858 and ISBN 0373772858.