Authors: Morgan's Woman
She tugged off her left boot, raised her skirt, and rolled down one black stocking.
Damned if she didn’t have a fine-looking ankle. Her bare foot was narrow, high-arched, and very clean. He’d always liked his women clean. “Hurry up,” he said brusquely, “before I come out and throw you in.”
She removed her second boot, quickly shedding the other stocking and then her vest. She undid the top two buttons on her bodice, but before his imagination got too randy, she held her nose and jumped in.
She shrieked as the cold water closed over her. The current knocked her off balance, and she fell on her bottom. But before the force of the water could wash her onto the rocks, he caught her around the waist.
Tamsin clasped his neck, and before he realized what was happening, her mouth was on his. Instantly, incandescent desire leaped between them, drawing him deeper into a fevered kiss of searing heat.
His heart thundered as her lips parted to receive the thrust of his tongue. He felt her tremble in his arms, and his craving for her came flooding back.
She urged him on with tiny whimpers of pleasure as he
molded his body to hers, crushing her against him. Then he tore his lips from hers and began to kiss her neck and the soft rise of her bosom.
“We can’t,” she murmured. “Not like this.”
He groaned in disappointment but made no effort to stop her as she broke from his arms and sank into the water. Seconds later, she scrambled up. The dazed expression was gone, replaced with laughter.
“Let’s get out of here before we drown each other.”
Swearing under his breath, he climbed the bank and helped her up, trying not to think how perfectly Tamsin’s hand fit his. Her fingers were long and graceful. He wondered how it would feel to have them stroking him … touching him.
Awkward silence hung between them for a heartbeat; then she laughed again. “I hope you’ve got dry clothes,” she said matter-of-factly. “If not, you’re going to catch your death.”
“I do.” His mouth still tingled from the touch of her lips. His arms remembered how she felt.
This is Cannon’s woman, he reminded himself. You’re playing with fire.
“What have we started?” she asked, almost as if she could read what was going on in his head. Then she shook her head. “I’ve never kissed a man like that. Never knew …”
She’s lying, he thought. She has to be lying. But the words slipped out. “Me, either.”
“I hope not,” she teased. “You don’t seem the type to kiss a man at all.”
“Hardly.” He drew in a deep breath. “What are we going to do about it?” To hell with Jack Cannon. Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe the outlaw was nothing to her, but that didn’t matter now. What was real was the ache in his gut and the need to hold her again.
“Under the circumstances? Nothing.” Her eyes held him. “Unless …” She sighed. “I’m a respectable woman, Ash. I’ve never been with a man, other than my husband.… not in the biblical sense. And I’m too old to learn new tricks.”
“I’m not.” He stripped off his wet shirt and fumbled with his belt. “And I don’t think
tricks
was the word you were looking for.”
“Where are your manners?” She turned her back. “I’ve dry clothing in my bags. Do I have your permission to fetch them?”
He peeled off his soaking pants and stood bare in the sunshine. The radiating warmth felt like a taste of heaven. “Why didn’t you go for my rifle and shoot me while I was in the creek?”
She kept facing away from him, but he saw her muscles tense. “I’m not a murderer.”
“So you keep telling me.” So they all said. He’d never known a killer to admit his crime.
Tamsin didn’t fit his image of a back shooter. Maybe she was innocent, but it wasn’t his place to make that decision. Once a man started figuring the guilt of another, he’d lose all respect for the law. “Put your dry things on,” he ordered. “I’ll not look at you.”
“All right.” Then she laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Your gun belt is on the far side of the creek. You’ve got to go back in that freezing water to fetch it.”
“Auugh.” He shuddered at the thought. Damned if he wouldn’t throw a bridle on Shiloh and ride across. One bath like that was enough for a day.
By the time Tamsin had retrieved her change of clothing, dressed, and tamed her hair, Ash had sliced venison into small strips to bake on a rock beside the fire. She approached him hesitantly, unsure of what to say.
Things had gotten out of control. His kiss had left her both excited and confused. She’d behaved shamelessly, and now all she could think of was having his arms around her again.
She stopped a few feet away and waited for him to speak first. When the silence grew between them, she searched frantically for something to ease the growing tension.
“Are you a marrying man, Mr. Morgan?”
His eyes registered amusement. “Is that another proposal?”
She uttered a sound of derision. “Hardly. I was but making polite conversation.”
“I think we’re beyond that, Tamsin MacGreggor.”
“Do you?” She sat on a rock, rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you a devout bachelor?”
He squatted and pushed hot coals around the base of the coffeepot. “I don’t discuss my personal life with my prisoners.”
“Is that what I am? Simply another prisoner?”
“You think a kiss changes things?”
“You know that was more than a kiss.”
“You’re damned outspoken for a woman.” He tugged his hat brim lower over his eyes.
She noticed that his blue shirt and doeskin trousers were clean and less wrinkled than her own clothing. Ash had taken the trouble to shave and comb his hair. Damp and shining black, he’d tied it neatly back with a beaded strip of leather.
A bead of blood showed along the left jawline. Tamsin thought he must have nicked himself while shaving, and it was all she could do to keep from touching the graze.
“We’ve a truce for today, remember,” she murmured,
wondering why a man of such obvious character had become a bounty hunter.
Ash moistened his lips. “So we have.”
“Then I believe you should show courtesy by answering my—”
“I’m a widower,” he answered abruptly. The coffeepot tilted to one side, and Ash grabbed the metal handle to keep it from spilling. “Damn!” Snatching his burned finger back, he popped it into his mouth. “See what you made me do?”
Tamsin chuckled. “Look, Lord, see what the woman
you gave me
has done. She made me eat that forbidden apple.” A smile lit her eyes. “I’ve heard that one enough. Why are men never willing to take the blame for their own mistakes?”
“You’re one of those, are you? A man hater.”
“Me?” She chuckled again. “Not at all. I grew up around men. My grandparents raised me, and my grandmother lived in a world of her own. Actually, I’ve always preferred men to other women. Women never say what they think.”
“And you do?”
“Usually.” She pointed to the venison. “Mind that. It’s cut thin. It will overcook if you don’t—”
“You’re bossy, too.”
“That’s true. Although people rarely accept my good suggestions. Do you have children?”
“None that I’ve ever heard of.”
“How did you lose your wife?”
“Didn’t lose her. She was murdered.”
“How terrible for you,” Tamsin said. “I’m sorry I—”
“No reason for you to be sorry. You didn’t cause her death.” His eyes clouded. “Like as not, you’ve seen your own share of trouble.”
“Atwood?” She shook her head. “I never shed a tear over his grave.”
Ash stood and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “You must have cared for him once. Why did you marry him?”
She glanced away. That was a question she’d asked herself a thousand times. She guessed she’d done it because her granddad wanted her to.… Because she was a poor judge of men’s character.
“Stupid, I guess,” she said to Ash. “Very young and very stupid.”
“If that was a crime, I’d have more work than I could handle.”
She tilted her head. “Did you love her … your wife?”
He didn’t answer with words, but she needed none. Ash’s craggy features grew taut, and his eyes narrowed. “You ask too many questions.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
He drew in a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“No,” she countered. “Not long enough.”
His Adam’s apple flexed. His shirt lay open at the throat. His skin was sun-bronzed and tinted with gold.
Tamsin knew it must be a sin to envy a dead woman. “She must have been special.”
“She was.” The affirmation came so softly that she nearly missed it. “She was to me.”
“Did she die while you were away at war?”
“You worry a man like a dog with a bone. Let it lie.”
She nodded. “I’ve a tear in my skirt. Is it all right if I fetch thread and needle and stitch it after breakfast?”
He poured her a steaming cup of coffee. “Do as you like so long as you stay away from the horses and my guns.”
She set the tin mug on the rock to cool and accepted a portion of the deer meat. It was tough and chewy, but she was hungry. “You’ve a loose button on your shirt,” she
said when she’d eaten two pieces of the venison. “I could mend that, too, if you like,” she offered.
“I can sew it myself. No need in you doing me favors.” His voice hardened. “We’re heading back tomorrow, Tamsin. You can’t sweet-talk me out of that.”
“I don’t trust that Sheriff Walker. For all I know, he and Sam Steele were part of the plot to steal my horses. They’re worth a great deal of money, you know. Fancy’s bloodline goes back directly to the Godolphin Arabian, and Dancer is descended from both the Byerley Turk and Bulle Rock.”
“They’re fast enough on flat ground, I imagine,” Ash replied, ignoring her comments about the sheriff and the dead rancher. “But with those long legs, your horses aren’t bred for these mountains. I’d rather have a tougher mount, smaller, stockier, deep chested, something with mustang blood. You take your average mustang. They’d look like coyote sh—”
Ash flushed slightly and continued. “I mean to say they look like coyote dung next to your high-priced animals, but they can live on scrub and weeds, and they’ve got staying power. They’re tireless. Give them a little decent feed and the proper training, and I’d put a western pony up against any fancy horse in the country for covering ground or working cattle. Hell’s fire, woman. Your thoroughbreds have style, but they’ll get those long legs tangled around a steer and end up under him.”
“I’m taking them to San Francisco. With all the gold men have found in California, there’ll be a market for racehorses,” she said.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe you will get clear of this trouble and find your way over the Rockies and across the desert, through Indian country, past the desperadoes and the desperate would-be miners with gold
fever. I hope you do. But I doubt it. Even if you’re found innocent and released, I wouldn’t give you the chance of a rabbit in a bunkhouse of ever seeing the Pacific.”
“You’re not the first one to tell me that,” she answered softly, “and you won’t be the last to be proved wrong.”
The day passed quickly for Tamsin. Under Ash’s stern supervision, she examined the horses’ hooves and led Shiloh into the creek so that the running water would ease the swelling.
“He’s a fine animal,” she said after she’d anointed the scrape on the gelding’s leg with a healing salve. Ash’s fingers brushed hers as she passed the animal’s lead line to him, and she felt a tingling sensation up and down her arm.
She pulled away quickly, but Ash seemed not to notice. He hobbled Shiloh and turned him out to graze with the other two horses. Ash’s hands were gentle as he handled the animal, and again, Tamsin observed how gracefully he moved for a big man.
“You’re good with horses,” she said. It had been her experience that a man showed his character when he dealt with animals.
Ash’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. It seemed to her as though he’d been staring at her since they’d kissed in the creek. She didn’t know whether the uneasiness she felt was fear or attraction.
Forcing a smile, she tried to ease the tension by making ordinary conversation. “How did you pick that name for your horse? Were you at the Battle of Shiloh?”
“Nope. I’ve never been east of the Mississippi.” Ash
plucked a few leaves from a clump of wildflowers and ate them. “Try it,” he said. “It’s yellow monkeyflower.”
Tamsin tasted the leaves and grimaced. “Sour.”
“Just takes getting used to, like a lot of things in this country. Eating just meat or fish will sicken you if you stay in the mountains long enough. Think of this as lettuce.”
“Maybe it would be better with oil and vinegar,” she suggested, but forced herself to chew and swallow a little more of the odd vegetation.
Ash folded his arms over his chest and rested his back against a tree. “I bought the horse from a Pennsylvanian heading to Arizona. He told me the gelding’s name was Shiloh.”
“But you did fight in the War between the States?”
He nodded. “It’s easy to see you’re from back east. Folks out here in the west prefer to forget what’s happened in the past. They look on too much curiosity as prying into what’s private.”
Tamsin settled onto a mossy outcrop and curled her legs under her skirt. “You fought with the Union,” she persisted, ignoring his broad hint.
His eyes were as dark and glittering as an Indian’s. Looking into them, she could read a will as strong as her own … and something more … bone-deep sorrow.
“Colorado volunteers,” he answered. “I wasn’t in too long, but what I saw was hot enough. We went head to head with Sibley’s Texans at a place called Glorieta Pass.”
“In Colorado?”
“New Mexico.”
She stroked the soft green moss with her fingertips and waited. For minutes there was no sound but grazing horses, the gurgle of rushing water, and the melodious whistle of a wren echoing down the canyon.
“I was wounded at Glorieta,” Ash said huskily. He slid
a lean hand down his upper leg and massaged a spot midway between knee and hip. “The ball missed bone, but it bled like hell. It got infected, and I spent nearly a year recovering.”