Authors: Morgan's Woman
The first twenty-four hours after she’d fled Sweetwater, she’d done little more than ride. On the second day, she’d had to slow down and allow the horses to graze. Without grain or hay, she had to give them time to forage.
She’d expected to be chased by a posse, but she’d seen no one. She’d ridden across flatlands and through foothills, forest and rocky slopes. She had a compass and a map, but even with those, it was easy to become confused and go in a circle. For the last two days, she’d been following a rocky creek upstream toward what she supposed must be the Great Divide, the high place where water ran either east or west toward the Pacific Ocean.
Her plan was simple. She intended to travel through the mountain passes to Fort Bridger and then join a group going on to California. She didn’t have enough money to pay her way, but she could work. Few men knew as much about horses as she did. She could treat their illnesses and injuries and even trim their hooves and shoe them if she had the right farrier tools and a proper forge.
Tamsin’s stomach protested. She was hungry, and she’d been hungry when she’d gone to sleep the night before. Unfortunately, there was little left in her saddlebags to eat.
She hadn’t planned on heading into the wilderness without restocking her supplies. She’d had enough food for the first days, and when that was nearly gone, she’d traded a packet of needles to an Indian woman for a hot meal, a container of dried berries and meat, and a birch-bark box of honeycomb. The old lady spoke no English, and Tamsin didn’t understand a word she said in her own language. But they hadn’t needed a translator to exchange goods.
Before she’d left Tennessee, Tamsin had purchased a
goodly supply of needles, good silk thread, and four pairs of German embroidery scissors. She’d expected to trade with people on her western journey, and the sewing things were light and indispensable.
Tamsin had eaten the last of the honeycomb at noon yesterday. Since she’d run from Steele’s ranch, she’d been afraid to make a fire. The weather had cooperated by being unseasonably warm for April, but she would need a fire this morning. She intended to have grilled trout for breakfast.
Breaking off a willow branch, she stripped away the twigs and leaves and tied her fishing line to the pole as she walked through the trees to the stream. Her grandfather had taught her to fish in the Cumberland, and that river made these Colorado rivers looks like puny creeks.
Tamsin quickly found a few grubs under a rock and cast her line into an eddy. An instant later, she had her first bite, and within half an hour, she had three speckled trout. On the way back to her camp, she gathered a few ferns that looked like some that had grown near the Cumberland. Her grandmother had served those with oil and vinegar. Tamsin didn’t have either, but the ferns weren’t bad, if a bit chewy.
Both horses watched curiously as she lit a small fire, cooked her fish, and ate them. Then she threw dirt over the coals and stamped on them. Tamsin was just about to mount Fancy when she noticed a column of white smoke in the sky to the west.
She doubted that the smoke could be from the men she supposed were chasing her. A more likely answer would be other travelers or Indians. Since her food supply—other than a pound of tea leaves—was nonexistent, she decided to investigate.
The smoke was farther away than Tamsin had thought. She rode through the morning and into the heat of the
afternoon sun. She traversed woods and meadows, gullies and ridges, crossing and recrossing the same creek where she’d caught the fish.
Tamsin was tired, sore, and thirsty by the time she dismounted and tied Fancy to a tree. Late afternoon shadows cast dark smudges across the landscape, and the air had an odd, almost sulfuric, odor. Leaving the animals behind, she crept cautiously closer. Curiously, there was no longer one spiral of smoke, but many, some thicker than others.
If she was sneaking up on an Indian camp, it had to be an entire tribe.
Tamsin grimaced. Doubtless, her curiosity would be her undoing. It had often gotten her into trouble, as her departed husband—God rest his withered soul—had repeatedly scolded.
She was just like her granddad, she thought. Once she started to question something, she just had to follow through until she’d solved the puzzle.
Ahead, through the foliage, she could see a clearing, but still no sign of people. Birds were flitting overhead and singing, giving no sign of alarm. Tamsin moved from tree to tree. She stepped carefully, waiting and listening over and over again before advancing.
Finally, she parted a clump of bushes and stared in amazement. What she had seen wasn’t smoke at all. It was steam, bubbling up from mineral springs. Across the small green valley, pools and streams shimmered and splashed. Laughing, Tamsin stood up, intending to go closer when suddenly, not ten yards ahead of her, a naked man rose from the water. His back was to Tamsin, allowing her a clear view of hard, bare thighs, tight buttocks, and broad, powerful shoulders.
As she watched, he wiped the water from his face, shook his head—sending a mane of black hair flying, and
dove under again. Her heart thudded against her chest. Had she seen what she’d thought she’d seen? Or had the sun gotten to her and made her imagine a native swimming in the altogether?
Tamsin held her breath as he surfaced again, splashing and sputtering. This time, he looked in her direction, but she didn’t move, and the curtain of leaves hid her presence completely.
Lord save us. It was the bounty hunter she’d seen on the street back in Sweetwater. What was his name? Morgan? And what was he doing here? Had they put him on her trail?
She shivered.
He’d looked tall on horseback, but he was bigger on foot. She guessed he topped her by half a foot, and she was as tall as most men.
Morgan was big, but he didn’t carry an ounce of extra weight. His arms were corded with sinew; his scarred chest bulged with muscle. She put his age as near to thirty, perhaps a little younger, perhaps older. And he was ruggedly attractive. She wouldn’t call him handsome. His chiseled features were too fierce and masculine for that, and his mouth was all too … She shook her head, unable to describe those sensual lips in her mind. The only word she could think of was
dangerous
.
Her cheeks grew warm, but she could not tear her eyes away. Curiosity, she told herself, simple scientific scrutiny. Any reasonable woman would look. If he hadn’t wished to be stared at by any passersby, surely he would have kept himself decently dressed.
Tamsin moistened her dry lips. The only naked man she’d ever seen had been Atwood, and Morgan put him to shame. Compared to this thoroughbred, her husband had been a knock-kneed, swaybacked plow horse.
When he dove under the water again, she backed quietly
away. Morgan’s presence here meant nothing good for her, but she was still hungry. She couldn’t help wondering if he had food in his saddlebags. Her fish had been delicious, but she’d gone without dinner and soon it would be suppertime.
She backtracked several hundred yards, then worked her way up to the clearing again, this time far to the right of where she’d seen Morgan. Her hunch was rewarded when she saw a strawberry roan gelding hobbled and grazing beside a saddle, a bedroll, and a pile of neatly folded clothing. To reach them, she had to cross an open, grassy spot, but the steam from the hot springs would hide her progress.
She hoped that the bounty hunter would continue his bath. If he decided to return to camp suddenly, she’d be at his mercy.
With a sigh, she decided that the risk was worth taking. She dashed out of hiding and ran to where he’d left his garments. Boots, a broad-brimmed slouch hat, and a coat lay on the grass beyond the saddle.
Quickly she knelt beside the saddlebags and untied the strings. Out tumbled a cloth bag containing biscuits and cheese. She snatched up the food, left a packet of needles in trade, and fled back into the woods. Then, using her compass, she hurried back to where she’d left the horses.
Swinging up into the saddle, she kicked Fancy into a hard trot. She hadn’t cheated the stranger, but it wouldn’t do to let him come upon her unawares. The best thing to do was to put distance between them.
She ate half of the bread and cheese and rode for the better part of an hour before stopping to drink from a stream. This time, she mounted Dancer. Riding the stallion was always a risky endeavor. No one had ever been able to stay on him except her. Atwood had been thrown
so many times that he’d threatened to shoot the animal. If Dancer hadn’t been so valuable as a stud, her grandfather would never have kept him on the farm.
Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly ornery, Dancer bucked her off as well. This time he rolled his eyes and tossed his head, but after a little side prancing and theatrics, he allowed her to guide him farther into the heavily wooded foothills.
One minute it was dusk, and the next, it seemed full dark. Tamsin reined in the stallion and slid down. She could barely see to unsaddle her animals and take her blanket and coat from the bags.
Far off, she could hear the cry of coyotes or wolves, and she supposed that a campfire would keep them at a distance. But Morgan might have tried to follow her, and she didn’t want to take the chance of showing him where she was camped. Instead, she said a prayer, wrapped herself in her blanket, and stretched out on a mossy bank beside the creek.
Frogs croaked and small things rustled in the bushes. An owl hooted and another answered. Stars blinked on, so close that Tamsin thought she could reach up and grab one. Tennessee had been beautiful, but Colorado was glorious. She swallowed, touched by the magnificence of velvet sky and primeval forest.
Hours passed. She lay awake, tired but unable to sleep. So much had happened in the past year that it seemed unreal. Lying here alone, she could sort out the good and the bad and make plans for the future.
Marrying Atwood MacGreggor had been the worst decision of her life. She’d been uneasy about him from the first, but her grandfather had been so sure that the man was the answer to all their prayers.
Granddad’s health had been failing steadily, and she’d watched him grow weaker season by season.
“A woman can’t manage this farm alone,” he’d reasoned. “I worry about you, Tamsin. I’ve had a good life. I wouldn’t mind dying if I knew you were safe.”
She couldn’t put all the blame on Granddad. She’d wanted a man to pay attention to her, to escort her to dances and parties, to tell her the things suitors told other girls. But she was too tall and too set in her ways for any of the neighborhood boys. Willie Maxwell had asked her to ride home from church one Sunday in his buggy, but Willie was nearly fifty with thirteen motherless children at home.
Tamsin liked children well enough, but thirteen scabby-kneed, Maxwell boys—ranging from two to eighteen years of age—was unreasonable. Considering Willie as husband material was worse. She wasn’t that desperate, not if she’d had to live out her life as a spinster.
So she’d let Atwood sweet-talk her. She’d bought his lies and his excuses, and trusted him. And he’d ruined everything her grandfather had spent a lifetime building … not to mention her dreams. Atwood hadn’t wanted babies. She had, but now … Now she was glad he’d spilled his seed over her good lace coverlet instead of planting it where it would do the most good.
She’d lost all respect for her husband and gradually come to dislike him intensely. When he’d died, she’d felt nothing but relief.
“Good-bye and good riddance,” she murmured sleepily.
Maybe she wasn’t a woman who made good choices when it came to men. She’d nearly fallen prey to another predator back in Nebraska when she’d allowed good-looking Jack Cannon to take her to dinner a few times.
Jack had seemed a gentleman at first, nicely dressed and well spoken. But he’d presumed on her friendship and become frighteningly possessive. All too soon, she’d
discovered aspects of his personality that she couldn’t tolerate. After the last incident, she’d had enough of his attentions and left town.
I must be an awful judge of character, she thought. I’m better counting on myself, than looking for a man to—
Dancer nickered loudly.
“What is it, boy? What’s wrong?”
Fancy snorted and moved close to where Tamsin curled against the cold. The stallion squealed and pawed the ground. Stones rolled under his iron-shod hooves.
Tamsin scrambled to her feet, mouth dry. Her fingers clutched the grip of her heavy Navy Colt. Then the hair rose on her neck as the sound of a woman’s unearthly scream split the darkness.
The mare panicked and bolted away, but Dancer held his ground and trumpeted a fiery challenge.
With trembling hands, Tamsin raised her weapon, trying to locate the source of the danger. Then she caught an overpowering scent of cat, and a snarling shadow hurled out of the treetops, coming to earth between her and the rearing stallion.
Ash shoved the MacGreggor woman out of the way and fired three quick shots into the big cat. The woman went down on her hands and knees, and the cougar roared in pain. Ash took aim at the source of the animal’s cry and fired again. This time there was only the thud of a heavy weight toppling onto the rocky ground and the echo of hoofbeats above the sound of his own harsh breathing.
“You all right?” he demanded as he fumbled for a match.
She didn’t answer.
“Are you hurt?” He hoped she hadn’t fainted. Females did that all the time, and he never knew if it was for real or an act.
He kept his pistol ready in his left hand and struck a light against a rock with the other. Murderer or not, it went against his grain to stand by while a woman was ripped apart by a mountain lion. But being soft-hearted didn’t make him fool enough to let her shoot him while he was saving her life.
The match flared, casting a circle of yellow illumination in the pitch-blackness of the moonless night. The suspect didn’t seem injured. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the cougar sprawled inches from her feet. She
didn’t look like a hardened killer. She seemed young and vulnerable.