Then, to her left, she heard the creak of saddle leather. She glanced at the tall rider coming around the corner and quickly looked away when their eyes met.
'Morning, ma'am,' the big man said. He shifted his rifle to his other arm and touched his hat with one gloved finger.
Tamsin gasped as she took in the stranger and the two horses trailing behind him. Each animal carried a gruesome cargo, a dead man slung over the bloodstained saddle.
Muffling a cry of distress, she seized the doorknob, preparing to rush back into the boardinghouse. The quick glimpse she'd had of the ruffian was enough to convince her she didn't wish to be on the same street with him.
A wide-brimmed hat had shaded stark features bronzed by sun and wind. His sensual mouth was a thin line, his sharply chiseled jawline unshaven. The broad shoulders, long legs, hard-muscled arms were barely concealed by the black calf-length leather coat.
Tamsin had seen her share of desperate men since she started traveling west. This one reminded her of Jack Cannon. The polished rifle, and the gun belt visible where the stranger's duster hung open, didn't belong to a cowhand who had innocently stumbled upon two bodies.
The boardinghouse door opened and the widow Fremont peered into Tamsin's face suspiciously. 'You forget something?'
'No, no,' Tamsin assured her.' I just…' She motioned toward the horseman. 'That man-He's… He has two dead-'
'More business for the undertaker?' The widow sniffed. 'Best you steer clear of him, Mrs. MacGreggor.' She emphasized the word
Tamsin suppressed a shiver, hoping California would prove more civilized than Nebraska and Colorado. 'I as- sure you, Mrs. Fremont, I have no intention of trifling with this gun shark or any other gentleman in Sweet-water. I was startled by… by the bodies. I thought perhaps he might be a desperado.'
Mrs. Fremont sniffed again. 'He claims to be on the side of law and order, but I'm not the judge of that.' She frowned. 'Decent women don't associate with his kind. Be seen with Ash Morgan and people will think you're one of Maudine's fancy pieces.'
'I wasn't with him,' Tamsin replied. 'I was standing on your boardwalk when he rode by and spoke to me. I don't know him. I don't care to know him. As I explained, I'm leaving town this morning.'
'Just as well. I run a decent place here. You be sure and tell any travelers you meet that I serve good grub and my beds are free of vermin.'
'I will certainly do that.' Seeing that the bounty hunter had turned off at the next corner, Tamsin lifted her skirts ankle high and stepped off the walk into the oozing wagon ruts. She was still unnerved by the terrible sight, but she'd not be deterred from her departure by a man like Morgan. Detouring around livestock droppings and mud puddles, she made it safely to the far side of the street.
The widow Fremont did provide excellent room and board for the cost, but her superior Philadelphia airs were infuriating. Mrs. Fremont might pass herself off as a lady here on the frontier, but she was obviously an uneducated, ill-bred woman. What made her assume that Tamsin intended to make the acquaintance of a gunfighter when she'd obviously been entering the boardinghouse to avoid him?
A small black terrier yipped loudly and ran behind an olive-skinned boy raking soiled straw away from the livery door. Tamsin smiled and bid the lad a good morning.
His dark, liquid eyes widened in surprise. For an instant, an odd expression flashed across his thin face. Then he darted away, followed by the still-barking dog.
Tamsin stepped inside the stable, taking a minute to let her eyes grow accustomed to the semidarkness. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of animals, fresh manure, and hay. Most women, she supposed, found such a place offensive. But she'd always felt at home amid the earthy smells and the familiar sounds of horses and the men who cared for them.
'Mr. Edwards,' she called. 'I've come for-' She broke off in midsentence as she saw the empty stall where she'd tied Fancy and Dancer the night before.
Hope of heaven! Her stomach turned over as she went suddenly cold. Where were her animals? She ran to the box stall and stared at it as if she expected them to magically reappear.
'Mr. Edwards!' she shouted. 'Where are my horses?'
She paced the length of the barn looking into each space. Where could they be? She'd given distinct orders that no one was to approach her animals. Fancy was sweet-natured enough, but Dancer-Dancer had nearly killed a groom who tried to put a saddle on him.
'Miz MacGreggor?'
Tamsin turned to face the stable owner. Edwards was bull-necked, shorter than she was, and heavily bearded. A middle-aged man wearing a battered star on his vest strode shoulder to shoulder beside Edwards.
'Where are my animals?' Tamsin demanded.
Edwards grimaced and shook his head. 'Gone.' He shrugged and scratched his unwashed neck. 'No idee where they could have got to,' he drawled. 'Hoped maybe you'd come in early and picked them up.'
'Stolen?' She swallowed hard. 'My horses have been stolen?' She glanced at the second man, noting his shoulder-length white-blond hair and handlebar mustache. 'Are you the county sheriff? I need to-'
'That would be me,' he answered. 'Sheriff Roy Walker.'
His pale eyes were bloodshot and slightly crossed, hardly a recommendation for an upholder of justice. Neither he nor Edwards smelled as though they had bathed in the last month. She barely conquered an urge to back away from them. Instead, she held her ground and tried to keep her emotions in check. 'You've got to find my horses, Sheriff,' she urged. 'They're worth a fortune.'
Walker rocked back on his heels and peered down his long nose at her as if she were a suspicious character. 'Not so fast, Miss MacGreggor. Got some questions of my own. You want to come down to the office and fill out a report?'
Tamsin drew herself up to her full height. 'No, I do not. I want you to start looking for my animals. A bay thoroughbred stallion with black points, sixteen and a half hands, a chestnut mare with a white star on her forehead and one white stocking. She's a thoroughbred as well, and she's sixteen hands high. How many horses can there be that match that description?' She paused for breath and added, 'It's Mrs. MacGreggor, sir, not miss.'
'Mr. MacGreggor with you, is he?'
'No. He's not. What of it?' She'd not tell them that Atwood was dead, drowned in a drunken stupor in four inches of water behind a house of ill repute.
The sheriff spat a wad of tobacco into the straw near her foot. 'Not usual for a
Tamsin knotted her gloved hands into fists and tried to hold her temper. 'Not lost, Sheriff, stolen. Stolen from that stall-' She pointed. 'Late last night or early this morning. And I want them back. It's your job to-'
'Don't be telling me my job, lady. You say you been robbed; there's procedure to be followed. Things got to be done proper like. Don't know how things is back where you come from but-'
'While you're wasting time interrogating me, Sheriff, you're letting the thief get farther and farther away.' Dismissing him with a withering glare, Tamsin turned her ire on Edwards. 'As for you-I hold you responsible for this theft.'
The stableman shifted from one foot to the other and twisted his battered hat in his hand.
'Is this common?' she continued. 'Do animals in your care regularly vanish?'
'Matter o' fact, this ain't the first time it happened,' Edwards admitted.
'No need to take on so,' the sheriff said. 'You mind your manners and leave me to get to the bottom of this.'
She glanced from one to the other as a bad feeling washed through her. Something was wrong here, dreadfully wrong. Was it possible that Edwards and Walker had conspired to steal her horses? 'Please,' she said, no longer caring what they thought of her. 'I've got to get those animals back.'
Roy Walker tucked another plug of tobacco under his lip. 'Do what we can for you,' he offered. 'Soon as you fill out them papers.'
