Morgan's Woman

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.'