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
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
