Judith E French (8 page)

He settled onto a flat boulder and waited for Tamsin to beg him to find her a worm and thread it on the hook. To his surprise, she turned over a few stones, found what she was looking for, and baited the hook herself.

Mosquitoes buzzed around Ash’s head, and he was glad for his coat despite the heat. He stretched out his long legs and massaged an old scar he’d received during the war.

The tip of Tamsin’s pole bobbed, then dived toward the surface of the water. She set the hook and pulled in a two-pound trout. “See,” she called to him. “My breakfast. I’ll see what you’re having next.”

She got another nibble and then nothing. Ash cleaned the first fish. Minutes passed.

“Do you want to try this while I …” She left the rest unfinished.

He nodded. “Long as you go downstream away from the camp. Not too far, around that bend. I doubt you’ll try to escape without those horses.”

“Right now I’m more interested in food than getting
away,” she replied coolly. “I do have a change of clothing in my saddlebags. These are—”

“Quit while you’re ahead.” He took the fishing pole from her.

She looked unconvinced. “I have your word you won’t … won’t spy on me?”

“Lady, we just spent the night together. If I meant you harm, there wouldn’t have been a damn thing you could do about it. Go wash your unmentionables.”

Tamsin muttered under her breath as she picked her way through the bushes along the creekbank. Ash turned his attention to fishing. Immediately, something nibbled at the bait. He missed that one but soon caught another trout. He stayed where he was, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering down the creek. He wondered what Tamsin MacGreggor looked like without her clothes. She was slim, not nearly as well endowed as most of the ladies at Maudine’s, but he would have bet his saddle she was prime.

Thinking that way was enough to make a man overly warm. He ran a forefinger under his collar and called to her. “You still there?”

“Yes!”

He brought in two more fish before Tamsin rejoined him. Her cheeks were scrubbed rosy, and she’d braided her wet hair into a single plait that hung down her back. She smelled good, woman-clean without a hint of heavy perfume.

“About time,” he grumbled. “I’ve got two fish apiece. With the coffee, that should do us. Of course, we could use biscuits.”

“The bread you had in your pack could never be considered biscuits,” she replied. “Heavy, stale, nasty lumps of flour and grease.”

“You ate them, didn’t you?”

Ignoring him, she undid her fishing line from the pole and coiled it up and put it in her pocket. “I’m the prisoner,” she said. “You can cook the fish.”

“Intended to. That way I’ll know it’s cooked.”

They walked in silence back to the camp, and Ash forced himself to tear his gaze off the sway of Tamsin’s shapely hips in that riding skirt.

It was easy to see why Jack Cannon would be attracted to her, even if she was a cut above his usual choice in women. Ash wanted to ask her why the outlaw had let her ride off alone into these mountains and where she intended to meet up with him, but he didn’t. It had been Ash’s experience that a lady would lie to protect her man faster than a horse could trot. Just listening usually paid off in the end.

Back at the fire, Tamsin found more kindling and saddled her mare while he grilled the four trout. They drank the black, acrid coffee and devoured the hot fish with a minimum of chatter.

It was when he turned away to saddle his gelding, Shiloh, that she hit him in the back of the head. He saw stars and sagged to one knee, half turning to face her just as she brought the chunk of firewood down across his skull again.

Ash knew he’d been hit a second time. He tried to react, but his muscles wouldn’t obey. “Son of a—” The remainder of his oath was muffled in the spruce needles as he slid face first onto the ground. Bright lights were exploding in his brain, and his vision was fading.

“I’m sorry,” Tamsin said. “But you wouldn’t listen to reason.”

Rage boiled in Ash’s chest as he tried to get up. His head seemed made of lead; his arms, quicksand. “Don’t …” he managed. Even his tongue felt odd, too thick for his mouth. The stars were fading, and in their place sprouted two distinct centers of pulsing pain. He tried to speak, but his words slurred. “Can’t … take horse … my horse.”

“I have to,” Tamsin replied.

Through the slits where his eyes had been he saw two blurry, red-haired women lift two rifles.

“Not my gun …” he rasped, and spat sand from his mouth. “No … not take …”

“I’m not stealing your weapons.”

He thought that’s what the witch was saying, but he also felt a tugging at his holster. Then his pistol passed before his eyes.

“I’ll leave them on the far side of the campfire,” she
said. “That way, you won’t be tempted to shoot me while I’m riding away.”

“Shoot you … in the back …” Ash forced himself up on his hands and knees and reached for her. She stepped aside and the effort sent him plunging to earth again. “You’re the bushwhacker.” He gasped, trying to clear the confusion from his mind.

Shot in the back. Someone was murdered. Who? Ash knew that he should remember, but it seemed so long ago. There was a man lying on the ground beside him … a big man
.

Moisture clouded Ash’s vision.

“I’m sorry,” Tamsin repeated. “You’ll be all right. I didn’t hit you hard enough to kill you.”

Ash heard the creak of saddle leather. His horse nickered. Hooves scraped on rock, then faded in the distance. “Tamsin!”

The only answer was the loud chatter of a hairy woodpecker from a bough overhead.

Ash’s fiery oath startled the bird, and he caught a glimpse of black-and-white feathers as it took flight through the aspen grove.

Ash closed his eyes and sank against the earth. Something warm trickled down the back of his neck, and he smelled the sweet scent of blood. The scent of blood had filled his head that day his father was murdered.

This blood wasn’t his daddy’s. It was his.

The MacGreggor woman’s killed me, he thought. I hope she’s killed me. If she hasn’t, she’ll soon wish she had.

There was nothing worse than a common back shooter. A renegade Comanchero had killed his daddy from ambush. If Ash closed his eyes, he could see his father sprawled in the red dirt.

“Daddy, get up. Get up, Daddy
.”

Ash didn’t know if he was hearing an echo from the distant past or if the words were coming out of his mouth now. His father had taken him fishing. It was his tenth birthday and his daddy had given him a man-sized pocketknife.

Ash couldn’t recollect too much … didn’t want to. But it was impossible to forget the sickly sweet smell of blood or the puzzled look on his father’s face when he fell.

All night, he’d sat there beside the body, holding Daddy’s tin star. He hadn’t wept. His loss was too deep for tears. One minute he’d been Big Jim Morgan’s boy, and the next …

He was alone.

Until the Comancheros returned in the first gray light of dawn to steal the horses and weapons and scalp his father.

And the bad times started.

Ash cradled his head in his hands as dusty images of pain and fear washed over him. Vaguely, he knew what he was seeing in his mind was long past.

Reason told him that he had to get on his feet … had to go after his escaped prisoner. But his skull was splitting. It was easier to lie on the warm ground and think about nothing at all.

A branch whipped across Tamsin’s face, but she paid no heed to the sting and spurred Ash Morgan’s strawberry roan into a hard trot.

She hadn’t planned on bashing him over the head, but she’d found herself standing there with the stick in her hand. She’d realized that she would probably never have a better chance of getting away. If she hadn’t taken his horse, he’d soon be on her trail again.

Ash would survive. He’d have a long walk back to Sweetwater, but she’d left him his rifle and handgun. What more could he ask?

She wondered if she was going to spend the rest of her life running. Horse stealing was a hanging offense. She’d been innocent of that charge when they’d written up a warrant for her arrest. Now she was as guilty as sin.

“Horse thief.” She tried out the phrase. It sounded ugly … despicable. She’d never stolen so much as a penny’s worth of candy in her life.

No wonder there were so many desperadoes in the West, she mused. One mistake, and an honest person could find themselves on a wanted poster.

For what it was worth, she intended to leave Ash’s roan gelding at the next town, but that probably wouldn’t count for much if she was captured and faced a jury.

A rabbit dashed out of the bushes, and the gelding leaped sideways. Tamsin kept her seat easily. Her two horses were following close behind. She’d thought it wiser to ride Ash’s mount. Leading an unwilling horse would have been a problem in these trees, especially since Dancer kept sneaking up to take nips out of his rump.

Tamsin hoped the mountain lion was far away. It had fled uphill, leaving her an escape route back down the way she had come the day before. She knew from her map that she needed to find a pass through these foothills, and she remembered the entrance to a promising valley she’d seen on the way in.

Ash would think the worst of her. She hated to leave him with the impression that she was a killer and a horse thief.

“Damn you, Atwood MacGreggor,” she swore. “I hope your coffin leaks.” It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been such a jackass’s behind, she’d be back in Tennessee sipping lemonade on her own front porch.… And maybe Granddad’s heart wouldn’t have given out so soon.

She’d realized that she’d made a mistake on her wedding night. Atwood had embarrassed her with crude remarks
and selfishly taken his pleasure on her rigid body. Worse, he’d blamed her when his red-faced thrusting met no resistance.

He’d called her a whore, accusing her of not being a virgin. That was a lie, but she’d had no way to prove her innocence … any more than she could prove her innocence to Ash Morgan.

Her honeymoon with Atwood had been a great disappointment. Afterward, she’d wondered what all the fuss was about mating and why some women were willing to risk everything for illicit affairs with men not their lawful husbands.

Tamsin removed her hat and wiped the sweat off her forehead. If Atwood MacGreggor had looked anything like Ash Morgan in the altogether, perhaps she could have mustered a little more enthusiasm for his husbandly attentions.

Just thinking about Ash’s naked body made her mouth go dry and butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach. There must be something sinful in her if she could take such pleasure in remembering the dark sprinkling of hair that ran down his flat belly to the tightly curled mat above his sex.… Or the way drops of water glistened on his muscular arms.

Even if things were different between them, if Ash hadn’t been a bounty hunter paid to bring her back to Sweetwater, it would make no difference. A good-looking man like Ash Morgan would never be interested in her.

Growing up, she’d had no woman to teach her feminine ways. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her grandmother had never gotten over the shock of losing her only child. Gran had lived in a wispy world of ghosts and voices only she could hear. She was always happy, always ready to give her granddaughter a hug or a
sweet. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember Tamsin’s name or who she was.

Tamsin didn’t blame anyone for her inability to fit into Three Forks society. Her grandfather’s wealth couldn’t make up for her unconventional ways. Her hair was too red and too unruly to be smoothed into a proper coiffure, and her dresses were always torn from climbing fences and trees. All her life she’d heard remarks, some whispered, some rudely spoken aloud.

“Too broad-shouldered for my taste,” a neighbor’s son had remarked. “They say all heiresses are beautiful, but I’d rather court one of her grandfather’s racehorses.”

Atwood hadn’t said any of those things, not until after she became his wife and he had control of her inheritance. Then he’d taunted her with far worse. He’d said she was too mannish and stupid to boot.

She knew he was wrong. The only truly stupid thing she’d done in her life was to accept Atwood’s proposal of marriage.

She’d known about her husband’s gambling and foolish business ventures, but she hadn’t guessed the extent of the damage. And in the end, the mare and stallion were all she had to start a new life.

She was well rid of him. She would build again in California, bigger and better. She didn’t need a husband to take care of her. She was quite capable of managing her own—

Tamsin reined up the gelding. She’d been so busy dredging up old memories that she’d nearly ridden past the entrance to the valley. She dismounted to drink and let the horses drink their fill from the stream.

Once in the saddle again, she pushed hard up the valley. Ahead mountains rose in folds, some still snowcapped. She had a compass and a map showing two passes through the Rockies. Now she was cutting too far
north to find either one. She couldn’t go back to Sweetwater, nor could she go south without taking a chance on meeting up with Ash again.

“I’ll simply have to find another way.”

She rode on through the heat of the noonday sun, seeing nothing more threatening than a golden eagle winging overhead and a coyote with two pups trotting after her. The air was so clean and sweet that she inhaled it in great gulps, savoring the bite of evergreen on her tongue.

In midafternoon, Tamsin rode past a herd of elk grazing peacefully in a meadow of yellow flowers not unlike the buttercups that had grown so profusely at home. A massive bull with spreading horns raised his head and gazed at her, but the cows and long-legged calves seemed unconcerned.

Tamsin was amazed by the vastness of the country. Other than Ash, she’d not seen a single human being since she’d left Sweetwater behind. Moved by the panorama of endless sky and mountains, she rode in silence, filling her eyes and memory with the tranquil beauty. The creak of saddle leather and the comforting cadence of the horses’ hooves were almost hypnotic, lulling her into a sense of deep peace.