“You cannot sleep here,” she insisted.
She pushed against his naked chest with both hands, trying to put distance between them, but Ash was as unmovable as a granite wall.
“Stop squirming,” he said.
“Get out of my bed!”
“Wrestler said he’d make you first wife. You might want to consider it.”
The suggestion shocked her nearly as much as having this naked bounty hunter wrapped around her. “Marry him? I’d sooner wed you.”
“I haven’t proposed,” he reminded her.
“I should have said I’d sooner wed the devil.”
He chuckled. “I make it a practice never to marry a woman who’s likely to shoot me.”
“I don’t think this is funny.”
He cut her off with a kiss, a caress so sweet and tender that her resistance crumbled.…
Morgan’s Woman is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1999 by Judith E. French
Excerpt from All is Fair by Linda Cajio © 1986 by Linda Cajio.
Excerpt from Bad to the Bone by Debra Dixon copyright © 1996 by Debra Dixon.
Excerpt from Rescuing Diana by Linda Cajio copyright © 1987 by Linda Cajio.
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Morgan’s Woman was originally published in paperback by Ballantine, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1999.
Cover design: Derek Walls
eISBN: 978-0-307-80077-0
www.ReadLoveSwept.com
For my mother,
Mildred E. Faulkner Bennett,
the bravest woman I’ll ever know
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
The light that lies
In woman’s eyes,
Has been my heart’s undoing.
—THOMAS MOORE
Prologue
Autumn 1865
“Two horses? What do you mean, two horses?” Tamsin MacGreggor pushed back the black netting of her widow’s veil and stared in shock at the lawyer.
“Best you sit, Mrs. MacGreggor,” Randolph Crawshaw advised. “It’s understandable that a lady in your circumstances—”
Tamsin found it hard to breathe. “You knew what my grandfather left me,” she managed. “Four hundred acres of prime farmland, a mill, two houses, barns, over forty head of breeding horses—”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, your husband—”
“Was a fool!” She struggled to regain her composure. “Surely our investments, the railroad stocks—”
“All gone.” The lawyer mopped his bald head. “It grieves me to bring you such terrible financial news on top of your loss.”
“Loss? Atwood MacGreggor?” She pressed her lips tightly together and stood up. “The only good thing my husband ever did for me was to save me the trouble of shooting him.”
Chapter 1
Sweetwater, Colorado
Spring 1866
Tamsin MacGreggor rose at first light and tiptoed across the bare, splintery floorboards to the washstand. The room was unheated and smelled of lye soap and tobacco. Shivering, she poured water from a pitcher into the cracked crockery basin.
Sweetwater, Colorado, hadn’t impressed her very much, but it was farther west than Denver. And the ugly boardinghouse room was cleaner and cheaper than the hotel in Wheaton, Nebraska, where she’d worked in a general store for two months. Best of all, she’d left Jack Cannon behind her.
Tamsin scrubbed her face, then rubbed her aching back. She was still tired, despite ten hours’ sleep. Sometimes it seemed as though she’d been weary since she left her home in Three Forks, Tennessee. There’d been so many small towns she couldn’t remember them all, most cold and muddy. She’d traveled by train when she could manage the expense of shipping her horses. The rest of the time she’d ridden them, stopping only when her funds ran low or the weather was too awful.
She’d have made faster progress if she hadn’t had to work her way across the country. Lawyer Crawshaw had been right when he’d said that Atwood had left her nothing but the two animals. She’d sold her mother’s jewelry and most of her own clothing and personal items for what little money she could get.
Now she was down to ninety-two dollars and sixty-three cents. There would be no more trains. From here to California, across desert, mountain, and plains, she would ride her horses. Heaven help them all if one of the animals broke a leg or pulled a tendon.
Randolph Crawshaw had laughed at her when she’d told him that she intended to take the mare and stallion to California to start a new life. The lawyer had scoffed that a gentlewoman, alone, in these lawless times since the war had ended, wouldn’t get as far as the Tennessee line with such valuable horseflesh.
“I guess I showed you, didn’t I, Randolph?” she declared as she twisted her carrot-colored hair into a sensible braid and tied her hat strings under her chin. One thing she hadn’t sold was her grandfather’s Navy Colt. And any man who tried to take Fancy or Dancer from her would have to come through a hail of lead to get them.
The small looking glass over the washstand was blackened with age. Tamsin didn’t bother to glance into it as she dressed. Years of rushing out in the darkness to aid a horse in distress had taught her to find her clothing and plait her thick hair by touch. Besides, a twenty-six-year-old woman, as tall and sturdy as she was, had no need of mirrors.
Tamsin had left her black widow’s garments behind in Tennessee. Her clothing was as sensible as her plain freckled face: a dark green wool skirt, divided for riding astride, a neat white shirt, and a short green jacket to match the skirt. Her russet boots were old but crafted of the finest leather with heels high enough for riding and low enough for comfortable walking.
She gathered her few belongings and stowed them in the saddlebags, then slid the heavy pistol into the holster hidden beneath her skirt. It was amazing how little a woman could get by with when it had to be carried on two horses. Her entire future, all her hopes and dreams, was wrapped up in those animals.
Thoroughbreds both, the stallion and mare were the results of her grandfather’s life as a breeder of champion racing stock. Surely, such speed and noble lines would be appreciated in California. And with luck and hard work, she intended to build another stable of purebred horses, one that no spendthrift husband would ever wrest away from her.
She hurried through breakfast, paid for her accommodations. Pausing for a moment on the uneven wooden walkway outside of the boardinghouse, she swung the saddlebags over one shoulder and looked carefully around.
Except for a farmer leading a wor
khorse into the smithy and a boy washing the window in front of a dry goods store, the muddy street was nearly deserted. A block down, she could see someone raking the dirt in front of the livery stable where she’d left Fancy and Dancer for the night.
It had rained sometime after midnight. Tamsin remembered hearing the rhythmic downpour against the tin roof. Yesterday’s choking dust was gone, replaced with brisk, fresh air. Fingers of fog hung over the town, but the golden rays piercing the clouds promised a fair day.
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 Mrs. in an irritating manner. “That’s Ash Morgan. He’s a bounty hunter, a pistolero. If he’s bringing in dead men, like as not he made them that way. Morgan hunts outlaws for a living. He’s not to be trifled with.”
Tamsin suppressed a shiver, hoping California would prove more civilized than Nebraska and Colorado. “I assure you, Mrs. Fremont, I have no intention of trifling with this gun shark or any other gentleman in Sweetwater. 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 lady of means to be traveling these parts alone. ’Specially not with horses like you claim you lost.”
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.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Edwards said. “If they was stole, likely the horse thief is to hell and gone from here by now. Some bad hombres around, that’s certain, and old Roy here …” The livery owner gestured toward the sheriff. “He don’t have the greatest record for catching ’em.”
Studying the sorry pair, Tamsin’s intuition told her that this sheriff wasn’t to be trusted any more than Edwards. It was obvious that waiting for them to do something was a waste of time. If she was going to recover her horses, she’d have to find them herself.
Tamsin stepped back, lowered her eyes, and tried to look flustered. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s just the shock of finding my mare and stallion gone. Naturally, I’ll cooperate in any way I can. Could I meet you in your office? Say, in an hour? I need to go back to the boardinghouse and …” She fumbled for some excuse. “I’m feeling a little faint, sir. I think I’d best lie down.”
“Good idee,” Edwards agreed.
Sheriff Walker nodded. “An hour, little lady. I’ll look over your bill of sale on them animals, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Judith E French Page 1
