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.
Abruptly, the valley narrowed, and trees lined the passageway. Already shadows lengthened, telling Tamsin that it was time to look for a place to camp for the night. But she had found no other stream, and she was reluctant to make a dry camp.
A rock fall from the ridge above made her look up in alarm. Small stones tumbled down, unnerving the horses. Laying his black ears flat against his head, Dancer rolled his eyes and snorted. Fancy mouthed the bit and pressed up behind her mate.
Prickles of apprehension played up and down Tamsin’s spine and the leathers felt suddenly damp against her palm. She urged her mare on, but Dancer blocked their way. Skin rippled over his powerful chest, and he pawed the stony ground.
“Go on!” she shouted, bringing her reins down across his rump. He sprang forward, leaping fallen logs and rocks. The mare sped after him with the gelding hot on her heels.
Then a ferocious snarl echoed down the canyon. Twisting in the saddle, Tamsin caught a flash of tawny movement high above her. Heart thudding, she flung the lead line free, letting the roan find his own pace.
It was all she could do to stay in the saddle as the chestnut sailed over a waist-high boulder, slid in the loose gravel, and nearly went down on her knees. Ash’s horse scrambled partially up the steep bank to gallop past them, as Fancy regained her balance and raced on with Tamsin clinging to her mane.
The ravine widened to embrace a muddy creek. Dancer splashed through the water and continued on up the gulch. The sides of the gorge grew higher, and trees lined the divide, sometimes closing overhead to block out the fading light.
Tamsin didn’t know how far they’d come since she’d seen the mountain lion, but Fancy was visibly tiring and the other two animals were streaked with sweat.
Gradually, Tamsin checked the mare’s pace to a trot and then a walk. The other horses matched their gait to hers. “It’s all right,” Tamsin soothed.
Ahead of her, Shiloh stopped, looked back, and whinnied. Tamsin rose in her stirrups and glanced about nervously.
Then something struck her, tumbling her forcefully out of the saddle. She hit the ground hard. Terror stricken, she opened her mouth to scream, but the fall had knocked the wind out of her. She curled into a ball, clenched her eyes shut. Her last conscious act was to attempt to protect her head from the cougar’s attack.
Chapter 7
“Get up!” Ash ordered as he climbed to his feet. “No, don’t! Stay where you are.” He stifled a groan. He’d landed with his left shoulder taking the shock of his weight, the one he’d dislocated in a fall off a broomtail last autumn.
Tamsin rolled onto her back. She opened her eyes and stared at him in stunned disbelief. “I thought you were a mountain lion.”
“Shut up. Don’t say a word. And don’t you dare move from that spot.” He rubbed his aching shoulder and muttered a string of foul curses under his breath. He was thirty-six, too old to be leaping off cliff faces onto a horse and rider. He gritted his teeth and shook the kinks out of his back.
Tamsin’s green eyes looked stunned, and her oval face was chalk-white beneath the smears of dirt. From the corner of her mouth, a thin trickle of blood marred her bottom lip.
For long seconds she didn’t even breathe; then she drew in a deep, shuddering gasp and her eyes filled with tears. “I … I saw … the cougar,” she said. “I thought you were the …”
He gave her a look that would have soured milk. “You would have been better off if a lion did jump you.”
“I thought—”
“I told you to be quiet, you conniving witch!” Damn if his knee didn’t feel like it was screwed on backward. He forced himself to put all his weight on it.
“I’m sorry, I—
�
��Not one swiving word!” He limped away and picked up the end of the rope trailing behind his horse. Shiloh’s chest and belly were lathered, and foam dripped from his mouth.
The roan nickered a greeting and flicked his ears as Ash approached and ran a hand appraisingly down the gelding’s left front leg. Murmuring to the animal, he fingered a bloody scrape on the horse’s shank. A patch of skin was torn away, but the wound wasn’t deep.
Ash glanced back at Tamsin and saw she was sitting up. “Get down!” She obeyed and he continued his inspection of Shiloh’s injuries. Ash lingered over the task, using the time to master his anger.
He’d never hit a woman, but he wanted to hit Tamsin. Just thinking about slapping the hell out of her took some of the venom out of his seething anger.
Seven hours! He’d spent seven backbreaking hours climbing a rugged mountain in this heat to get here ahead of her. And he’d done it with a splitting headache, carrying all his gear.
He’d guessed she’d double back and take this canyon. If she hadn’t, he would have had trouble catching her on foot. But he would have found her eventually, even if he’d had to trail her into the mouth of hell.
The other two horses stood head to head a few yards away. Ash walked over and gave them a quick look. The stallion’s flanks were wet, but he wasn’t even breathing hard. And the bay had enough spit left in him to snake out his neck and bare his teeth.
Tamsin’s chestnut mare appeared as weary as his roan but sound. As far as Ash could see, she didn’t have a scratch on her.
“You could have killed me,” Tamsin accused.
Ash turned to face her. She was wide-eyed and shaken, but on her feet. Her tears had turned the grime on her cheeks to mud.
“I told you to shut up and stay put!”
“All right. You don’t need to shout.”
Some of the sass was coming back into her tone, but he wasn’t amused. Any sympathy he’d felt toward Tamsin MacGreggor had vanished when she’d nearly cracked his skull with that chunk of wood.
“You’d be wise to pay heed to what I told you,” he said. “I get the same reward if I hang you from the nearest tree and take you back head down across a saddle.”
She shook her head. “I left you your guns. If you wanted to kill me, you had the chance. You won’t shoot me, and I refuse to allow you to bully me.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, mentally counting to ten. “Shooting you would be too easy. If I kill you, I want it to be slow and painful. Do you have any idea how far I’ve walked today?”
She glanced toward the foothills he’d crossed to reach this divide. “I think so.”
“Don’t think. Don’t even speak.”
Tamsin sniffed. “You would have done the same thing if I was the bounty hunter and you were the suspect.” She took off her hat and tried to mold it back into shape. “I am sorry I hurt you.”
She was wrong, he thought, ignoring her apology. If he was on the run, he’d never have left her armed. And maybe not alive. If Tamsin was a murderer, she was damn poor at her job.
“You could have crippled these horses,” he accused. “Are you stupid? Running them in this canyon? With this uneven ground and all these rocks?”
A single tear crept down her muddy cheek. “They bolted on me. The cougar … It must have followed us.”
“You’re a greenhorn,” he scoffed. “You saw a deer or a bighorn sheep and mistook that for a puma. Then you panicked, and rode these horses hell-for-leather.”
Tamsin took a limping step toward him. “I know the difference between a mountain lion and a deer.”
“Sit down.” He pointed to a rotten log. “There. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Save it.” Ire seethed in his gut. Men—hardened outlaws—didn’t give him this much trouble. Any male prisoner who’d knocked him senseless would be spitting teeth out of his arse.
Tamsin could have split his skull like a rotten pumpkin. Maybe that’s what she’d intended, and all these pretty words were more lies. Because she was an attractive woman, he’d taken chances he never would have with a man. It had nearly cost him his life.
Tamsin MacGreggor was as dangerous as a cornered rattlesnake.
“You’re my prisoner,” he said. “From now on, I treat you like one.”
“I didn’t kill Sam Steele,” she argued. “I’m sure the judge did it himself. If you take me back to face his court, I’m guilty before I say a word in my own defense.”
“Put your hands behind you.” She did as he ordered, and he clamped the cuffs around her wrists. Both palms were filthy and stained with blood. He hardened himself against feeling compassion for the pain she must be in. “There’s water about a mile ahead. We’ll camp there.”
He whistled and Shiloh came to him. Strapping his bedroll and plunder to the saddle, he mounted the gelding.
“You can do the walking for a change,” he said to Tamsin. “See how you like it.”
She didn’t protest as they wound through the narrow cleft in the rocks. The mare and the stallion kept just ahead. Ash didn’t think there was much chance of her climbing up on one of them with her hands secured behind her back, and it did his heart good to see her stumbling over the rough ground.
Ash smelled smoke before he reached the creek. He thought of leaving Tamsin there and scouting ahead to see what was causing the fire. But if he fastened her to a tree and something happened to him, she’d be helpless. And if he didn’t, he doubted she’d be here when he came back.
Reluctantly, he stopped and uncuffed Tamsin, then offered her his hand. “Swing up behind the saddle,” he ordered. “Hold on tight. If there’s trouble, we may need to ride like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You don’t mean you’d run the horses over this rocky ground?”
“Put your arms around my waist and shut your mouth. If there is someone up ahead, let me do the talking.” He cradled his rifle in the crook of one arm and hoped Tamsin’s silence meant she’d follow his orders.
As they drew closer to the water, the horses pricked up their ears and broke into a trot. Shiloh picked up his pace in spite of the double load.
A dog began to bark somewhere ahead of them. As Ash and Tamsin rounded a bend, two Indians barred their way.
Ash felt Tamsin stiffen and heard her sharp intake of breath. “Steady,” he whispered. “They’re Ute, usually friendly to whites.”
He raised his right hand, palm open. “Greetings,” he called in the Ute tongue. “We come in peace.”
The older man, round-faced and unsmiling, answered in stilted English, “How-dy.” His graying hair hung in two long braids, and he wore a woolen vest over a plaid shirt, and buckskin leggings. Around his neck gleamed a silver Peace Medal, and his left hand clutched a flintlock musket.
Four horses were tied beneath the trees, two pintos, a black, and a buckskin. A thin black dog with bristly hair and a curly tail dashed out from between their legs. Barking furiously, he rushed at Shiloh.
The younger brave smiled and lowered his rifle. “You and your woman alone?” he asked in the Ute language. He wore traditional leggings and a fringed hunting shirt decorated with geometric embroidery.
Ash nodded. He knew more Cheyenne than Ute. Although he was certain he’d understood what the second man had asked, he was quickly using up his vocabulary. “Just us two.”
“Come. Eat.” The gray-haired man wearing the Peace Medal motioned to Ash. “You are welcome.” He struck his chest lightly. “I am Mountain Calf. This is my sister’s son, Wrestler.”
“We will accept your hospitality, Mountain Calf,” Ash replied. “I am called Ash Morgan, and this is my wife, Tamsin.”
“Wife?” Tamsin whispered.
Ash felt Tamsin flinch as he grasped her arm. “Let me help you down. These kind gentlemen have offered us supper.”
Alarm showed in Tamsin’s eyes as she slid to the ground, but she didn’t protest. Ash dismounted and wal
ked toward the Utes. Solemnly, he shook hands with Mountain Calf and then his nephew. The dog continued to bark.
Wrestler pumped Ash’s hand up and down vigorously. “A white man who brings his wife comes as a friend.” He grinned at Tamsin. “This man has heard that some white women have hair like winter-dried grass, but he has never seen one with fire hair and eyes like spring grass. It will make a good tale when Wrestler returns to his own village. This man hopes that his friends will believe him.” He shook his head and laughed. “You must tell them, Uncle.”
Mountain Calf put two fingers to his lips and uttered a shrill whistle.
From the trees beyond the stream came an Indian woman carrying an infant strapped to a cradleboard. “My wife,” Mountain Calf explained to Ash in the Ute language. “She is called Shadow. She is a good cook. You must taste her broiled venison.”
“An Ute who brings his wife comes as a friend,” Ash said.
Mountain Calf nodded. “It is so.” He spoke sharply to the dog, and the animal crouched on its belly and grew still.
“Do you go west over the mountains into Ute land?” Wrestler asked.
Ash shook his head. “No.” He pointed east. “We turn back tomorrow toward the place of the rising sun.”
“Good,” Mountain Calf observed. “All of my people are not so hospitable to strangers.”
“My mother’s brother likes white men,” Wrestler said. “You need have no fear at his fire.”
“An Ute’s word is good,” Ash replied. “And honest men of any color have much to talk about.” He glanced at Tamsin. “The Utes treat their guests with honor.”
“But will they steal the horses?”
“Our belongings are safe in a brother’s camp,” he said, loud enough for both Utes to hear. “As safe as in the Creator’s hand.”
“Whatever you say, husband,” Tamsin murmured sarcastically.
Wrestler grinned. “Good wife. Ute women not so obedient. Have strong will.” He studied Tamsin more intently. “She has power, this woman, and she sits a horse well. A shame she is not Ute.”
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