He pulled his hat low on his brow. “Don’t talk to me about Cannon unless you can tell the truth. And hear it.”
“I didn’t know him that well. He came into the store where I worked and seemed pleasant. Mr. Cannon escorted me to a church social and to eat in a public hotel. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You’ve got my sympathy, lady. People keep makin’ up lies about you.”
“I’ve heard what kind of women you’re accustomed to associating with. Doubtless you’re used to their fabrications, but I can assure you that I’m not—”
“Peace, MacGreggor. Your yammering is hard on my aching head. We’d best talk about something else, if you insist on talkin’.”
“How can I convince you—”
“I’ll put the coffee on if you’ll tend to the cooking,” he said, ignoring her argument. “But stay close to the fire. That cat’s probably a long way from here this morning, but we can’t be certain.”
She rested both hands on her hips and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “The cougar? The cougar that you told me I couldn’t possibly have seen yesterday afternoon? Maybe it wasn’t a mountain lion at all. Maybe those prints you and the Indian found were deer tracks.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed. “But if it was a doe instead of a puma, it was one that could climb trees.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” she replied sarcastically.
Unwilling to continue a conversation that he was obviously losing, Ash went to check Shiloh’s injured leg. As he’d suspected, the shank was swollen. He untied the gelding and led him down to the stream to drink. To his disappointment, Ash saw that the horse was definitely limping.
“We won’t be breaking camp today,” he said to Tamsin as he fished his coffeepot out of his saddlebag. “Shiloh’s leg needs rest. The torn flesh is a little puffy. There may be infection, thanks to you and your riding.”
“We can lead him into the stream,” she said. “Running water’s good for swelling. And I’ve a little salve in my pack. He should be right as rain in a day or two.” She used a green branch to pull hot coals over the spot where she’d buried the roots to bake. Dusting ashes off her hands, she said, “I’ve never cooked roots. I hope they’re fit to eat.”
“If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat dog and fight to get it.”
“I doubt that.”
He shrugged, not bothering to answer her. He wished he hadn’t spoken of the bad times to Tamsin. He didn’t know why he had. It wasn’t something he liked to think of, let alone tell a woman.
The old memories chafed at his mind as he went to the creek to fill the coffeepot with water.
He’d used his daddy’s birthday knife to try to kill the half-Mexican Comanchero that gray Texas morning. But he’d not been a man yet, and he had a lot to learn about fighting a bigger opponent. First, the trader had beaten him half to death, and then he’d tied him across his daddy’s horse and led him a hundred miles back to camp.
These renegade Comanche made a living stealing from the Texans and selling horses, loot, and captives south to Mexico. But Juan Fat Knee, the man who’d shot Ash’s father, didn’t trade him away. He’d kept him, as a cross between a slave and a pet, taking perverse pleasure in seeing how much he could mistreat a boy without killing him.
Ash had eaten dog all right. He’d gnawed the blackened bones and chewed the skin. It had made him so sick, he’d prayed to die, but he hadn’t. He’d survived to relish a lot worse, including raw horse meat and lizard so rank that the camp curs wouldn’t touch it.
He’d survived two years with the Comanche marauders, and come away wondering if the Lord wouldn’t have done him a favor by letting him take that bullet instead of his father.
When Ash returned to the fire, he silently added coffee, noting that there was only enough left for one more pot.
“Were you in the war?” Tamsin asked.
He nodded, glad for the excuse to stop thinking about the past.
“I thought you must have, giving your horse that name.” She looked at him through thick dark lashes. This morning she’d pulled her hair into a single knot on the back of her head, but curling strands had come loose around her freckled face. She looked fine, he thought, fine enough to kiss.
He’d been drunk the night before, but not so drunk he couldn’t remember the taste of her mouth or the feel of her womanly body cuddled up against his. He was glad she’d stopped him. Getting involved with Cannon’s lady friend and a woman who would likely hang for murder wasn’t a smart move.
“What side were you on?” Tamsin asked. “In the war.”
“You feel a need to talk all the time?”
“I asked you a simple question. Are you ashamed of the answer? Did you fight for the North or South?”
“North. I don’t hold with slavery.” Couldn’t, he thought, not after knowing what it was like to be a slave … to be owned body and soul by Fat Knee.
“I never could stomach slavery either,” Tamsin said. “But my home was in Tennessee, and all my friends and relatives were for the Confederacy.”
She sat on a rock and offered him a faint smile. Her teeth were even and white, pretty teeth in a pretty mouth.
“My dead husband, Atwood, should have joined the army, but he kept finding excuses,” she continued. “Once, he even broke his own foot with a hammer to keep from going. He was a coward, of course.”
“Don’t sound like a man I could have much respect for,” Ash said.
“Me either. Not then, not now.”
When the food was ready, they ate. The deer meat was good, the roots gritty and tough. His coffee, as usual, was strong enough to melt nails.
Afterward, Tamsin and he walked to the stream to wash. Then he pulled the handcuffs from his belt. “Arms behind you,” he said. “It’s lockup time.”
“What?” Her face paled. “Where am I going to go?”
“Don’t even bother. All the sweet talk in the world won’t help me if you decide to murder me when my back’s turned.”
“No!” She stepped away, then turned to run toward the horses.
He caught her in a dozen strides and wrestled her to the ground. “Lay still!” he shouted. Holding her without hurting her was like trying to pin a bee-stung badger with one hand tied behind his back. Tamsin kicked and twisted, pulling out of his grasp and crawling away.
He grabbed her ankle, and she kicked him in the chin with her other foot. Ash swore as he seized the hem of her skirt.
“Damn you,” she cried, rising up on her knees and planting a solid fist square in the center of his forehead. “You … you Yankee bully! Stop that!”
“You made the rules between us,” he answered grimly as he straddled her. “Now you pay the price.”
Chapter 9
“No! Not again!” Tamsin cried.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The blow to Ash’s chin and her last well-aimed punch had set his head to throbbing. Shame at having to manhandle a woman, any woman, this way fueled his anger toward her and sickened him.
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t put those things on me. What if the cougar comes?” Tears filled her eyes, but she was still fighting him with every ounce of her being.
“Be still, damn it!” He didn’t want to hurt her. But neither was he fool enough to let her murder him. “You’ll try something the minute my back is turned.”
“I won’t.”
She twisted and bit his arm, and when he let go of his hold on her to pull away, she balled her fist and punched him again. The blow glanced off his bad shoulder, sending a jolt of excruciating pain up his neck.
Anger dulled his chivalry, and he captured her flailing fist and pinned it roughly against the earth. “Don’t lie to me!” he flung back. “You’ll jump on one of those damned horses and ride out of here to find Cannon. And … And … I’ll have to hunt the both of you down.”
Tamsin’s breath came in hard, deep gasps, but she wouldn’t stop struggl
ing. Face flushed, bosom heaving, she strained against him, transforming his honest anger to something darker.
His knees clamped tighter around her hips.
Having her helpless beneath him shattered the barriers he prided himself on possessing. He shuddered, caught in a sudden rush of primitive lust that any decent man should keep in check. In vain he tried to smother a devilish urge to lift Tamsin’s skirts and drive himself between her warm, soft thighs.
The woman scent of her filled his head. He knew he was stronger than she was. He could have her here and now. Maybe she even wanted him to do it. Ash groaned and swallowed the sour gorge that rose in his throat.
Maybe he was no better than the scum he’d vowed to destroy—the outlaws who’d raped and murdered his wife.
The thought washed over him with icy dread. “I’ll let go if you keep your hands to yourself,” he managed.
She gritted her teeth and glared at him with green hellfire in her eyes. Suddenly, as if she realized what she was doing to him, she stopped squirming. A flash of terror crossed her face.
He felt like dirt. “Truce?”
“For how long?”
Frightened or not, she wasn’t cowed. “Today. Tonight,” he rasped. His loins ached with need. He had to take his hands away from her, had to put distance between them before he lost control.
“Until daybreak tomorrow?”
He nodded and slowly got to his feet, turning away to keep her from seeing his obvious arousal. He removed his gun belt and flung it across the creek. “Go for my rifle and you’ll regret it,” he said thickly as he dropped belly down on the rocky streambank. Melting snow from the mountain peaks fed the tumbling course, making the flow slightly warmer than freezing. Bracing himself for the shock, Ash scooped up handfuls of running water and splashed his face and arms.
The frigid water couldn’t wash away his desire, but it did keep him from making a total bastard of himself. He glanced back at her to make certain she wasn’t stalking him with a rock. “You pack a mean right,” he said.
Tamsin’s freckles stood out starkly against milky white skin. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. Fear was still evident in her expression. She looked at him as if she expected him to tear off her skirts.
The hell of it was, he wanted to.
Ash dunked his entire head under the water and came up sputtering. Need churned in his loins. He wanted to see the shape of her breasts and bury his face between them. He wanted to taste her skin and feel her nipples harden against his tongue.
He stripped off his boots and socks and plunged into the stream. The water was only waist deep but swift, splashing over and around the mossy time-washed boulders that littered the ancient streambed. He submerged completely, letting the sting of the cold liquid wash away the evil from his mind.
He came up gasping for air.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Tamsin demanded. She stood on the bank staring at him. Her clothes were dirty and disheveled, and her glorious red hair hung over her shoulders in wild abandon.
Ash took one look at her and dived under again. He might not be able to quell his growing attraction toward her, but he could cool his ardor. This time when he surfaced, he brought his sense of humor with him. “Come on in,” he dared. “The water’s fine.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
He laughed. “Probably.”
“You expect me to undress?”
He shook his head. “Hell, no. Come in like you are. What better way to wash your clothes?”
Tamsin glanced toward the horses.
“Don’t even think it,” he warned. “We’ve a truce, remember? You gave me your word.”
“Under duress.”
Goose bumps rose on his skin, and his teeth began to chatter. “Where’s your nerve, woman?”
A mischievous gleam danced in her eyes. “How do I know you won’t hit me with a rock?”
He laughed again. “If I didn’t finish you off after you punched me, you’re probably safe until dark. Then I mean to throw you to that mountain lion.”
She tugged off her left boot, raised her skirt, and rolled down one black stocking.
Damned if she didn’t have a fine-looking ankle. Her bare foot was narrow, high-arched, and very clean. He’d always liked his women clean. “Hurry up,” he said brusquely, “before I come out and throw you in.”
She removed her second boot, quickly shedding the other stocking and then her vest. She undid the top two buttons on her bodice, but before his imagination got too randy, she held her nose and jumped in.
She shrieked as the cold water closed over her. The current knocked her off balance, and she fell on her bottom. But before the force of the water could wash her onto the rocks, he caught her around the waist.
Tamsin clasped his neck, and before he realized what was happening, her mouth was on his. Instantly, incandescent desire leaped between them, drawing him deeper into a fevered kiss of searing heat.
His heart thundered as her lips parted to receive the thrust of his tongue. He felt her tremble in his arms, and his craving for her came flooding back.
She urged him on with tiny whimpers of pleasure as he molded his body to hers, crushing her against him. Then he tore his lips from hers and began to kiss her neck and the soft rise of her bosom.
“We can’t,” she murmured. “Not like this.”
He groaned in disappointment but made no effort to stop her as she broke from his arms and sank into the water. Seconds later, she scrambled up. The dazed expression was gone, replaced with laughter.
“Let’s get out of here before we drown each other.”
Swearing under his breath, he climbed the bank and helped her up, trying not to think how perfectly Tamsin’s hand fit his. Her fingers were long and graceful. He wondered how it would feel to have them stroking him … touching him.
Awkward silence hung between them for a heartbeat; then she laughed again. “I hope you’ve got dry clothes,” she said matter-of-factly. “If not, you’re going to catch your death.”
“I do.” His mouth still tingled from the touch of her lips. His arms remembered how she felt.
This is Cannon’s woman, he reminded himself. You’re playing with fire.
“What have we started?” she asked, almost as if she could read what was going on in his head. Then she shook her head. “I’ve never kissed a man like that. Never knew …”
She’s lying, he thought. She has to be lying. But the words slipped out. “Me, either.”
“I hope not,” she teased. “You don’t seem the type to kiss a man at all.”
“Hardly.” He drew in a deep breath. “What are we going to do about it?” To hell with Jack Cannon. Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe the outlaw was nothing to her, but that didn’t matter now. What was real was the ache in his gut and the need to hold her again.
“Under the circumstances? Nothing.” Her eyes held him. “Unless …” She sighed. “I’m a respectable woman, Ash. I’ve never been with a man, other than my husband.… not in the biblical sense. And I’m too old to learn new tricks.”
“I’m not.” He stripped off his wet shirt and fumbled with his belt. “And I don’t think tricks was the word you were looking for.”
“Where are your manners?” She turned her back. “I’ve dry clothing in my bags. Do I have your permission to fetch them?”
He peeled off his soaking pants and stood bare in the sunshine. The radiating warmth felt like a taste of heaven. “Why didn’t you go for my rifle and shoot me while I was in the creek?”
She kept facing away from him, but he saw her muscles tense. “I’m not a murderer.”
“So you keep telling me.” So they all said. He’d never known a killer to admit his crime.
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 order
ed. “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.
Judith E French Page 9
