He hoped Tamsin would be the key to catching Cannon, but he was torn between his feelings for her and his doubts about her innocence.
Devil take him, he didn’t believe Tamsin had murdered Sam Steele in cold blood, but if she killed that Cheyenne, she might have shot the rancher. And regardless of his doubts, he still had to take her in.
He’d chased down enough suspects to know that a man’s past, or a woman’s, had a way of catching up with them. Tamsin would never find happiness if she couldn’t clear her name. California wasn’t far enough to run. Sooner or later, a lawman or another bounty hunter would see her face and remember an old wanted poster. Rather than try to arrest her, he might shoot her down like a rabid dog.
Trouble was, Tamsin wouldn’t understand why his way was the only way. His daddy wasn’t an educated man, but he was smart. He’d always said that a person couldn’t twist and turn the law to suit themselves. Once a man started down that road, he was apt to lose sight of right and wrong.
It would be a hell of a lot easier if he hadn’t been born Big Jim Morgan’s boy, but it was too late to change that now. His father’s sense of right was part of him, and he had to follow that trail whether it was easy or not.
Drenched by the icy rain, Ash dashed back to the cabin. He opened the heavy door to see Tamsin sitting up in bed with a worried expression on her face. “It’s the middle of the night,” he said, throwing off the oilcloth and shaking himself like a wet dog. “Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes were large and frightened. “I woke up and you were gone.”
“Just outside.”
Damned if she wasn’t a fine sight, wearing nothing but a blanket. Her soft Tennessee accent poured over him like warm honey, making him forget the damp chill. If she kept staring at him like that, she’d have him on top of her, making promises he couldn’t keep.
“Nature called,” he said gruffly, trying to force down the rising ache that rose to tempt him from reason.
What had happened between them was physical, good sex between two lonely people, nothing more.
The argument didn’t sit right, and he tried to justify the notion as he threw his makeshift cloak over a chair and went to the hearth to dry off. By the time he’d built up the fire so that the bigger sections of log caught, she was standing beside him, her naked body wrapped in a blanket.
“I was afraid you’d left me,” she said, draping another blanket over his shoulders.
“Afraid I’d left you?” He grinned and let his gaze linger on the swell of her breasts beneath the worn patchwork squares. “After chasing you over half the Rockies?”
Her cheeks flushed pink in the firelight, and she stared at the floor. “I thought maybe the Cheyenne war party …” She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “I’ve never felt such hate before.”
“They have reason.”
“How can you say that? You killed—”
“I killed them. Yes.” He nodded. “I cut a man’s throat and shot another to keep them from murdering us. But I’ve seen more savagery out of whites than Indians. At Sand Creek, the Colorado militiamen crushed children under their horses’ hooves. They shot them like rabbits, and—”
“Stop.” She raised the blanket to cover her ears. “It’s too horrible. I don’t want to hear it.”
“ ‘Vermin,’ John Chivington called them. The good colonel led seven hundred men with howitzers down on Black Kettle’s sleeping village. ‘Kill and scalp them all,’ John said. ‘Little and big. Nits make lice.’ Can you imagine how grapeshot cuts through a buffalo hide tepee?”
Tamsin’s pale face grew white, but Ash continued, as much for himself as for her.
“The militia destroyed every living thing, dogs, ponies, and infants. The warriors fought all day, soaking the earth with their blood, selling their lives dearly to protect their women and children. And when the last Cheyenne brave fell, Chivington’s troops slaughtered the wounded and mutilated the dead.”
“No more,” she pleaded. “For God’s sake, no more.”
“I don’t imagine the Lord had anything to do with it. Chivington was a Methodist minister, a hero at Glorieta Pass, during the war. I didn’t like John much, but I respected him … then. No more. I’ve always wondered what could make a decent man forget religion when it comes to someone with a different skin color.”
“Come back to bed,” she urged.
“Yes, ma’am.” He went to the door and dropped the heavy wooden bar. “A little damp outside for travelin’, but that should discourage unwanted guests.”
She lifted the covers for him and slid over so that he could settle into the warm hollow in the mattress. He stretched out his legs and put his arm around her, pulling her against him. She came willingly and laid her face against his chest.
“I guess I sound foolish,” she murmured. “When I woke up and you were gone, I thought …”
“It’s all right, Tamsin. I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.” Not unless I have a chance to go after Cannon, he thought.
Why the hell was this so difficult? How was it that being near her, hearing her voice, touching her soft skin, drove him to distraction? She was tough as rawhide. He’d seen her courage in situations that would have had gritty cowboys soiling their chaps. But right now, she seemed as fragile as the pink-and-white-flowered porcelain Aunt Jane used to set the Sunday supper table.
He’d always been afraid to handle those fancy dishes. He hadn’t wanted to break one. That’s the way he felt about Tamsin at this minute. He wanted to wrap her in goose down and keep her safe …
… from him as well as from what waited for her in Sweetwater.
She inhaled deeply. “This is such a magnificent country, but it’s so hard. The violence …”
“There was bloodshed aplenty back in your Tennessee during the war, wasn’t there?” He stroked her hair and massaged the back of her neck and her shoulders until he felt her tension ease. “Even in your little town, you must have heard of neighbors—even family—turning against one another.”
“Yes, of course.” She shivered and crept closer to him, laying a hand on his chest. “I wanted to get away from all that. I wanted to start over in California. It’s a new place, new and clean.”
“So is Colorado Territory. You’ve seen a lot of the bad, but there’s good as well. There’s nothing so pretty as the sun coming up over the mountains or the smell of the air after a rain.”
She caught his hand and brought it to her lips. Tenderly, she kissed each knuckle in turn. “There are golden sunrises in California, I hear. The sun goes down over the ocean. It’s never cold there. There are giant trees and valleys knee-deep in grass. My horses—”
“You set a passel of store on those animals.”
“I have to. They’re all I have left of what was good in my childhood. My home … Granddad. Dancer and Fancy are all I have to build a future.” Her eyes glistened with emotion. “I raised them from foals, both of them, halter broke them, trained them to saddle.”
“You should have taken ship for California or joined a wagon train. Those horses might have cost you your life.”
She raised her head and looked into his face. “There are some things worth risking everything for.”
Her warm body took the chill from his bones, and he molded his hand to the hollow of her back. Outside the cabin, the rain showed no sign of letting up, and the steady cadence against the shake roof was strangely erotic.
“You’re right. There are things worth dying for,” he murmured just before he bent and kissed her. Then he asked her the question that weighed heaviest on his mind. “Tell me about Jack Cannon.”
She stiffened. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Leave that for me to decide. I want to hear it, all of it. No lies, Tamsin. I want the truth, if you can tell it.”
“I told you, it was nothing. I was working my way west, staying in this little town in Nebraska, Wheaton. I was a clerk in a general store, very little p
ay, but there was a clean room in the back of the building where I could sleep. And Mr. Harvey let us eat at noon and six. We could take cheese, crackers, dried fruit, even bread and pies that hadn’t sold and were starting to go stale. He didn’t charge me, so long as I ate in my quarters and didn’t tell his wife.”
“What does this have to do with Cannon?”
“He came into the store, and I sold him ammunition and a pair of expensive boots that Mr. Harvey had been trying to get rid of for a year. Jack told me that he was a rancher in town to purchase livestock. He seemed pleasant enough, but I’m no fool. He asked me to have dinner with him, and I refused.”
“You refused?”
“Yes. I was a woman alone without friends or connections in the town. I felt that I had to guard my reputation.”
“So you didn’t let him take you to eat?”
“Not then, not until he’d asked every day for nearly a week. Then he asked me if I was a churchgoing lady. I said that I was, and he suggested we attend services together.”
Ash felt a wave of disbelief sweep over him. “You’re telling me that Texas Jack Cannon, train robber, thief, and murderer, took you to church?”
“No, he didn’t. He stopped at the store on Saturday evening and told me that he couldn’t make church. Would I accept his apology and have Sunday night supper with him? We did. He was charming and funny, even a little old-fashioned. He bought my dinner a few more times, and then we went to a church social, and we rode together. My animals needed exercise.”
“After-church suppers and apple pie. This sounds better and better.”
“You wanted the truth,” Tamsin said. “I’m telling you.”
“Go on.”
“While we were riding, we stopped to water the horses, and he became … ungentlemanly. He implied that I had given him reason to expect more than friendship. We argued, and he tore my blouse. I slapped his face. He frightened me, and I drew Granddad’s pistol and told him I’d shoot him if he didn’t back off. He did, I mounted Dancer, and rode back to town. The next day, when he came to the store to tell me that he was sorry, I wouldn’t accept his apology.”
“Don’t imagine that went down well with Cannon.”
“It didn’t. He got very quiet, but I knew he was angry. He said that he wasn’t used to being refused, and that I’d regret it. That night, I delivered an order to a lady on the far side of town. We talked, and I didn’t get back to the store until after dark. Someone had forced their way into my room. Nothing was disturbed, but the latch was broken, and a meadowlark lay on my bed. Its neck was broken.
“I was terrified, and I went to my employers’ home and told them what had happened. They laughed and said the cat must have killed the bird, but they let me sleep there. The next morning, I left town. That’s it, that’s all there was to my association with Jack Cannon.”
“You never slept with him?”
“No! What do you think I am?”
“Did you kiss him?”
“No. Yes …”
“Yes or no?”
“That’s what we argued about. He tried to kiss me. He did kiss me, but I turned away. I wasn’t ready for that kind of attention from a man. And I wasn’t about to be forced into … into trading that for a few suppers.”
Ash exhaled softly. “You spin a fine tale, Tamsin. You want me to believe in your complete innocence, yet you defended Cannon soundly enough when I first—”
“I didn’t want you prying into my affairs. I was ashamed that I’d been taken in by him. I had no proof that Jack broke into my room. The cat might have killed the meadowlark. And I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t right, that I had led him on by riding out unchaperoned.” She paused. “I can understand why you can’t accept my explanation … after letting you …”
“Us, you mean?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t the same with Jack. He’s attractive, but …”
“He’s a sight prettier than me, if my memory serves me well enough.”
“He’s handsome, but almost too much so. It’s still hard for me to believe that a murderer and wanted outlaw would come into town and walk around as though he were an honest citizen.”
“But he frightened you.”
“Yes, when he kissed me.”
“And I don’t?”
“Not now,” she whispered.
“Maybe you should be afraid of me.”
“I don’t think so.” She sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you, Ash. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. I don’t want to think about Jack Cannon or the Cheyenne or even about California. I just want to lie here with you and listen to the rain on the roof.”
“Just listen?”
“Talk to me. Tell me about you when you were a child. Before your father died.”
“Was murdered.”
“Was it all violence? Don’t you have any good memories?”
“Once I rode a calf and won ten cents at a barn raising.”
“That’s better.” She closed her eyes. “Hold me, please.”
“I can do that.”
“Tell me something else. Something warm and happy. Something good that happened to you when you lived with Aunt Jane.”
“Hmmm, not school. I didn’t like that much. Or church, too much preachin’. Sam Houston.”
“Who?”
“Not who. What. Sam Houston was my cat. Aunt Jane gave him to me for Christmas one year. He was so tiny, he could fit in the palm of my hand.”
“A kitten? I thought children who grew up to be gun-slingers had wolves for pets. At least a mean dog.”
“I like cats. Always have. They’re independent.”
“What color was Sam Houston?”
“About the shade of your hair. Maybe more orange.”
She laughed and traced tiny circles on his bare chest with her fingertips. He cupped her breast with his hand and was rewarded with her sigh of pleasure.
“Keep that up, and you’ll wake the dead.”
“You mean, we could … again? So soon?”
He chuckled and brushed the cleft between her breasts with the tip of his tongue.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “I didn’t know. Once my husband … I didn’t know a man could …” She left the rest unsaid and began to massage his shoulders and neck.
His loins tightened. “A man can do a lot when he’s with you.” He rubbed his thumb over her swollen nipple and felt her growing arousal.
“I want to make you happy,” she murmured. “Tell me what to do.”
He groaned as her exploring hand slid down to caress his loins. “You’re doing fine on your own,” he managed.
“Make love to me again.”
She twisted so that she was sitting upright on top of him. Blood pounded in his head. “Woman,” he groaned.
She moved slowly, sensually, teasing him, heating the part of him that was already throbbing with need.
He wanted to tell her that he cared about her, that he believed her, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he let his hands and willing body speak for him. Touching her, feeling her body against his filled him with hot urgency.
“Tamsin … Tamsin …”
“I’m here,” she replied. “I’m here for you.” She slanted her mouth against his, scorching his flesh with a heated joining that left him breathless and aching.
Arching her back, she traced the outline of his nipples with her tongue, laving each one, then nipping at it until small bursts of pleasure rocketed through his veins.
“How do you want it?” he asked her. “Quick or slow?”
She laughed softly and nibbled on his left earlobe. “Slowly,” she teased. “Slow and sweet.”
“Witch.”
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he fought to control his response, giving her what she’d demanded, loving her with lazy deliberate caresses. And all the while she moved sensually against him, whispering and stroking his most sensitive spots, prolonging the exquisite pleasure until nature cou
ld no longer be denied.
Later Ash fell asleep and Tamsin lay awake in his arms still trembling inwardly with an excitement she never dreamed existed. She knew that what she was feeling had to be far more than a physical attraction.
Foolish, impossible thoughts tumbled in her head. She wondered what it would be like to bear Ash’s child, to grow old with him. She could almost picture the two of them sitting on a porch in California in the twilight, drinking lemonade, while their grandchildren chased lightning bugs in the garden.
Did they have fireflies on the west coast? Or was that another illusion, as far from reality as her horse farm? Ash had taken what was offered. They had not spoken of love or marriage, and she was worse than a fool if she expected more.
Her jaw tightened. Stubbornness had gotten her this far. She’d find a way to get to California, and she’d find someone like Ash to love her. She’d take her wedding vows in a church with flowers growing around the door, and she’d have her horses and her babies. Somehow … somehow she’d make her dreams come true.
Henry Steele stood by the window of his late brother’s bedroom and stared at the flashes of lightning on the western horizon. A small storm had passed over earlier in the evening, dropping a little rain on the pastures. They needed more water. It had been a mild winter and a dry spring. If runoff from the mountains was less than usual, the Lazy S stood to lose livestock.
That didn’t sit well with Henry, especially since he’d been left Sam’s entire estate in a will made years before Sam and Sarah had married. Even if he decided to sell the ranch and move to St. Louis as Sarah wanted him to, drought would bring the asking price of the land way down.
Throwing a robe over his naked torso, Henry walked quietly out into the hallway, taking care not to wake Sarah. The next door led to another bedroom and beyond that a parlor that had also served as Sam’s ranch office. He went in, struck a match, and lit the painted globe lamp on the oak desk.
A stubbed-out cigar lay discarded in an ashtray. Henry lit that from the lamp wick and rested his reading glasses on his nose. Settling onto a high-backed chair, he picked up the copy of the Rocky Mountain News and began to reread the headline story about the robbery and murders committed by Texas Jack Cannon and his gang of cutthroats. He’d gotten to the second page when he heard the door creak and glanced up.
Judith E French Page 16
