Chastity (27 page)

    Morgan's stomach grumbled loudly. It was almost noon, and he was hungry. The smell of Conchita's cooking had been teasing the men for the past hour, but food was far from his thoughts despite the sounds his stomach was making.

    He was tired of this! Things were going too slowly. He wasn't accustomed to waiting. The schedule he had set for himself had soured more in his mind with every passing hour.

    Morgan's hand squeezed tightly around the branding iron as the memory of Chastity's smile returned. The heat of it had lit a fire in his belly that was consuming him. Why had he felt the need to wait until they reached the mission before making his move? An incident on the trail was easy enough to arrange if he was cautious. He would appear unexpectedly to help her after the light-eyed bastard breathed his last. He knew all the right things to say. Chastity would lean on him then. He could bring her back to    the cabin to recuperate from her grief, and her dependence on him would deepen.

    And he would console her. Morgan's body tightened in response to thoughts of that consolation.

    His mind suddenly set, he threw the iron back into the fire. Responding to the men's inquiring looks, he said, "That's it for the day. Just make sure you put the rest of those steers back in the corral before you eat."

    Ignoring the men's surprised looks, Morgan turned back toward the house. He was pouring water into the washbasin when Conchita appeared in the doorway.

    "You come in to eat now, Morgan?"

    "No, I'm not hungry." He did not bother to look up.

    Conchita watched as he tossed his hat and shirt aside,
then
soaped his torso, face, and arms fastidiously.

    "You are going somewhere?"

    "That's none of your damned business!"

    He saw her lips tighten, and he scowled as he dried himself and slipped back into his shirt.

    "I'll be back in a couple of hours. I want my room cleaned up before I do. And I want your things out of it. Do you understand?"

    Conchita remained silent.

    
"Comprendes, puta?"

    Conchita's expression turned to stone.
"
S
?.
Comprendo… comprendo muy bien.
"

    Snatching up his hat, Morgan headed for the    barn. Mounted a few minutes later, he galloped past the men without a word.

    Simmons turned to follow Morgan's hasty departure with a surprised glance. "What do you suppose got into him?"

    Bartell gave a short bark of laughter.

    Slamming the corral gate behind the last of the steers, Turner joined the others as they started back toward the cabin. He growled, "You ain't that stupid, are you, Simmons?"

    "No, I ain't stupid. And Morgan ain't, neither, if you're saying he's headin' back down the trail. There's no way he'd make a move on that preacher's wife now especially in broad daylight!"

    "What's to stop him?"

    "Common sense, that's what!" Simmons shook his head. "I've seen Morgan hot for a woman before, but he
ain't never
lost his head."

    "It's time you wised up, Simmons." Turner would not back down. "Morgan's not thinkin' with his head
no
more. He ain't goin' to be satisfied until he's got that woman underneath him, and I got the feelin' it ain't goin' to be long before he does."

    Turner pushed open the cabin door. Ignoring Conchita as she placed food on the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down hard. He waited only long enough for the others to be seated before he continued, "Morgan ain't thinkin' straight anymore. It's time we start doin' some   thinkin' for ourselves if we want to get out of this territory alive."

    "You're all gurgle and no guts, Turner!" Walker interjected heatedly. "When Morgan gets back, you'll back down just like you always do."

    "Not this time! Not if I know I've got you all behind me."

    "Why should we get behind you?" Walker sneered. "You ain't never done nothin' to make us think you got half the brain Morgan does."

    "I ain't half as crazy as he is, neither."

    "He ain't crazy."

    "He ain't? Are you waitin' to see him bring the whole territory down around us before you admit it? Killin' a parson and takin' his wife when we're supposed to be hidin' out here and keepin' ourselves clear of the lawif that ain't the talk of a crazy man, nothin' is!"

    "He ain't crazy. And I ain't goin' against him."

    "That's 'cause you're yellow, Walker." Turner turned toward the others. "Are you goin' to listen to a yellow-belly like Walker so's you all end up catchin' a marshal's bullet?"

    "Morgan will be all right once he settles down again. He's smart. He ain't goin' to get himself killed over a woman. Besides, we'll be done brandin' them beeves in a few days and then we'll be out of here."

    "That's if we live to drive them out of the territory. He's crazy, I'm tellin' you! He"

    Turner halted in mid-sentence when he spied the pile of clothing folded neatly in the corner.

    He addressed the woman standing silently nearby.

    "What happened, Conchita? Did Morgan tell you to get your things out of his room? Maybe he told you to clean it up, too, because he was bringin' company back with him?"

    Conchita's smooth face went rigid, and Turner laughed aloud. "He did, didn't
he!
I don't believe it! I hit the nail right on the head!"

    Conchita snatched up her belongings and walked stiffly toward the door. Turner laughed again when she slammed it shut behind her. His laughter fading, he shot a victorious look around the table. "So, anybody else want to tell me that I'm not makin' sense?"

    "Morgan was sick of the whore, that's all. He wanted her out. That don't mean he's plannin' on bringin' that parson's wife back with him."

    "Want to bet your share of the take that he ain't?"

    Walker did not reply.

    "That's what I thought." Turner reached for a tortilla and filled it liberally from the plate in front of him. "I'm done talkin' for now. Morgan will do the rest of my talkin' for me when he brings that parson's wife back with him tonight."

    "You're crazy!"

    "All right, I'll make you a deal." Turner leaned forward, his heavy jowls sagging as he stared directly into Walker's eyes. "If I'm wrong, I'll shut up and stay shut up. But if I'm right and Morgan brings that woman back with him, I     want you all to agree that we'll start makin' some plans of our own."

    "And who's supposed to be the one to give the orders?
You?"

    "What are you afraid of, Walker?"

    "I ain't afraid of nothin'!"

    "You're sayin' Morgan ain't stupid enough to kill that parson and bring the whole territory down on usain't that right?"

    
"Right!"

    
"If you're so sure of that, you ain't got nothin' to lose.
If he brings that woman here, we start makin' plans of our own. If he
don't
, you ain't goin' to hear nothin' more about it from me."

    Walker did not reply. Turner scanned the faces of the men around him. "What do you say, boys? Are you goin' to wait for Morgan to get us all killed?"

    Simmons spoke up hesitantly. "Everythin' goes on as usual if Morgan don't bring her home?"

    
"Right."

    "And
we don't do nothin' unless we all agree
."

    
"Right."

    The silence stretched taut as Turner looked at each man in turn. Satisfied when each nodded his agreement, Turner smiled.

    "Let's eat."

    Turner folded the tortilla and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed enthusiastically, ignoring the silence around him as he reached for another before swallowing his last bite.

    "Damn, that was good! I just might keep
that  Conchita
on here. She's a good cook."

    "Don't go countin' your chickens, Turner."

    Turner smiled. "I'd watch what I say, if I was you, Walker. You're goin' to be takin' orders from me soon."

    Grumbles sounding all around were Turner's only response as Conchita walked back into the cabin. Invisible in their eyes as she always was, she picked up the coffee pot and refilled the cups as the meal continued.

    The wagon rocked steadily underneath her as Chastity came slowly awake. She stared at the bright sunlight slanting through the rear flaps of the wagon. Momentarily disoriented, she heard the fevered moans of her sisters as they lay beside her. She heard her father speaking, his voice deep with concern. Her heart jumping to a wild pounding, she raised a hand to her forehead in confusion. The voices faded when she touched the lump there.

    Chastity's mind cleared. That danger was in the past. She was in Indian Territory now. Reed was not really Reed. He was a bounty hunter. Mr. Jefferson was not really Mr. Jefferson. He was a rustler and a killer. They were not going to the mission to help the Indian children. They were headed toward disaster.

    Chastity raised herself slowly to a seated position. The dizziness with which she had awakened earlier had disappeared, and the pounding in her head had faded to a dull ache. But her cheek was sore and her clothes were dirty.

    Holding herself stiffly erect, she remembered something else, too. Reed had carried her back to the wagon after her fall. He had bathed her face and tended to her, his light eyes filled with concern. He had held her protectively close through the night.

    And he had said he loved her.

    The sound of Reed's throbbing voice returned, and Chastity closed her eyes against the pain the words evoked. Did she believe him? Were the words enough? She remembered that the incredible blue of his eyes had stared directly into hers as he declared in the next breath that he was going to leave her at the mission to go back after Morgan.

    The thought suddenly more than she could bear, Chastity struck it from her mind. The present offered pressing dangers. She needed to ready herself so Reed would not face them alone.

    Stripping off her stained clothing, Chastity reached for her case nearby. She withdrew her blue dress, gasping when she saw her image reflected in the mirror in the case. The right side of her cheek was bruised and swollen. The lump on her forehead was an ugly protrusion that was beginning to darken as well. Her eyes were darkly shadowed and her hair was filled with the residue of her fall. Her thoughts of the previous day returned. Truly, she was no longer the same woman who had boarded the train west several weeks earlier.

    The true irony of the situation was never    clearer. Reed was not really Reed. Chastity was not really Chastity. They had met, and the metamorphosis had been complete. There was no going back to what they once were for either of them.

    Chastity picked up her dress and slipped it over her head. Biting back emotion, she brushed the debris from her hair,
then
worked her way determinedly toward the front of the wagon.

    Pausing, Chastity took a stabilizing breath,
then
parted the flaps. Reed turned toward her. His brown brows drawn over his light eyes, he searched her face.

    "How do you feel, Chastity? Are you sure you should be up?"

    Her throat tight, Chastity could not respond. She saw a spark slowly come to life in Reed's eyes. She watched it gradually soar to flame. A sob of jubilation sounded deep within her when he wrapped his arm around her and swept her onto the seat beside him. His hand curled in her hair, holding her still as he covered her mouth with his.

    Reed's kiss lingered. It spoke words of silent promise, confirmed by the ardor in his gaze when he drew back from her reluctantly. When she spoke at last, the words came softly, with gentle earnest.

    "I love you, Reed."

    Reed's throat worked with obvious emotion. Wordless, he tightened his arm around her, a happiness mixed with pain clearly reflected in   his expression as he brushed her lips with another brief kiss. She felt the restraint that shuddered through him when he turned back to the trail ahead and snapped the reins for another burst forward.

    Morgan rode cautiously along the trail, his mind racing. The cabin and the work he had set to be accomplished that day left far behind him, he realized that his thoughts of the red-haired woman had become an obsession. By riding out of camp that morning, he had signaled a dangerous surrender to that dangerous emotion. But the thought excited him. The red-haired beauty presented a challenge he had never faced before. It lent so keen an anticipation to the victory he knew would be his that he shuddered at the thought of what awaited him.

    But the need for caution did not escape him. For that reason, he had proceeded carefully after his first rush from camp. He knew that the wagon could not possibly reach the mission before nightfall on a trail as rough as the one they traveled. He had time.

    Drawing his mount to a halt, Morgan surveyed the trail from a rise above it. Going still when he saw dust rising in the distance, Morgan waited. He was rewarded moments later by the sight of the bulky wagon lumbering into view.