Judith E French (6 page)

“Stay where you are,” he warned, motioning toward the dead cat. “I didn’t use all my shots on him.”

He lit another match and kicked some leaves and sticks into a heap on a flat section of bare rock. In no time, he had a small fire. The MacGreggor woman still hadn’t made a sound or moved a muscle.

“You’re not deaf, are you?” he asked. He rolled the dead animal over, proved to himself that it was a male, and noted the crippled hind leg. The cougar was young, maybe a two-year-old. Ash reckoned the animal’s weight at nearly two hundred pounds, but he was thin and in poor shape. His ribs stood out like fence slats, and his tail was matted and balding in spots.

He knew that most mountain lions feared the scent of man and stayed clear of them. Doubtless this one’s weak leg had hurt his ability to hunt game. If the animal had been stronger, he decided, it would have attacked the horses instead of a human.

He felt a pang of sympathy for the cougar as he ran his fingers over the tawny hide. You’re better off, he thought. A bullet’s easier than a slow death by starvation.

The wounds were easy to find. Two of his shots were killing ones, one had shattered the cat’s bad hip, and another had missed altogether.

Ash shrugged. The middle of the night wasn’t the best time for hunting predators. A few seconds later with the last shot and either he or Tamsin MacGreggor would have had a lifetime reminder of the incident, provided they’d survived to remember. A cat this size, even a crippled one, had razor teeth and claws that could disembowel a human in seconds.

The woman sat up and brushed gravel off her hands.
“You could have killed my horse.” Her voice was throaty and southern, but she was clearly educated.

Ash’s eyes narrowed. She was scared, but obviously trying not to show it. “I saved your life.”

“My stallion would have killed the beast.”

He scoffed. “The horse that’s still running down the canyon?” She was beyond the circle of firelight, too far away for him to make out the color of her eyes or the expression in them. He wondered if her answer was false bravado, or if she was that naive. “You believe that stud would have stood and fought that cougar, and I could convince you to hand Texas back to Mexico.”

“He would have killed him! Dancer didn’t run until you started taking shots at him.”

“You’re under arrest,” he said quietly. “I’ve a warrant on you for murder and horse thieving.”

“I didn’t kill that man.”

“An eyewitness says you were covered with blood.”

“I rolled him over to see if he was alive. I didn’t shoot him.”

“I’m authorized to bring back runaway felons,” he said, ignoring her protests. “Keep your hands where I can see them, and move over into the light.”

She rose to her feet. “Are you a lawman?”

“Not exactly.”

She stiffened. “You’re taking me back to Sweetwater for money, aren’t you?”

“Partly. Partly because I don’t approve of murder.”

“You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Morgan. I’m no criminal. The horses were stolen from me in the first place.”

She was tall and big-boned for a woman, but she moved with the fluid grace of a yearling doe. “That’s far enough,” he warned gruffly. “Don’t try anything foolish.” He tapped his holstered pistol. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

“Sam Steele was dead when I found him.” She smoothed her skirts as if she were standing in church instead of a steep hillside in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s not my job to decide who killed him. It’s my job to bring you back, dead or alive.”

“You’re trying to frighten me. If you’d wanted me dead, you would have let that thing”—she motioned toward the cougar—“devour me.”

“Maybe I should have. You made this personal when you stole my supplies. I’d rather see you stand trial.”

She didn’t back down. “I didn’t take your bread and cheese. I traded fairly for them.”

“Needles?”

“Good ones, imported from Germany. Actually, I’m not certain I got the best of the deal. The biscuits were rather tasteless and the cheese—”

“Never mind the cheese,” he snapped. “Are you armed?”

“What?”

Ash felt his patience draining away. “Are you carrying a gun?” He liked to think he could remain a gentleman with any woman, regardless of the circumstances, but this Tamsin MacGreggor was exasperating. “I have to search you. I’ve got no interest in your body, so long as you’re not hiding a pistol or a knife.”

Her face blanched. “You mean to put your hands on me?”

He moved toward her. “So long as you don’t try any tricks, I won’t hurt you.”

She trembled as he patted her down. She wasn’t wearing a corset, and her breasts were soft. He tried to remember that she was part of Cannon’s gang. But when he stepped back and looked down into her face, he felt an odd unease, akin to shame.

“What? A bounty hunter with scruples?” she asked.

He ignored her sarcasm. “I’ve got to go back and get my horse. I’ll have to make sure you don’t run away on me while I’m gone.”

“Please …” Her voice cracked. “I won’t go anywhere. Don’t tie me. What if there’s another mountain lion?”

“Not likely,” he replied. “Pumas are solitary animals.”

“Pumas?”

“Pumas, cougars. They’re the same thing. I’ve heard old mountain men call them painters, as well.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Turn around.” She didn’t protest as he fastened her hands behind her back. “Sit here by the fire,” he ordered. “I won’t be long.”

Tamsin watched until he vanished into the darkness of the surrounding forest, then got awkwardly to her feet. Between the strong feral scent of the mountain lion and the blood, her stomach was doing flip-flops.

The terror of the cat’s attack and Ash Morgan’s sudden appearance had left her shaken. She was grateful that he’d come when he did. That didn’t mean she intended to meekly return with him to Sweetwater and face certain conviction for a crime she hadn’t committed.

Her fears for her own safety weren’t so great that she was able to forget the immediate danger to her horses. Her granddad had always taught her to do what was needed and save her tears for later.

Fancy and Dancer were somewhere out there on the mountainside, unprotected, perhaps even injured. She had to get to them, and she had to think of a way of getting free from this Ash Morgan.

She couldn’t act rashly out of panic. She’d made a bad mistake when she’d attracted the bounty hunter’s attention by taking his food.

She’d underestimated the man. And if there was one thing she prided herself on, it was in never making the same mistake twice.

Morgan was too powerful to fight with her wits and bare hands. She would need an equalizer.

Quickly, Tamsin began to search the area near where she’d fallen when the mountain lion attacked. It didn’t take long to find her revolver, half-buried in a pile of leaves. She knelt and fumbled for the handgun, praying that it wouldn’t accidentally go off.

It was difficult to pick up the Navy Colt with her hands cuffed. Twice she dropped the weapon, but finally, on the third try, she was able to tuck the weapon into the pocket under her skirt.

Her cheeks still burned from the indignity of having the stranger touch her where no man but her husband ever had before. He’d tried to pretend that he was unaffected, but she’d heard the change in his breathing when he ran his hand between her breasts.

“Snake,” she muttered. If he searched her again, he’d discover her hidden pistol. She’d have to make certain that she gave him no reason to be suspicious.

She couldn’t hear anything but the normal night noises, the rustle of branches, the moan of the wind through the rocks. She strained to see into the darkness. Dancer and Fancy must have run a long way, but she hoped the mare would find her way back.

In February, Tamsin had bred the two. Since Fancy hadn’t come into heat again, it was likely that she carried Dancer’s foal. It would be some time before the mare would swell with her pregnancy, but Tamsin hoped to be settled in California for the birth. That was another reason not to allow this Ash Morgan to drag her back to Sweetwater.

Her grandfather had often said that he was an honest man in a dishonest world. Well, she was an honest woman, and she was prepared to do whatever she must to survive. If it meant deceit, so be it.

A twig snapped and Tamsin turned to stare in that direction. “Fancy?” she called. She listened, certain that she heard the click of a horse’s hooves on stone.

Disappointment washed through her as the bounty hunter materialized out of the forest. He rode his mount into the firelight, then swung down out of the saddle.

“We’ll spend the night here, then look for the horses in the morning,” he said.

She stood and looked him over, beginning at the toes of his high, black leather boots and moving up over the tight-fitting trousers of pin-striped wool. Beneath the calf-length black leather coat, she caught a glimpse of a gun belt and a red shirt.

Morgan’s face was rough-hewn and clean-shaven. His skin was tanned to the shade of peach honey, and his cheekbones were high and sharp. A proud nose bore the faint marks of being broken more than once, and his lips were thin and sensual. The wide brim of a felt plainsman’s hat kept her from seeing the color of his eyes, but instinctively, she felt that they were as dark as his hair.

“Seen enough?” he asked, breaking into her intense scrutiny.

“Mr.… Mr. Morgan …” she began.

“Ash will do.”

She forced herself to think clearly. Morgan’s hands were clean. In the time he’d been gone, he’d obviously found water and washed away the mountain lion’s blood. It was strange behavior for a man of his following. Cleanliness, in her mind, was more an attribute of a gentleman. “My horses …” she stammered. “If they smell the cat, they may not come back.”

“My warrant’s not for the animals. It’s for you.”

“But … the creature stinks.” She wrinkled her nose. “Surely, you don’t mean to sleep in the midst of …”

“Normally I’d skin out the hide, but this one’s in bad
shape.” He stared at the dead creature for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I’ll drag it off into the woods if it bothers you.”

She nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

He took a rope from his saddle and looped it around the dead cat’s neck. Then he mounted and snugged the rope tightly around the saddle horn. His strawberry roan gelding flicked his ears nervously and rolled back his lip, but Morgan spoke to him in soft tones and urged him backward, step by step.

The cat’s carcass slid over the loose rock and gravel. Morgan guided his horse between the trees. Soon they were out of sight, but Tamsin could hear the crunch of undergrowth and the snapping of twigs.

She shivered, moved closer to the fire, and wondered if she had more to fear from this man than from the mountain lion. He didn’t seem a bully or a rapist, despite his rough exterior. She hoped that he wouldn’t assume that she was a woman of loose character because a warrant had been issued for her arrest.

Her grandfather’s old Colt revolver hung heavy on her hip, giving her comfort. She wasn’t helpless. If Morgan tried to lay hands on her, he’d suffer the consequences. She’d come this far—surely halfway to California. And no one was going to stop her.

“This used to be the border between the Southern Shoshone and Arapaho territory,” Morgan said as he returned, leading his horse. “In ’65, after the Sand Creek Massacre and the trouble that started, most of the Cheyenne and Arapaho were pushed onto reservations in Indian Territory. The Southern Shoshone moved north to join their kin, and I’ve heard reports of scattered bands of hostiles. These mountains are still wild, no place for a woman alone. Whatever red men or white that roam here, they’re to be steered clear of.”

He tied his gelding to a tree and proceeded to unsaddle the animal and drop a bedroll on the ground. “As I said, you’re safe enough from me, so long as you don’t try anything. You’d best curl up beside me here by the fire.”

“I’d sooner sleep in a snake den,” she answered fervently. “What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

“Suit yourself, but don’t be surprised if a diamondback crawls into the blankets with you.” He slid a .44-caliber Winchester rifle out of a saddle holster and stood it against a pine tree. “They slither out of the rocks this time of year, and they favor a warm place to sleep, the same as you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” She sucked in a deep breath. “How do you expect me to sleep with my wrists shackled?”

He tilted the brim of his hat and gazed at her across the fire. “On your stomach?”

“I think not.”

He studied her for a long minute; then the hint of a smile played over his thin lips. “All right.” He unlocked one cuff and snapped it around the loop of his lariat. “About six feet of rope should do you,” he said as he tied the other end to his forearm. “I warn you. Move sudden in the night, and I might take you for another puma and shoot you.”

Tamsin clenched her teeth to keep from saying the same thing to him. She curled up in her own blanket facing him.

A deep cough sounded from the woods higher up the ridge. Morgan reached for his rifle as brush crackled below them.

Tamsin rose on her knees and looked around anxiously. “What is it? What’s that—”

“Hush!” The bounty hunter was on his feet, rifle in hand, muscles tensed.

A branch snapped and a steel-shod hoof struck rock. Morgan’s roan raised his head and nickered. Morgan raised his rifle.

“Don’t shoot!” Tamsin struggled up and circled the fire until she stood beside him. “It’s my horses.”

An answering snort came from the forest, and two dark shapes loomed out of the night. Tamsin ran toward the mare and was brought up sharply when she reached the end of the rope.

“I told you. I said they’d come back. Good Fancy, good girl!” Her mane and tail were tangled and pine needles clung to her side, but she seemed sound.

Tamsin glanced back at Morgan. “You can put your rifle down. You’re hardly in any danger from these two.” Fancy stepped daintily forward until she was close enough for Tamsin to rub the horse’s velvet nose.

Dancer squealed and tossed his head.

“Yes, I see you back there,” Tamsin said. The stallion pawed the loose stones and grumbled in short, deep huffs.