“We’ve a truce for today, remember,” she murmured, wondering why a man of such obvious character had become a bounty hunter.
Ash moistened his lips. “So we have.”
“Then I believe you should show courtesy by answering my—”
“I’m a widower,” he answered abruptly. The coffeepot tilted to one side, and Ash grabbed the metal handle to keep it from spilling. “Damn!” Snatching his burned finger back, he popped it into his mouth. “See what you made me do?”
Tamsin chuckled. “Look, Lord, see what the woman you gave me has done. She made me eat that forbidden apple.” A smile lit her eyes. “I’ve heard that one enough. Why are men never willing to take the blame for their own mistakes?”
“You’re one of those, are you? A man hater.”
“Me?” She chuckled again. “Not at all. I grew up around men. My grandparents raised me, and my grandmother lived in a world of her own. Actually, I’ve always preferred men to other women. Women never say what they think.”
“And you do?”
“Usually.” She pointed to the venison. “Mind that. It’s cut thin. It will overcook if you don’t—”
“You’re bossy, too.”
“That’s true. Although people rarely accept my good suggestions. Do you have children?”
“None that I’ve ever heard of.”
“How did you lose your wife?”
“Didn’t lose her. She was murdered.”
“How terrible for you,” Tamsin said. “I’m sorry I—”
“No reason for you to be sorry. You didn’t cause her death.” His eyes clouded. “Like as not, you’ve seen your own share of trouble.”
“Atwood?” She shook her head. “I never shed a tear over his grave.”
Ash stood and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “You must have cared for him once. Why did you marry him?”
She glanced away. That was a question she’d asked herself a thousand times. She guessed she’d done it because her granddad wanted her to.… Because she was a poor judge of men’s character.
“Stupid, I guess,” she said to Ash. “Very young and very stupid.”
“If that was a crime, I’d have more work than I could handle.”
She tilted her head. “Did you love her … your wife?”
He didn’t answer with words, but she needed none. Ash’s craggy features grew taut, and his eyes narrowed. “You ask too many questions.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
He drew in a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“No,” she countered. “Not long enough.”
His Adam’s apple flexed. His shirt lay open at the throat. His skin was sun-bronzed and tinted with gold.
Tamsin knew it must be a sin to envy a dead woman. “She must have been special.”
“She was.” The affirmation came so softly that she nearly missed it. “She was to me.”
“Did she die while you were away at war?”
“You worry a man like a dog with a bone. Let it lie.”
She nodded. “I’ve a tear in my skirt. Is it all right if I fetch thread and needle and stitch it after breakfast?”
He poured her a steaming cup of coffee. “Do as you like so long as you stay away from the horses and my guns.”
She set the tin mug on the rock to cool and accepted a portion of the deer meat. It was tough and chewy, but she was hungry. “You’ve a loose button on your shirt,” she said when she’d eaten two pieces of the venison. “I could mend that, too, if you like,” she offered.
“I can sew it myself. No need in you doing me favors.” His voice hardened. “We’re heading back tomorrow, Tamsin. You can’t sweet-talk me out of that.”
“I don’t trust that Sheriff Walker. For all I know, he and Sam Steele were part of the plot to steal my horses. They’re worth a great deal of money, you know. Fancy’s bloodline goes back directly to the Godolphin Arabian, and Dancer is descended from both the Byerley Turk and Bulle Rock.”
“They’re fast enough on flat ground, I imagine,” Ash replied, ignoring her comments about the sheriff and the dead rancher. “But with those long legs, your horses aren’t bred for these mountains. I’d rather have a tougher mount, smaller, stockier, deep chested, something with mustang blood. You take your average mustang. They’d look like coyote sh—”
Ash flushed slightly and continued. “I mean to say they look like coyote dung next to your high-priced animals, but they can live on scrub and weeds, and they’ve got staying power. They’re tireless. Give them a little decent feed and the proper training, and I’d put a western pony up against any fancy horse in the country for covering ground or working cattle. Hell’s fire, woman. Your thoroughbreds have style, but they’ll get those long legs tangled around a steer and end up under him.”
“I’m taking them to San Francisco. With all the gold men have found in California, there’ll be a market for racehorses,” she said.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe you will get clear of this trouble and find your way over the Rockies and across the desert, through Indian country, past the desperadoes and the desperate would-be miners with gold fever. I hope you do. But I doubt it. Even if you’re found innocent and released, I wouldn’t give you the chance of a rabbit in a bunkhouse of ever seeing the Pacific.”
“You’re not the first one to tell me that,” she answered softly, “and you won’t be the last to be proved wrong.”
Chapter 10
The day passed quickly for Tamsin. Under Ash’s stern supervision, she examined the horses’ hooves and led Shiloh into the creek so that the running water would ease the swelling.
“He’s a fine animal,” she said after she’d anointed the scrape on the gelding’s leg with a healing salve. Ash’s fingers brushed hers as she passed the animal’s lead line to him, and she felt a tingling sensation up and down her arm.
She pulled away quickly, but Ash seemed not to notice. He hobbled Shiloh and turned him out to graze with the other two horses. Ash’s hands were gentle as he handled the animal, and again, Tamsin observed how gracefully he moved for a big man.
“You’re good with horses,” she said. It had been her experience that a man showed his character when he dealt with animals.
Ash’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. It seemed to her as though he’d been staring at her since they’d kissed in the creek. She didn’t know whether the uneasiness she felt was fear or attraction.
Forcing a smile, she tried to ease the tension by making ordinary conversation. “How did you pick that name for your horse? Were you at the Battle of Shiloh?”
“Nope. I’ve never been east of the Mississippi.” Ash plucked a few leaves from a clump of wildflowers and ate them. “Try it,” he said. “It’s yellow monkeyflower.”
Tamsin tasted the leaves and grimaced. “Sour.”
“Just takes getting used to, like a lot of things in this country. Eating just meat or fish will sicken you if you stay in the mountains long enough. Think of this as lettuce.”
“Maybe it would be better with oil and vinegar,” she suggested, but forced herself to chew and swallow a little more of the odd vegetation.
Ash folded his arms over his chest and rested his back against a tree. “I bought the horse from a Pennsylvanian heading to Arizona. He told me the gelding’s name was Shiloh.”
“But you did fight in the War between the States?”
He nodded. “It’s easy to see you’re from back east. Folks out here in the west prefer to forget what’s happened in the past. They look on too much curiosity as prying into what’s private.”
Tamsin settled onto a mossy outcrop and curled her legs under her skirt. “You fought with the Union,” she persisted, ignoring his broad hint.
His eyes were as dark and glittering as an Indian’s. Looking into them, she could read a will as strong as her own … and something more … bone-deep sorrow.
“Colorado volunteers,” he answered.
“I wasn’t in too long, but what I saw was hot enough. We went head to head with Sibley’s Texans at a place called Glorieta Pass.”
“In Colorado?”
“New Mexico.”
She stroked the soft green moss with her fingertips and waited. For minutes there was no sound but grazing horses, the gurgle of rushing water, and the melodious whistle of a wren echoing down the canyon.
“I was wounded at Glorieta,” Ash said huskily. He slid a lean hand down his upper leg and massaged a spot midway between knee and hip. “The ball missed bone, but it bled like hell. It got infected, and I spent nearly a year recovering.”
A picture formed in her mind of Ash lying near to death, leg swollen, and skin burning with fever. She shuddered. “After that?”
He gestured with his hands. “Hostile Indians and cutthroats were raiding outlying ranches—stealing, burning, murdering innocent folks. When my leg mended good enough to ride, I gathered a few friends and we organized a home defense force.” Ash shrugged. “Never did get back into the war proper.”
“At least you volunteered,” she replied. “Even if it was for Lincoln.” She sighed. “More than I can say for Atwood.”
“How did he die?”
She didn’t miss the suspicion in his voice. “Don’t look at me. I was at a church meeting the night he drowned in a mud puddle behind Lacy Satin’s River House. Nine gentlemen swore that Atwood left the establishment stone broke and too drunk to ride.” She shook her head. “Not that it mattered. He didn’t have a horse left to ride home on. He’d just lost my gray Tennessee walker, Alabaster, to a Yankee lieutenant in a hand of poker.”
Ash frowned. “Sounds fortunate for you, to be rid of such a husband.”
“Yes and no. I’d not wish Atwood dead, although I did wish him in China many a night. I’m glad to be rid of him, but he cost me dear. A woman may as well be a slave under the law. Her husband has complete control of her funds.”
“Slavery’s done with.”
“Not for wives. If we had the vote—”
“Why stop at the vote? Why not a woman governor of the territory?”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said. “Do you truly believe that women are born inferior to men?”
He pushed his hat brim up with a long forefinger. “I’ve known women who would put most men to shame when it came to thinking. My Becky was one. But I never heard her clamoring to vote. I expect she was content to leave such matters to me.”
“But why?” Tamsin demanded. “Why should only men have the vote?”
Ash scoffed. “Damned if I know, Tamsin. It’s always been that way. It’s not a thing that’s ever kept me awake nights wondering about.”
“Maybe you should.” She remained silent for a few minutes, then leaned toward him slightly and asked, “Were you really a prisoner of the Comanche when you were a child?”
He shook his head. “Outlaw Comanche. No self-respecting Indian would have them in his village. They were outlaws, torturing, bloodthirsty killers. They robbed the Texans, other tribes, and the Mexicans.”
“How did you survive?”
He made a tight, bitter sound in his throat. “Who says I did?” He stared off into the trees. “I wanted to die, God knows. I prayed to die.”
“How did you get away from them?”
“I put a bullet through the man who murdered my father, took his horse, and rode south to Texas.”
“At ten? Eleven?”
Ash shook his head. “Twelve. I told you. I was with them for two years, give or take a month. It’s not too clear in my head.”
“They didn’t come after you?”
“Maybe. They sure as hell didn’t catch me.”
“Texas was your home? That’s where you grew up?”
He nodded. “Daddy was a Texas Ranger. I was born in the back of a wagon, somewhere north of Austin. I can’t tell you much about my mama, only that he claimed I got her black hair and that she came from a highfalutin family in New Orleans. He said her folks were French, that they’d lost all their money and come west to make a new start. I wouldn’t know about that. She ran off with a man named Jules Valjean when I was two weeks old, left Daddy a note telling him that she couldn’t abide Texas or raising a child on the frontier.”
“Your mother just left you?”
“Left us both. Daddy never married again. He brought me up himself. He was a federal marshal when he was killed.”
“Did you have family to go to when you got back to Texas?” she asked.
“Uncle Matt and Aunt Jane took me in. They weren’t real kin. Uncle Matt was a ranger, same as my daddy. The two of them were close as brothers. I was loco as a bee-stung mustang and half-starved, but Aunt Jane filled me full of hot soup and biscuits, scrubbed off two years’ worth of dirt, and tucked me into her feather bed. I must have slept for three days straight. When I woke up, Uncle Matt was sitting there beside me with tears rollin’ down his cheeks.”
Ash’s voice grew husky with emotion. “I needed somebody, and I guess they did, too. They never had any kids of their own that lived. I stayed with them until I was seventeen. Then they died of spotted fever, and I quit school and hired on to drive a herd of cattle out here to Colorado.”
“It must have been very difficult, losing your father and then your … your aunt and uncle.”
“Aunt Jane didn’t have more than eight years of schooling, but she was the finest lady I’ve ever known. As for Uncle Matt, just ask any decent folks in Texas about Matt Bell. They’ll tell you that they don’t make men like him anymore.”
“I never knew my own mother,” Tamsin began. “She—”
Suddenly Dancer threw up his head and whinnied. Fancy sidled close to him and stared down the valley, the way that they had come the day before.
Tamsin tensed and her heartbeat quickened. “The cougar?” she whispered urgently. “Do you think—”
“Quiet!” Ash went to the campfire and retrieved his rifle. His pistol hung around his waist. He’d recovered the handgun earlier. “Bring the horses into camp,” he said.
“All right.” She tried to whistle, but her mouth was so dry that it came out a squeak. But Fancy’s keen ears caught the sound. Instantly, the mare turned to look at her. Tamsin whistled again, and Fancy trotted toward her with the nervous stallion close behind.
Ash scanned the woods line as she put a rope on Fancy and tied her to a tree. A jay screamed a warning overhead. On the ground, a few yards away, a squirrel raced by, then scampered up a trunk and vanished in the green leaves.
“Shall I fetch Shiloh as well?” Tamsin asked. She pressed her hands against her sides so that Ash wouldn’t see her trembling. She could imagine the mountain lion leaping on her as it had before. Her legs felt as though they were made of wood.
“Might as well.” Ash’s dark gaze continued to rake the surrounding forest. “Something spooked the horses. It may be nothing, but you don’t make many errors in judgment in these mountains and survive.”
Then, as Tamsin forced herself to step out of the shade and into the sunlight of the clearing, she caught a flicker of movement on the far side of the creek. “There!” She pointed. Something black appeared, then vanished again in the thick foliage.
Ash took careful aim at the bushes with his rifle. Dancer snorted and muscles rippled beneath his glossy hide. Tamsin didn’t move.
She waited, expecting to hear a bear growl or the cougar snarl. But to her surprise, the sound that rose from the brush was a whine.
“It’s all right,” Ash called.
“I don’t—” Tamsin broke off as the Utes’ black dog emerged from hiding. The wretched animal’s tail curled between his legs and his belly hung close to the ground.
Ash crouched and slapped his knee. “Come here, War-et.”
Instantly the little dog plunged into the stream and paddled across. Wet and shivering, still whining pitifully, the dog slunk to Ash’s side.
“Where’s your master?” Ash murmured. �
��Where’s Mountain Calf?”
Tamsin grabbed the strawberry roan’s bridle and hurried back to the fire. “Why did the dog come back here?” she asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He patted the animal’s head. “Poor pup. He looks as though he’s had a rough time.”
Tamsin saw that one of War-et’s ears was bloody and that he was covered with scratches.
“Nothing deep enough to be a puma attack,” Ash said, answering her unspoken question. “But it’s odd he’d leave on his own.”
“He looks hungry. Do you want something to eat?” she asked the animal. Sad eyes stared back at her. She glanced at Ash. “Can I—”
“Yes, cut him off some of that venison. We’ve more than we can eat before it starts to turn anyway.”
Tamsin sliced off bits of raw meat and fed them slowly to the dog. When she decided he’d had enough, she shook her head. “That’s it. You’ll be sick if I give you more.”
War-et’s tail flicked hopefully.
“No more,” she said.
With a final whine, he curled at her feet.
“Maybe it chased the mountain lion and got separated from the Utes,” Tamsin suggested.
Ash remained alert, rifle cradled in the corner of his arm. “Maybe,” he replied. He didn’t think so. And suddenly, this hollow didn’t seem like a perfect campsite anymore. An uneasy feeling gnawed at his innards. “Saddle the horses,” he said to Tamsin.
“What?” She rested one hand on her hip and stared at him in puzzlement. “But you said—”
“Forget what I said. We’re backtracking. Now!” He began to kick dirt over the fire.
“You said that Shiloh’s leg should rest today. You—”
“Damn it, woman. Can you never accept a simple order?” He didn’t owe her any explanations. He had none to offer. And he’d already said too much to Tamsin. He’d told her about Glorieta Pass and Aunt Jane and Uncle Matt, private things he hadn’t spoken of to another living soul in years.
Something about Tamsin made him want to trust her with his innermost secrets, but common sense told him that was foolhardy. If he wasn’t careful, he’d let his personal life interfere with his job, and that was one rule he never broke.
Judith E French Page 10