Morgan's Woman

by Judith E. French

  She took hold of his trailing rope and snubbed it tightly to Fancy's saddle while she strapped her possessions onto his back. All the while, Dancer stood motionless in the driving rain, as docile as a lamb.

  "You're impossible," she said to the big horse. "I'll trade you for a mule, first chance I get."

  Then she swung up into the mare's saddle and turned her back toward the town. She didn't think that anyone would expect her to run back to Sweetwater, and she remembered a half-built church about a mile beyond the settlement. If she could get there, she could change her wet clothing and plan a route of escape.

  She'd have to leave the trail and head directly into the foothills. Henry Steele would have the sheriff after her. She didn't think the judge was the type of man to let a witness walk away, not when she knew he'd shot his brother in the back…

  … as he'd tried to shoot her.

  Tamsin shivered violently. Henry Steele had nearly killed her. He wouldn't hesitate if he got her in his gun-sight again.

  She'd just have to make certain he never did.

  The wind-driven rain swept over Sweetwater, ripping at the shingles of Maudine's Social Club and rattling the glass windows. Thunder rolled in deafening volleys, making the hostesses of the bawdy establishment squeal and clutch at their customers and the piano player play louder.

  Raucous sounds of laughter drifted through the thin walls and added to the contentment of the solitary big man in Maudine's infamous bathroom.

  Ash Morgan groaned and settled back into the oversize tub, letting himself sink until only his nose and mouth were above the surface. Damn, but it felt good to soak his weary body in hot water.

  He submerged, then sat up sputtering and reached for the mug of warm milk on the stool beside him. He'd scrubbed himself with soft lye soap and rinsed under the shower before climbing into the bath, and he'd even paid Maudine extra to have the tub drained and filled with fresh water before he'd gotten in.

  Shelly, the black-haired lass who always welcomed him to the Social Club, had teased him about his desire for clean water and towels.

  "You're wastin' good money, Ash," Shelly said. "Maudine charges you four times the goin' rate for a bath. And there ain't nothin' wrong with them towels." She pointed to a heap of used ones in the corner. "A man what's washed already ain't so dirty."

  Nevertheless, he'd had his way. He liked his bathing alone, door barred, heavy wooden shutters closed and bolted, and plenty of good food and drink within reach.

  He rubbed a hand over his six-day beard. Hell's bells but he must look a sight. He'd trailed Dave Johnson and Nate Sanchez for three weeks, but the last one had been fierce.

  "Wonder if I'm getting a little old for this work?" he muttered to himself. It was a question he asked a lot lately.

  Lighting struck somewhere close, and the eerie glow illuminated cracks around the window shutters. It was a good night to be inside, he thought. And a bad night to be camped under the open sky as he'd done for the past month.

  A rap at the door caused him to bolt upright and reach for the loaded rifle propped alongside the tub. "Who is it?" he called.

  "Ain't you done in there yet?" Shelly pleaded. "There's two customers waitin' for a bath out here."

  Ash grinned and lay back in the water. A potbellied stove in the corner heated the rocks that made up the floor of Maudine's bathroom and kept the temperature pleasantly warm, no matter how cold it was outside. Ash had ridden thirty miles to get here today, and he wasn't about to be rushed.

  "Ash, please!"

  "Entertain them," he answered. "I paid for two hours, and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

  He scooped up a little soap and scrubbed his long hair for the second time. He needed a haircut and that was certain. He'd always worn his hair shoulder length, but now it was getting out of hand. If he didn't get to a barber soon, someone was likely to take him for an Indian and take a shot at him.

  He didn't need that.

  A bounty hunter had enough enemies. No reasonable man would go out of his way to make more. And Ash had always considered himself a reasonable man.

  If Johnson and Sanchez had understood that, they might both be alive tonight, instead of lying stiff as logs in the undertaker's shed. Big Nose Johnson was a common bushwacker. He'd ridden with Texas Jack Cannon since the war, but Sanchez was hardly more than a boy. Sadly, he'd taken up with the wrong sort and paid for it with his life. Bank robbery was bad business, and Texas Jack Cannon's gang had cut a swath from Missouri west.

  "Those that live by the gun…"Ash murmured under his breath. He hadn't wanted to kill either of them, especially not Sanchez. In the end, it was that or go under himself. A sensible man had to look out for his own skin, but he had two more deaths to explain to the Almighty on Judgment Day.

  Most of the road agents he was hired to hunt down were the scum of the earth, and somehow he'd gotten the reputation of being as bloodthirsty as his prey. It wasn't true, not by a long sight. Ash didn't like putting a bullet through a man and watching the light in his eyes fade. He believed in the law. No matter how high the reward, it always made him feel better inside to bring a desperado to justice. Unfortunately, most of them would rather be dead than face a judge and jury.

  "Come on, Ash," Shelly called through the door. "Come up to my room with me. The night's still young, and I'll treat you real good."

  "I know you would, sweetheart," he replied. Once, he had been desperate enough for a woman's soft embrace to go upstairs with her. The sex had been quick and hot. Shelly knew her trade well. But he'd caught the scent of other men on her body, and her laughter had been a shade too forced. He had paid her fairly, but he hadn't felt so good about himself the next day. And he hadn't purchased the services of Shelly or any other lady of the night since.

  An animal will rut with any female that takes his fancy, he thought. But when a man takes a woman, there should be more between them than just the physical act.

  He couldn't stop his thoughts from drifting back to this morning when he'd caught sight of Jack Cannon's woman. He'd been trailing her when his path had crossed that of Johnson and Sanchez.

  Tamsin MacGreggor looked too innocent to be with Jack Cannon, but there couldn't be two women in Colorado that fit that description. A fine-looking filly, tall as most men, with hair like molten copper, the Wheaton sheriff had said. And that's what had proved her undoing. Sunlight sparkling off those red tresses had nearly stopped Ash dead in his tracks.

  She looked as wholesome as a ripe apple, but her heart was probably as rotten as hell. It proved that you just couldn't tell what went on inside a female's head by her appearance. Aunt Jane had always said that a bad woman was worse than a bad man. Maybe she was right. Some women were drawn to ice-cold killers. Still, he wondered how Tamsin MacGreggor had fallen low enough to trail after a murdering coyote like Cannon.

  The bank trustees had sent for Ash the day after the robbery, and it had taken ten more days for him to get the message and arrive in Wheaton. The sheriff had told him that Tamsin MacGreggor had ridden out of town on a Monday morning. Texas Jack's gang had held up the First Nebraska Savings and Loan the following Friday, killing two innocent bystanders and the town deputy. Then, the way Ash figured it, the outlaws had divided the loot and split up.

  Sanchez and Johnson had nearly four hundred dollars on them in fresh bills, money Ash was certain they hadn't come by honestly. He'd deposited that here in Sweet-water, in Maudine's safe. First he'd pay for their burial; the rest he'd hold on to as a down payment on the reward offered for Cannon's gang.

  Texas Jack had vanished without a trace, as he'd done a dozen times before. But this time would be different. This time, Ash meant to watch Jack's lady. Sooner or later, he'd show up to claim her. And Ash meant to take him then.

  The impatient rapping came again.

  "Go away, Shelly," he said, beginning to be a little annoyed. "I'll take the room for the night, but I want clean sheets."

  "Good," she answ
ered.

  "I'll pay your fee, prairie flower, but you'll have to find another place to sleep."

  "What?"

  He laughed. "You heard me, Shelly. I'll take your bed, but all by myself. I want twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep, and you're just pretty enough to be a powerful distraction to any man's rest."

  Truth was, he couldn't think about black-haired Shelly just now. His head was too full of questions about the redheaded armful that he'd seen outside of Mrs. Fremont's boardinghouse.

  Chapter 3

  The following afternoon, Ash Morgan faced Henry Steele and Roy Walker across a table in the Sweetwater sheriff's office. "Are you certain that there wasn't a man there with her?" Ash asked." I can't see this MacGreggor woman committing murder and horse thievery on her own. Jack Cannon or some of his boys had to be in on this."

  Sheriff Walker scowled. "What do you take me for, Morgan? The woman killed Sam. That's plain enough. She went there to steal those horses, got caught, and shot her way out."

  Ash arched a dark eyebrow skeptically. "If Sam happened on the robbery, wouldn't he have been facing Tamsin MacGreggor? Either that or he was running from her, and I don't buy that. She may well have done the shooting, but if she did, Sam's attention was on someone else."

  "But Henry arrived right after-"

  The judge silenced Walker with an impatient wave of his hand. "How long have we known each other, Ash? Since before the war, right?"

  Morgan nodded. Henry Steele was no educated fool. He was shrewd, tough, and honest. If the judge hadn't seen anyone else there in the barn, they must have ridden out before he got there. Trouble was, the storm had washed away all the tracks. A cavalry regiment could have ridden through that barnyard during that downpour without leaving clear sign.

  "I saw Tamsin MacGreggor covered in my brother's blood and ready to ride out of his barn. She murdered Sam in cold blood." Henry stubbed out the cigar he'd lit and hardly bothered to take a puff on. He looked as though he hadn't slept. His eyes were bloodshot and sunk back in his head. "You know that there's been hard feelings between me and Sam for years. It's common knowledge that Sarah and I were keeping company before she married my brother."

  Ash nodded. "I heard as much."

  "What's that got to do with this woman being a murderin' horse thief?" the sheriff demanded as he slapped a warrant down in front of Ash. "Bring her in dead or alive and you'll get your reward. That's all you care about, isn't it, Morgan?"

  "Shut up, Walker," Henry said. "Whether I'm telling the truth or not has everything to do the murder. I'm the only witness. I fought with Sam the day before. I'm a logical suspect in his death." He fixed Ash with a steady gaze. "I didn't kill my brother. The MacGreggor woman did, and I'm offering a reward for her capture."

  Ash glanced from one man to another. He didn't know Walker well, but as far as he was concerned the sheriff was lazy, stupid, and worthless as a lawman. He wondered how such a fool had managed to get himself elected.

  "I've never been given a contract on a woman before," Ash said as he picked up the paper and scanned it quickly. "You say Sam was killed sometime before midnight."

  "That's right," Henry agreed. "I roused his cowhands and sent them after her, but they didn't find a trace."

  Ash glanced out the dirty window and mulled the information over in his head. Walker's office smelled of stale tobacco and unwashed bodies. The floor couldn't have been swept out since Noah was a pup.

  He knew that Jack Cannon had relatives not far from Sweetwater. It was possible that he'd find MacGreggor there, and more important, he'd probably find Jack and the remainder of his gang.

  "What's the matter?" Walker leaned over the table. "Ain't got the stones for this job? Don't tell me a big hombre like you is scared of a little ole gal?"

  Ignoring Walker's insult, Ash turned his gaze on Henry. "I trailed her here from Nebraska, but yesterday was the first glimpse I had of her. Tell me whatever you know about the woman."

  He didn't interrupt as Steele told him what he had on MacGreggor, hardly more than a description and the fact that she claimed to be from Tennessee.

  "Mrs. Fremont over at the boardinghouse might tell you something," the judge finished.

  "I'll talk to her and her guests," Ash replied. "I want to stop by the livery as well."

  "And all the while you're jabberin', she's getting farther away," Walker grumbled.

  Ash rose to his feet. He towered a good six inches over the ashen-haired sheriff. "I don't like you much, Walker. Unless you've got something solid to contribute to this conversation, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your opinions to yourself… before we have a serious disagreement," he added quietly.

  Steele pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. "You'll need this for expenses."

  "Nope." Ash shook his head. "I expect my pay when the job's complete. If I don't bring her back, you don't owe me two bits."

  "Not much chance of you failing, is there?" Steele said. "Ash Morgan always gets his man."

  Ash didn't comment. He wasn't infallible. He hadn't brought in Texas Jack Cannon yet. Jack and his boys were human rattlesnakes that Ash meant to send straight to hell the first time he had them in his gunsight.

  For a few seconds, the flames of hate deep inside Ash's soul flared stronger than his present company. Jack Cannon's image-all yellow curls and pretty-boy features- flashed back to haunt him.

  Then Walker broke through Ash's musings with a foul curse. "Morgan brings in more prisoners dead than alive."

  Ash stiffened. Maybe the sheriff's drooping mustache and fancy haircut reminded him of Cannon, but there the similarity ended. Texas Jack's eyes were gray and flat, as empty as shards of glass. His were killer's eyes, the kind that stalked a man's dreams. Walker's crossed ones were merely dull.

  "Safer that way, ain't it?" Walker continued. "For you? Dead men don't cause no fuss."

  Ash turned his back to Walker and offered Steele his hand. "I'm sorry about your brother, Henry. I'll do my best for you."

  "Watch yourself," Steele warned.

  "I will," Ash agreed. "I've gotten kind of fond of living."

  Four days later, in the mountains northwest of Sweet-water, Tamsin murmured and threw an arm over her face. She was only half-awake, still savoring the warm happiness of being a child on her grandfather's farm again. Both parents had died of cholera when she was too young to remember them, but her grandparents had given her all the love and caring anyone could ask for.

  In her dream, Tamsin had been sitting beside her grandfather on the porch swing, drinking lemonade and listening to Gram sing and play the piano in the front parlor. It was summer. The floor-to-ceiling windows were open, and the sweet words and tune of the old ballad "Lord Bateman" drifted out to blend with the chirping of crickets and the soft, rushing sounds of the river.

  They made a bargain, and they made it true,

  For seven long years to stand;

  If you wed no other lady,

  I vow to wed no other man…

  Something fuzzy rubbed across Tamsin's face, and she brushed at it, then opened her eyes with a start. Fancy was standing over her, nuzzling Tamsin's cheek with her warm nose. The mare pricked up her ears and blew gently through her lips.

  Tamsin chuckled. "What are doing? Trying to wake me?" She rubbed her eyes and looked around. The canyon seemed as peaceful as Eden. The sun was up, a golden disk in an azure sky. Overhead, a jay chattered noisily, and chipmunks scampered up and down the trees.

  Tamsin stretched and looked around for her stallion. "Where's Dancer?" As soon as she spoke his name, she heard an answering whinny and caught sight of him grazing just beyond a clump of bushes. She always left the horses loose at night.

  The mare nudged Tamsin with her velvety nose.

  "All right, all right." Tamsin stood up and rubbed the aching muscles in her back. "I must have slept away half of the morning," she murmured. Tonight, she would have to remember to make a bed of leaves to spread her blanket on.


  The first twenty-four hours after she'd fled Sweet-water, she'd done little more than ride. On the second day, she'd had to slow down and allow the horses to graze. Without grain or hay, she had to give them time to forage.

  She'd expected to be chased by a posse, but she'd seen no one. She'd ridden across flatlands and through foothills, forest and rocky slopes. She had a compass and a map, but even with those, it was easy to become confused and go in a circle. For the last two days, she'd been following a rocky creek upstream toward what she supposed must be the Great Divide, the high place where water ran either east or west toward the Pacific Ocean.

  Her plan was simple. She intended to travel through the mountain passes to Fort Bridger and then join a group going on to California. She didn't have enough money to pay her way, but she could work. Few men knew as much about horses as she did. She could treat their illnesses and injuries and even trim their hooves and shoe them if she had the right farrier tools and a proper forge.

  Tamsin's stomach protested. She was hungry, and she'd been hungry when she'd gone to sleep the night before. Unfortunately, there was little left in her saddlebags to eat.

  She hadn't planned on heading into the wilderness without restocking her supplies. She'd had enough food for the first days, and when that was nearly gone, she'd traded a packet of needles to an Indian woman for a hot meal, a container of dried berries and meat, and a birch-bark box of honeycomb. The old lady spoke no English, and Tamsin didn't understand a word she said in her own language. But they hadn't needed a translator to exchange goods.

  Before she'd left Tennessee, Tamsin had purchased a goodly supply of needles, good silk thread, and four pairs of German embroidery scissors. She'd expected to trade with people on her western journey, and the sewing things were light and indispensable.

  Tamsin had eaten the last of the honeycomb at noon yesterday. Since she'd run from Steele's ranch, she'd been afraid to make a fire. The weather had cooperated by being unseasonably warm for April, but she would need a fire this morning. She intended to have grilled trout for breakfast.