"I'm not a drinking man," he answered. "Hardly ever touch the stuff."
"Don't lie to me. I smell it on-"
He cut her off with a kiss, a caress so hot and demanding that it seared her lips and took her breath away.
"Tamsin," he rasped.
She gasped as he threaded lean fingers gently through her hair and slowly drew her lower lip between his. She felt the tip of his warm tongue trace her sensitive skin and heard his nearly inaudible groan.
She tried to turn her face away, but his mouth found hers, and this time his kiss was so sweet and tender that her resistance crumbled.
Against her will, her lips parted and the tantalizing kiss deepened. He cupped her chin in one broad hand, sending giddy sensations spinning through her.
When he drew back, her lips tingled and an odd heat glowed in her stomach. She wanted to run, but her limbs were oddly weak.
He touched her face, tracing the line of her cheek with one rough finger.
"Don't," she protested. His breath was warm on her face, his mouth only inches from her own.
Another kiss sent her reason spinning.
"No!" She pushed him away, fighting sensations of heat that spread up from her core.
"What's wrong? You want me as much as I want you."
"I'm not one of your whores."
He pushed himself up on one elbow. "Sorry I'm not Jack Cannon."
"What?" She gave him a hard shove with the palm of her hand. "What does Jack Cannon have to do with this?" A numbing fear seeped through her. How did he know about Jack?
"Everything." Ash's voice deepened. "I know about the two of you. I've trailed you since Wheaton, Nebraska."
"You followed me? Why?" She balled her fist and struck him again. This time he caught her wrist and pinned it to the ground.
"Stop," she protested. "You're hurting me."
"I'll let go when you stop punching me."
"All right," she muttered.
He released her, and she turned her back to him, trembling with anger. "What happened between Mr. Cannon and me is my own business. None of yours."
"He was with you when you shot Sam Steele, wasn't he?"
"Jack?" She squirmed around to face him. "I told you, I didn't kill anyone. The judge shot-"
"Right."
She made a sound of disbelief. "You're drunk and a liar. I don't know why I'm even having this conversation with you."
"Lady, you could teach me a thing or two about lying. Jack Cannon's a thief and a killer."
"You must have the wrong man. Jack's a rancher. He-"
"Admit it, MacGreggor. You're his fancy woman, and that cakes you with the same horsesh-"
"Don't be vulgar. I am not his woman. He took me to dinner a few times. Period."
"Nice company you keep. Cannon's face is plastered on wanted posters from Texas to Arizona. He robbed the bank days after you left town."
She felt suddenly sick to her stomach. "I don't believe you," she insisted. It couldn't be true. Jack Cannon had a bad temper, and he didn't take no for an answer, but surely he wasn't a murdering criminal. She couldn't have misjudged his character that badly. "Why should I believe you? You lied to me when you said you hadn't been drinking."
"It wasn't anything that could be avoided, more of a medicinal swallow than anything else."
"Medicinal?"
"Wrestler passed a jug, and it would be bad manners to refuse. Could be dangerous to a man's health to insult an Ute. They're proud people."
"What makes you such an Indian expert?"
"I lived with outlaw Comanches for two years."
"Comanche Indians?"
"These were renegades, thieving murderers of the worst kind, shunned by their own tribe."
"And you were one of them?"
He groaned. "I didn't have a choice. I was ten years old when they killed my father and carried me off."
She buried her face in her hands, unwilling to listen to him. How could she tell truth from lies when her own mind and body so quickly betrayed her. "You're not ten now," she managed. "And you gulped down enough rotgut to give you courage, then crawled under my blanket thinking that I would-"
"I was wrong," he said brusquely. "I thought you'd be willin'. I'm not a man to force any woman."
"Now that that's settled, get your own bedroll."
"Can't. How would it look to Wrestler and Mountain Calf, a man sleeping alone on the cold ground when he has a wife to keep him warm?"
"I'm not your wife. You can shoot me, but I'll not be taken advantage of by you or any other man."
He swore softly. "Don't carry on so. I'm not going to rape you."
"No, you're not."
"Does it sound as though Shadow's being abused by old Mountain Calf?"
Tamsin listened; then her face grew hot as she realized what activity was causing the groans and whimpers coming from the far side of the camp. "Lecher," she hissed. She'd not heard the couple until Ash mentioned them. Now it was impossible to ignore their lovemaking.
"If I was a lecher, you'd be making more noise than she is."
"Blackguard!" She tried to slap his face, but he blocked her blow with a muscular arm. "Try anything again, and… and…"
"Maybe I should let Wrestler have you," he grumbled. "Those are some nice-looking ponies he's got."
"You can't frighten me," she lied. "You're a bounty hunter. Your duty is to arrest me. You said that yourself. You won't let him have me, not even at the cost of your own life."
"I didn't say that."
"I'm a good judge of horses and men," she said. "I know you wouldn't turn me over to the Indians. You couldn't sleep nights if you did."
"Damn if I'm getting much sleep tonight."
"Or anything else."
He grunted and settled down alongside of her, molding his body to hers.
"Please," she murmured. "Sleep somewhere else. I won't go anywhere. I promise."
"The trouble with you, MacGreggor, is that you don't have sense enough to know when you're ahead. Now, shut up and go to sleep, before I forget I'm not a snake like Cannon."
She bit back an oath.
"That's better," he said sleepily. "You're softer than the rock under my spine." He dropped his arm around her waist. "But I warn you, trying to get away could get you killed. I come up out of a sound sleep shootin'."
Sometime before dawn, the dog began to bark frantically. Ash leaped up and reached for his rifle. The horses, banded together in a small roped-in pen, snorted and whinnied, stamping restlessly.
Tamsin stirred.
"Stay where you are until I find out what's wrong," he ordered. See if Jack Cannon and his boys are payin' us a visit, he thought.
Damn if his head didn't feel like he'd been caught in a prairie twister. His mouth was as dry as gunpowder, and his gut was none too steady as he yanked on his clothes and boots.
He wondered if he was coming down with fever until he remembered the firewater Wrestler and Mountain Calf had shared with him around the campfire. "Nothing like bad whiskey to make a man a fool," he muttered under his breath.
The Utes were all on their feet. Shadow was throwing more wood on the fire. Wrestler held the yapping dog by the scruff of his neck. War-et's hair was roached up and his teeth were bared.
"What is it?" Ash called to the Indians.
Mountain Calf gestured toward the far side of the stream. "Gato!"
It was the cougar out there, not Cannon. Ash glanced back at Tamsin, wondering if she'd be disappointed. She'd denied a relationship with the outlaw, but that was to be expected. If the liquor hadn't been talking, he'd never have mentioned Jack to her.
As he watched, Tamsin snatched up the blankets and her boots and hurried over to join Shadow.
Wrestler's inscrutable bronze face glowed in the firelight. The Ute was on his knees, holding the struggling dog with both arms. "War-et is brave, is he not?" Wrestler asked. "Alone, this dog would throw himself into the teeth of the puma."
; "I saw the cat," Shadow said in her own language. "He came out of the night without fear of the fire." She handed her sleeping baby to Tamsin and continued adding fuel to the flames.
Her husband nodded. "This man, too, saw the mountain lion. When War-et began to bark, I thought it might be a raiding party."
"There are hostiles in the area?" Ash asked. "What tribe?"
Wrestler shrugged. "Arapaho and Cheyenne. Together. Angry young men, a few women, mostly warriors. Dog soldiers among them. Those fierce ones who hate the white men for the killings at the place you call Sand Creek. They will not lay down their arms and go to Indian Territory as the white president says."
Ash frowned. He knew there were scattered bands hiding in the mountains, but he'd not heard of any fighting men in numbers. "How many?"
"Thirty, maybe more. Some men could have been hunting when we saw them pass."
"We hid," Shadow said. "The Arapaho and the Cheyenne are not always friends of the Ute."
"These are not friends to any man," Mountain Calf pronounced. "Many scalps hang from their lodge poles. All are not white scalps."
"What is this Sand Creek?" Tamsin asked.
"A disgrace," Ash said, as he scanned the trees for movement. "In early winter of '64, John Chivington led an attack on a peaceful camp of Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho and massacred men, women, and children. No one knows exactly how many were murdered, maybe hundreds. But it was pure butchery. I've fought Indians when I had to, but it sickened me when I heard of the brutality and senseless killing."
"You would do well to walk wide of those my nephew speaks of," Mountain Calf said. "Men who have lost everything have nothing to lose. They would shoot you down like a rabid wolf."
Ash nodded. "I value my scalp as much as you do, my friend."
They stood watch until morning light turned the forest from black to a shimmering gray-green. Once they heard the puma cough, but it came no closer to the camp.
Later, he and Wrestler searched the far side of the stream. They found cat tracks, larger than Ash had ever seen, and they located a tree with shredded bark.
"The cougar wait there," Wrestler said, pointing to a limb about ten feet from the ground. "She watched us."
"She?" Ash questioned.
The Ute nodded. Crouching a few feet from the tree, he brushed aside the bushes to reveal fresh scat and stains of urine. "A female. In her prime. This man believes she craves the taste of horseflesh."
Ash wondered. The puma had stalked Tamsin's fire on the far side of the mountain, as it had here. It was unnatural behavior for a mountain lion and growing stranger all the time.
"Mountain Calf does not like this place," Wrestler confided. "We had planned to go on north to trade with others of our own kind, but now…" He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Now I think we will take our trade goods and return to our village."
Ash waited, certain that the Ute brave meant to say more.
"I think I am fortunate that you did not accept my offer for the woman."
"My wife, you mean?"
Wrestler smiled with his mouth, but his hooded eyes remained cool. "The red-haired woman. I think she brings danger with her. You must not trust her too much, whoever she is. She has power, this female who talks to horses. And this man, for one, would not sleep easy with her at his side."
"I slept easy enough last night. What did you put in that whiskey?"
A smile spread over Wrestler's face. "Trouble is, white man, you no can hold liquor."
Tamsin accused him of the same vice once the three Utes rode off through the trees. "We've venison and some sort of roots for breakfast, if you're not too hungover to eat. I traded Shadow a pack of sewing needles for enough food to last us through the day."
Ash rubbed his forehead. "I'll admit I had more spirits than I should have. I apologize for offending you last night."
"In more ways than one."
"I said I was sorry."
"But you don't believe I'm innocent. And now you're accusing me of having an immoral attachment with someone that you say is an outlaw."
He pulled his hat low on his brow. "Don't talk to me about Cannon unless you can tell the truth. And hear it."
"I didn't know him that well. He came into the store where I worked and seemed pleasant. Mr. Cannon escorted me to a church social and to eat in a public hotel. I've nothing to be ashamed of."
"You've got my sympathy, lady. People keep makin' up lies about you."
"I've heard what kind of women you're accustomed to associating with. Doubtless you're used to their fabrications, but I can assure you that I'm not-"
"Peace, MacGreggor. Your yammering is hard on my aching head. We'd best talk about something else, if you insist on talkin'."
"How can I convince you-"
"I'll put the coffee on if you'll tend to the cooking," he said, ignoring her argument. "But stay close to the fire. That cat's probably a long way from here this morning, but we can't be certain."
She rested both hands on her hips and stared at him through narrowed eyes. "The cougar? The cougar that you told me I couldn't possibly have seen yesterday afternoon? Maybe it wasn't a mountain lion at all. Maybe those prints you and the Indian found were deer tracks."
"Maybe so," he agreed. "But if it was a doe instead of a puma, it was one that could climb trees."
"It wouldn't surprise me in the least," she replied sarcastically.
Unwilling to continue a conversation that he was obviously losing, Ash went to check Shiloh's injured leg. As he'd suspected, the shank was swollen. He untied the gelding and led him down to the stream to drink. To his disappointment, Ash saw that the horse was definitely limping.
"We won't be breaking camp today," he said to Tamsin as he fished his coffeepot out of his saddlebag. "Shiloh's leg needs rest. The torn flesh is a little puffy. There may be infection, thanks to you and your riding."
"We can lead him into the stream," she said. "Running water's good for swelling. And I've a little salve in my pack. He should be right as rain in a day or two." She used a green branch to pull hot coals over the spot where she'd buried the roots to bake. Dusting ashes off her hands, she said, "I've never cooked roots. I hope they're fit to eat."
"If you're hungry enough, you'll eat dog and fight to get it."
"I doubt that."
He shrugged, not bothering to answer her. He wished he hadn't spoken of the bad times to Tamsin. He didn't know why he had. It wasn't something he liked to think of, let alone tell a woman.
The old memories chafed at his mind as he went to the creek to fill the coffeepot with water.
He'd used his daddy's birthday knife to try to kill the half-Mexican Comanchero that gray Texas morning. But he'd not been a man yet, and he had a lot to learn about fighting a bigger opponent. First, the trader had beaten him half to death, and then he'd tied him across his daddy's horse and led him a hundred miles back to camp.
These renegade Comanche made a living stealing from the Texans and selling horses, loot, and captives south to Mexico. But Juan Fat Knee, the man who'd shot Ash's father, didn't trade him away. He'd kept him, as a cross between a slave and a pet, taking perverse pleasure in seeing how much he could mistreat a boy without killing him.
Ash had eaten dog all right. He'd gnawed the blackened bones and chewed the skin. It had made him so sick, he'd prayed to die, but he hadn't. He'd survived to relish a lot worse, including raw horse meat and lizard so rank that the camp curs wouldn't touch it.
He'd survived two years with the Comanche marauders, and come away wondering if the Lord wouldn't have done him a favor by letting him take that bullet instead of his father.
When Ash returned to the fire, he silently added coffee, noting that there was only enough left for one more pot.
"Were you in the war?" Tamsin asked.
He nodded, glad for the excuse to stop thinking about the past.
"I thought you must have, giving your horse that name." She looked at him through thick dark lashes
. This morning she'd pulled her hair into a single knot on the back of her head, but curling strands had come loose around her freckled face. She looked fine, he thought, fine enough to kiss.
He'd been drunk the night before, but not so drunk he couldn't remember the taste of her mouth or the feel of her womanly body cuddled up against his. He was glad she'd stopped him. Getting involved with Cannon's lady friend and a woman who would likely hang for murder wasn't a smart move.
"What side were you on?" Tamsin asked." In the war."
"You feel a need to talk all the time?"
"I asked you a simple question. Are you ashamed of the answer? Did you fight for the North or South?"
"North. I don't hold with slavery." Couldn't, he thought, not after knowing what it was like to be a slave… to be owned body and soul by Fat Knee.
"I never could stomach slavery either," Tamsin said. "But my home was in Tennessee, and all my friends and relatives were for the Confederacy."
She sat on a rock and offered him a faint smile. Her teeth were even and white, pretty teeth in a pretty mouth.
"My dead husband, Atwood, should have joined the army, but he kept finding excuses," she continued. "Once, he even broke his own foot with a hammer to keep from going. He was a coward, of course."
"Don't sound like a man I could have much respect for," Ash said.
"Me either. Not then, not now."
When the food was ready, they ate. The deer meat was good, the roots gritty and tough. His coffee, as usual, was strong enough to melt nails.
Afterward, Tamsin and he walked to the stream to wash. Then he pulled the handcuffs from his belt. "Arms behind you," he said. "It's lockup time."
"What?" Her face paled. "Where am I going to go?"
"Don't even bother. All the sweet talk in the world won't help me if you decide to murder me when my back's turned."
"No!" She stepped away, then turned to run toward the horses.
He caught her in a dozen strides and wrestled her to the ground. "Lay still!" he shouted. Holding her without hurting her was like trying to pin a bee-stung badger with one hand tied behind his back. Tamsin kicked and twisted, pulling out of his grasp and crawling away.
Morgan's Woman Page 8