Judith French: Morgan's Woman

Rain and wind battered the building. The storm was so loud that she could barely hear what Henry was saying. She pointed to Sam's body. "I saw what you did!"

The judge ran to Sam and looked down at him. "He's dead," he said. "Shot in the back." Then he twisted and stared at her. "You killed him for those damned horses."

Tamsin raised the lantern to her lips and blew out the flame.

"I'm the law in this part of Colorado!" Henry's voice echoed through the pitch darkness. "Woman or not, I'll see you hanged!"

"I didn't kill him," she protested.

"Tell it to the jury."

Tamsin ducked and urged Fancy forward through the open door. A pistol roared and wood splintered over Tamsin's head. She stifled a cry as Dancer plunged after them.

A blast of wind and driving rain made it impossible to see. Tamsin pulled hard on the reins to avoid the corner of the barn, loosened the reins, and gave Fancy her head. The mare stretched out her long legs and broke into a gallop.

"You won't get away!" Henry roared, firing a second time. "You'll never get away!"

Tamsin guided Fancy along the line of trees until they reached the road and then pulled her to the right, in the direction of Sweetwater. The mare slid in the slick mud and nearly went to her knees, but Tamsin stayed in the saddle.

Her only safety lay in putting distance between her and Sweetwater, but she couldn't go without her saddlebags. Her slicker was there, her blanket, her maps, and all her supplies. Only a fool would ride into the wilderness with empty hands. Teeth chattering from the cold, Tamsin soothed the frightened chestnut and rode on toward the spot where she'd hidden her things.

Lightning shattered a tree a few hundred yards away, momentarily blinding Tamsin and sending both horses into a frenzy. Dancer reared, snapping the lead line, and Fancy began to buck. Tamsin clung to Fancy's mane and fought to keep her from bolting as the acrid scent of sulfur filled the air.

"Whoa, whoa!" Tamsin cried. "Easy, girl!"

Dancer lunged past them, brushing so close to the mare that Tamsin's leg was squeezed between the two animals. She gasped in pain and reined hard to the left, turning Fancy in an ever-tightening circle.

Tamsin's boot slipped out of the right stirrup, causing her to lose her balance. She hung on, knowing that if she fell she could be crushed under Fancy's hooves. Finally, the mare's trusting nature won out over panic, and the animal came to a trembling halt.

Tamsin dismounted, but her knees were almost too weak to hold her up. Whispering the mare's name, Tamsin closed her eyes and leaned against the animal's side.

"What am I doing?" She was too scared to cry and too shaken to stand. She was drenched and freezing. Any minute, men with guns would be coming after her, and she was clinging to her horse paralyzed with fear.

"Where's your backbone, girl?" she heard an inner voice demand. Her grandfather had asked her that question since she was a small child, and it had never failed to raise her temper.

"I hear you," she muttered. It wasn't really her grandfather's voice; at least she hoped it wasn't. What she heard inside her was the echo of a personality too big to die when his old body gave out.

With a sigh, she stood up, took Fancy firmly by the bridle, and started down the road. It was too dark to see Dancer, but he wouldn't go too far from his mate. She prayed that the dangling rope wouldn't trip him up.

Another jagged illumination flashed, lighting the lane enough for Tamsin to get her bearings and to catch sight of her stallion a short ways ahead. There was no use in trying to catch him. Dancer would follow her, but he wouldn't be captured until he was good and ready.

With a little searching, Tamsin found her saddlebags and donned her rain slicker. It was impossible to get any wetter, but at least the coat would cut some of the wind. In an outside pocket, stashed for just such emergencies, she found a shriveled carrot. She snapped it in half and offered one piece to Fancy.

The mare took it gently from Tamsin's fingers. "Good girl," she murmured. "Good Fancy."

Then something nudged Tamsin in the center of her back. "No carrot for you," she said. "You don't deserve any." But when the stallion nuzzled her neck, she relented and gave him the treat.

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.