Judith French: Morgan's Woman

"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.

Breaking off a willow branch, she stripped away the twigs and leaves and tied her fishing line to the pole as she walked through the trees to the stream. Her grandfather had taught her to fish in the Cumberland, and that river made these Colorado rivers looks like puny creeks.

Tamsin quickly found a few grubs under a rock and cast her line into an eddy. An instant later, she had her first bite, and within half an hour, she had three speckled trout. On the way back to her camp, she gathered a few ferns that looked like some that had grown near the Cumberland. Her grandmother had served those with oil and vinegar. Tamsin didn't have either, but the ferns weren't bad, if a bit chewy.