Elizabeth Lane - Wyoming Widow

The wagon had stopped. Morgan slowed the mare to a walk as he approached, aware of the eyes that watched him intently from beneath the brim of the dusty felt hat.

“Don’t come any farther, mister.” The voice was small and throaty. A young voice. Just a boy, Morgan surmised, and the youngster was probably scared out of his wits.

But never mind, it was the contents of the wagon that concerned Morgan most. He edged closer, steeling his emotions against the sight of his brother’s remains.

“I’m warning you, mister.” The words held a gritty edge. “I’ve got a Colt .45. It’s loaded and pointed straight at your heart.”

Morgan reined in the mare, wondering if there was anything behind the threat. The only sign of a weapon was a bulge beneath the outsized denim jacket. Probably nothing—but this was no time to be wrong, especially since he himself was unarmed.

“I won’t hurt you, boy,” he said quietly. “I just want to see what you’ve got in the back of that wagon.”

“I’ve got nothing worth stealing, if that’s what you’re after.” The youthful voice shook slightly. “Now get out of my way before I drill you like a grub-thieving possum!”

Morgan’s lips tightened in a grim smile. “Big words from such a little man,” he said, calling the youth’s bluff. “Why don’t you climb down from that wagon and show me how tough you really are?”

Silence.

“Then let me see that pistol you’re so keen on using,” Morgan demanded.

The huddled figure sat like a small, defiant lump of stone. Morgan felt the tension easing out of his body. But the dread remained like a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. If Ryan’s body was in the back of the wagon, he had to face that reality and to deal with whatever came next.

“All right, we’re going to play this my way,” he said. “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing on Tolliver land.”

“This…is Tolliver land?” The husky voice carried a note of incredulity. “You work for the Tollivers?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Morgan took advantage of the stranger’s surprise to nudge the mare closer to the wagon. His heart leaped with relief as he glanced over the side and saw nothing but a tattered bedroll, a moth-eaten carpetbag and the water barrel he’d noticed earlier. His worst fears had not come to pass, thank God. But something strange was going on, and the young whelp in the wagon had some explaining to do.

“I’ve answered your question,” Morgan said irritably. “Now you can damned well answer mine and tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I…” The youth seemed suddenly tongue-tied. Something about the small figure suddenly struck Morgan as odd—the set of the shoulders, the downcast face beneath the floppy old hat, the air of vulnerability that touched a long-buried chord of tenderness in him—a tenderness he swiftly masked.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, boy?” he snapped. “You didn’t come all this way for nothing! Stand up! Let me have a look at you!”

For the space of a breath there was silence. Then slowly the mysterious figure rose. Now, beneath the hat brim, Morgan could see the lower part of the beardless face—the narrow but firm chin, the full, disturbingly sensual mouth. The baggy denim duster hung like a tent on the slight body, hiding everything except for lower down, near the waist, where it was stretched tight, almost as if—

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “What the devil—”

He had no time to say more as the stranger swayed for an instant, then, with a little moan, toppled headlong over the side of the wagon.

Reacting instinctively, Morgan grabbed for the falling body and managed to catch it beneath the arms. The sudden dead weight almost pulled him off his mount, but the mare, trained as a cow pony, leaned outward to compensate until he was able to balance the burden across his knees.

Only then did he have time to look down.

For a long moment he simply stared, cursing under his breath as his eyes took in the wild, impossibly red mop of curls that had spilled free of the old hat; the pale, heart-shaped face with its almost childlike features; the tiny freckles that sprinkled the porcelain skin like cinnamon specks on fresh cream.

Small and limp, she lay in his arms. Her eyelids, fringed with thick taffy-colored lashes, were tightly closed. What color would those eyes be? Morgan found himself wondering. Sky-blue? Green and sly like a bobcat’s. He had known a number of redheaded women in his youth. No two had been the same.

He knew what he would see when he forced his eyes lower—his arms had already felt the ripe weight of her swollen body. How far along was she? Seven months? Eight? Lord, she looked so young, so helpless, more child than woman. What in blazes was she doing out here alone? How far had she come, and—an even more pressing question—why had she come?

She moaned, rooting against his chest like a young animal seeking comfort. Morgan willed himself to ignore the swelling heat in the depths of his body. The woman appeared to be suffering from too much sun, compounded by her delicate condition. He needed to get her to the house and get some water into her. Any questions would have to wait until she’d had time to recover.

He paused an instant longer, weighing the wisdom of putting her back in the wagon to move her. No, he resolved swiftly, it would be faster to take her like this, on his own mount. He could send a couple of the hands out for the wagon and the mule.

Gripping the mare with his knees, Morgan shifted the young woman’s body in his arms to balance her weight for the ride to the house. Her head fell back, lolling over his arm, revealing the small gold locket that nestled in the creamy hollow of her throat.

Driven by a strange impulse, Morgan lifted his free hand and brushed the gleaming heart with the tip of his index finger. The catch must have been weak or broken, because the halves of the locket parted at his touch, falling open to form two miniature hearts where there had been one.

In the section that bore the ring and chain, carefully cut and glued into place, was a miniature portrait. He bent closer to see it, painfully aware of the young woman in his arms, the warm, musky scent of her filling his nostrils, teasing his senses.

Was the man framed in the little gold heart the father of her child? Did she expect him to be here at the ranch, one of the cowhands, maybe? The fact that she wore no wedding ring suggested that, whoever he was, the bastard had done her wrong. Maybe a shotgun wedding was in order.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, squinting in an effort to focus the tiny heart-shaped image. Then the truth hit him with the force of a gut punch. The breath exploded from his lungs as he recognized the blurred but familiar face.

Ryan’s face.

Cassandra stirred and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was an expanse of whitewashed ceiling crossed by dark wooden beams. As her senses began to clear, she became aware that she was lying on her back, fully clothed except for her boots, hat and duster. A soft pillow cradled her head and a cool, wet cloth lay across her brow.

What had happened to her? Cassandra struggled to collect her thoughts but her heat-fogged brain refused to obey her will. Her mind contained nothing but the echoing creak of wagon wheels, the plodding of weary hooves, the blinding glare of the sun—and the dim awareness, now, of silence and cool shadow. Her limbs felt weightless, oddly detached from her body, with no power to move.

Was this how it felt to be dead?

As she lay staring into whiteness, something twitched below her taut navel. She felt a flutter then a resounding thump. Cassandra’s eyes opened wide in wonder and relief. Her baby was moving. She was alive. They were both alive.