By Tamsin's reckoning, it was close to midnight when she crept close to Steele's barn. She'd thought long and hard about what she meant to do, and it seemed that there was only one answer to her dilemma.
She had to steal her horses back.
The night was dark, the low, heavy clouds split by flashes of lightning. Heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall.
If the lane to the ranch house hadn't been lined with pines, she doubted if she could see well enough to find her way to the stable. As it was, she wandered blindly until a jagged bolt illuminated the corral.
She followed the split-rail fence to the barn door. Once inside, she threw caution to the wind and lit the small lantern she'd purchased in town. Then she lifted the lamp high and looked around nervously. Fancy would answer to her name, but Tamsin was afraid to call out to the mare for fear of alerting one of the cowhands.
Outside, the wind was rising, blowing in gusts against the north side of the building. Common sense told her that she could stand in the middle of the barn and shout and not be heard above the coming storm. But she moved silently, placing one foot and then the other as though she were stepping on ice rather than hard-packed dirt.
The first two stalls were empty. A third held a spotted pony. Beyond that, nearly out of the pale circle of flickering light was a high-walled enclosure. Tamsin hung the lantern on a post and had started for the gate when a loud peal of thunder vibrated through the stable.
She jumped and clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Another ear-splitting rumble rolled overhead, and waves of rain began pelting the tin roof. The paint snorted and paced anxiously. From inside the closed box stall came a high-pitched nicker.
"Dancer?" Heart thudding, Tamsin hurried toward the familiar sound, then noticed the dark object lying on the floor. It looked like…
"Sweet hope of heaven!" She uttered a startled gasp and dropped to her knees beside the crumpled form of a man. "What's wrong?" she asked. Then the sickly sweet scent of blood filled her head, and her fingers touched the soaked back of his rawhide vest. "Oh, no…"
She drew back as though she'd been stung, and stared at her hand. Red smeared her palm. Horrified, she rubbed her hand in a heap of straw, trying to clean away the gore.
Then, hesitantly, she touched his cheek.
His flesh was warm, but he lay too still for a living man. She rolled him over and leaned close to see if she could detect any breathing.
Sam Steele's eyes were open, staring.
Tamsin stood, numb with fear, a dead man sprawled at her feet. For a long minute, she didn't move; then slowly, woodenly, she circled around the body and slid back the bar on the stall door.
A horse's head nudged through the opening, a splendidly shaped head with black ears and nose and intelligent brown eyes. "Dancer!" she cried. She threw her arms around the horse's neck.
Behind him, Fancy blew through her lips and pawed the bedding, jealously waiting to be noticed.
"I see you," Tamsin murmured. She blinked back tears and stepped out of the stall. There was no time for a reunion. She had to get her animals away from here as quickly as she could.
Deliberately, she kept her gaze away from the spot where Sam Steele lay. She'd noticed a tack area near the entrance to the barn and wasn't surprised when she recognized her own saddles and bridles among the others. "Thieving blackguards," she muttered. "If you steal horses, why not their gear?"
As she saddled Dancer and Fancy with shaking hands, she couldn't help wondering who had killed the ill-tempered rancher and why. Doubtless, a horse thief had plenty of enemies, but it took a special evil to shoot a man in the back. By rights she should call out for help- tell someone that he was dead. But if she was caught here, who would believe her story?
She swung up onto the mare's back and guided her toward the door with Dancer tied securely to a lead rope. Then she remembered the lantern. Even now it wouldn't do to leave it burning, for fear of fire in the barn.
Tamsin backed Fancy until the lamp was in easy reach. She'd just taken hold of the handle when the barn door swung open.
"What the hell?" a gruff male voice shouted.
Startled, Fancy reared. Tamsin reined her in with one hand and leaned forward to bring the horse down on all four feet. The lantern wavered, and for an instant the light shone full in Henry Steele's face.
"You!" Tamsin said. She didn't have to ask why he was here in his brother's barn at midnight. The answer was all too clear.
The judge had kept his word. He'd come back to settle the score with his brother, and he'd put a bullet through his heart.
Henry grabbed at Fancy's bridle, but the chestnut tossed her head and backed away. "Get off that horse!" the judge ordered.
"You get out of my way!" Tamsin replied. "Murderer!"
"What are you talking about?" He pushed back his hat and stood in front of her with water streaming off his face and rain slicker.
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.
"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 answered.
"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.