Wyoming Widow

Cassandra’s fingers froze in midstitch. The shirt dropped unheeded to the quilt as she glared at him, masking her shame with fury. She was not what Morgan had just called her. But under the circumstances, she was certainly no better. At least whores were honest about who they were and what they did.

“I loved Ryan,” she said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “And he loved me—at least I thought he did. He was the only one—the only one ever. As for you—” She caught up the shirt and flung it at his exposed chest. “You can sew on your own damned button!”

Morgan did not stir. He let the shirt slide to his lap, his impassive granite features concealing his thoughts. An eternity seemed to pass before he so much as breathed—a weary exhalation that drained away the tension in his body.

“Do you want to stay, Cassandra?” he asked in a low voice. “Do you want shelter here, for yourself and your baby?”

Cassandra felt her jaw go slack. She stared at him. “Of course I do,” she whispered. “Why else would I have come all this way?”

“Then listen to me,” he said, placing the shirt on the bed, at a neutral distance between them. “There are some things you must understand—and some promises you must make.”

“Promises?”

“If you stay, it’s going to be on my terms,” he said. “Otherwise, first thing tomorrow, I’ll get a wagon with a couple of drivers to haul you back to Cheyenne, or wherever it is you came from. Do you agree?”

“I’ll hold my answer until I’ve heard your terms, if you don’t mind.” Cassandra brushed back the damp tangle of her hair, her heart thundering. “You said there were things I needed to understand.”

He leaned forward in the chair, his Shoshone eyes impaling her like flint-tipped arrows. “First of all, I don’t trust you any farther than I can throw a full-grown buffalo. Is that understood?”

She nodded, struggling to hold her tongue.

“Until I have proof to the contrary, I’ve no choice except to assume you’re lying—about Ryan, about everything.”

“And if I’m telling the truth?” Cassandra met his gaze straight on even though she was jelly inside. “You’ve no proof either way, you know. Not until the baby comes, and perhaps not even then.” Deliberately she picked up the shirt, located the dangling needle and resumed the task of sewing on the loose button. The shirt was slightly warm, its weathered folds releasing the subtle aromas of trail dust, horses and strong lye soap.

“That,” he said, watching her, “is why I’m prepared to make a bargain with you.”

“What sort of bargain?” She cocked a cynical eyebrow, knowing she could not let him see how desperate she was.

Morgan shifted in the chair, leaning toward her now. Through the half-open shutter, the late afternoon sun cast harsh, slanting lines across his face. It was not a gentle face, Cassandra thought, or even a particularly handsome face. Sharp bones jutted beneath his wind-burnished skin, hooding his eyes in deep shadow. He sat lightly, the open locket dangling from his fingers.

“Downstairs on the porch, there’s an old man who’s the heart and soul of this ranch,” he said. “Jacob Tolliver came to this place as a trapper while the country was still wild. He married into the Shoshone tribe, bought land while it was cheap, and went on to build everything you’ll see here. You were likely driving your wagon across the Tolliver Ranch all morning.

“Six years ago, out on the range, my father was struck by lightning. We found him in a gully the next morning, pinned under his dead horse with his back broken in three places. Since then he’s been in a wheelchair, and hated every minute of it.”

Morgan had turned toward the window, his profile craggy against the slanting light. “The one bright spot in my father’s life has been Ryan. Now, with every day that passes, the old man’s growing more frail. If Ryan doesn’t come back, I fear he’ll have nothing left to live for.”

He’ll have you! The words sprang to Cassandra’s lips, but she bit them back without speaking. She had no business meddling in family relationships, she reminded herself.

But then, hadn’t she done that already?

“I won’t have him hurt again.” Morgan had turned back to face her, his eyes challenging everything she’d told him. “If that baby you’re carrying is really Ryan’s, the promise of a grandchild could make my father’s life worth hanging on to. But if you’re lying—if you’re nothing but a cheap little opportunist who’s come to take advantage of a family tragedy—”

He swallowed the surging anger in his voice. “If that’s the case, and my father learns the truth, the disappointment could kill him as surely as a bullet through the heart.”

Cassandra forced herself not to cringe under the blazing scrutiny of his eyes. She forced her fingers to move, plying the needle with a steadiness that belied her galloping pulse. It was already too late for the truth. She had come too far, said too much. Nothing mattered now except providing a secure future for her baby.

“Ask yourself this,” she said quietly. “If this baby weren’t Ryan’s, would I have come all this way, at such risk? Would I have traveled alone, for six long, miserable days in that rickety old wagon, just to find your family?”

“You’re not the one asking questions here,” he said. “I am.”

Cassandra returned his stony gaze, her mind groping for some point of safety. Morgan would check out her story, that much was certain. But she had already laid a false trail to Cheyenne. As for the rest, she and Jake had married in Nebraska, arriving in Laramie only a few months before his death. Even as Cassandra Logan, her past would not be easy to trace. Barring the unforeseen, Morgan would find nothing to disprove her claim.

Unless Ryan Tolliver turned up alive.

But that was a gamble she had already resolved to take.

“You said you were prepared to bargain,” she reminded him.

Morgan nodded grimly. “I’m giving you one last chance to come clean,” he said. “Tell me the baby isn’t my brother’s. I’ll see you safely back to Cheyenne, give you three hundred dollars toward a new start, and forget I ever laid eyes on you. No questions asked. Under the circumstances, I’d say that’s a generous offer.”

For the space of a breath Cassandra weighed his words. Morgan’s offer was indeed a generous one. If she accepted it, the money would take her anywhere she wanted to go and provide food and shelter until she could get on her feet once more. It would pay for the services of a midwife, buy warm blankets and clothes for the baby.

It would give her an honest escape from the deepening tangle of lies she had woven.

But she had not come here to be bought off. She had come here to secure a future for her child. Even now, as she studied Morgan’s granite face through a haze of sunlight, she sensed he was testing her. Pass that test, and she might have everything she had hoped for.

“What if I refuse your offer?” she asked softly.

“Why would you refuse?”

She steeled herself for the lie. “Because whatever happens to me, Ryan’s child deserves to grow up on this ranch, as a Tolliver.”

His dark eyes flickered. “This is your last chance,” he said. “Stay, and you’re on probation until I can check out your story. If I find out you’ve lied, you’ll go to prison for fraud, and your baby will go to an orphanage. Do you understand?”

Cassandra gulped back the lump of fear that had congealed in her throat. Her fingers were so clammy with sweat they could barely hold the needle. The baby stirred, one tiny foot pushing upward in a solid kick beneath her ribs.

“I understand,” she said.

“Until your story can be proved, you’ll take your orders from me. My father’s not to know anything about your claim until I say so. If you speak up sooner, I’ll tell him you’re lying and have you in the sheriff’s office before you can blink. Is that clear?”

Cassandra nodded, feeling as if she had stepped into quicksand and sunk to her chin. The lies sucked her deeper, crushing her chest, cutting off her breath.

“I accept your terms,” she said coldly, finishing the button and snipping the thread. “Here’s your shirt. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have my locket back.”

“A locket that falls open at a convenient touch?” He rose from the chair to loom above her, the locket chain dangling from his fingers. His lean-muscled body tapered upward from the loose waistband of his worn denims, revealing a glimpse of deeply shadowed navel. His skin was like polished copper, as smooth and golden as an Indian’s—but then he was an Indian, Cassandra reminded herself—or, more correctly, a half-breed, the son of a white man and a Shoshone woman.

Towering over her now, with a thunderous scowl on his face, he looked every inch his mother’s son.

“I’ll hold this for safekeeping,” he said, his fist closing tightly around the locket. “You’ll get it back when I decide it’s safe for you to have it.”

Cassandra forced a bitter smile. “As you say, you don’t trust me. That’s something I’ll have to accept—for now, at least.”

His bare body rippled as he thrust the chain and heart into the pocket of his trousers. Picking up the shirt, he slipped it over his arms and shoulders and worked the buttons deftly through their holes. With no trace of self-consciousness, he unfastened the buttons at his waist to tuck in the shirt. Cassandra averted her eyes, fixing her gaze on the painted buckskin that hung on the far wall. Morgan Tolliver was clearly no gentleman, but her grandmother had raised her to be a lady, Cassandra reminded herself. No matter how trying the circumstances, she would remain so.

Only when she heard the faint clink of his belt buckle did she glance up and meet his gaze. For the space of a heartbeat his face appeared vulnerable, even concerned. Then his mouth tightened. The hardness slid back into his eyes so swiftly that Cassandra found herself wondering if she’d only imagined the brief change.

“My thanks for sewing on the button,” he said coldly. “You’ll be wanting a meal and a chance to wash. I’ll send Chang up with some food and order his boys to carry in the tub and some hot water. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it, you can take your meals downstairs at the table. For now, you’re to stay in this room and rest.”

“As you wish, sir.” Cassandra flung the words at him, rankled by his high-handedness.

His eyes narrowed. “You agreed to do as I say. And sarcasm doesn’t become you, Cassandra Riley.”

“I agreed to follow your orders,” she retorted. “That doesn’t mean I have to like them. Am I to consider myself a prisoner here?”

“Not a prisoner. Just an uninvited guest. And until I can check out your story, that’s all you are.” Picking up his vest from the chair, he turned and strode out of the room. Just beyond the doorway, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “You’ll find a necessity under the bed. If you’re worried about privacy, you can bolt the door from the inside. But nobody will come in without knocking. Whatever else you might think of us, you’re safe here.”

Before Cassandra could respond, he closed the door softly behind him. Her heart crept into her throat as she heard the key turning in the lock. Merciful heaven, was he locking her in?

But no—as if Morgan had changed his mind, the sound of shifting tumblers paused, then reversed its cadence like a sentence spoken backward. By the time Morgan’s footfalls faded into silence, Cassandra was certain he had left the door unlocked.

Was it an invitation for her to leave? If she were to wait for darkness and steal out to the barn, would she find a wagon loaded, hitched and waiting with the blood money tucked beneath the seat? Was that Morgan Tolliver’s game—giving her one last chance to go?

Cassandra swung her legs off the bed. Her bare feet tingled as she lowered them to the floor and pushed her unwieldy body to a standing position.

Nausea uncoiled in her empty stomach. She felt oddly light, as if the room had filled with water and her head was detached and floating in it. Swaying dizzily, she sank back onto the bed. No, she would not be going anywhere tonight—nor any other night. She was bone tired, drained of every physical and mental resource she possessed. Ever more compellingly, a hidden instinct whispered that it was too late to set out on another adventure. She and her baby needed the safety of this house and the succor of this reluctant family.

Cassandra raked a hand through the tangled nest of her hair and, with a weary sigh, settled back onto the bed. Liar, cheat, whatever she might be, she had reached the end of her journey.

She had no other place to go.

Morgan stood alone on the porch, watching the stars emerge through the indigo twilight. The air smelled of rain—but Nature, the seductive witch, had tricked him before. The hint of moisture was only an illusion. There would be no life-giving storm tonight.

Upstairs, there was no sound from Cassandra Riley’s room. Chang had reported that she’d wolfed down her supper and thanked him effusively for the tub of hot water his two sons had brought into her room. After her bath, she had wheeled the big tin tub out into the hall and closed her door. In the three hours that had passed since then, no one had heard so much as a whisper from her.

After the supper dishes had been cleared away and Jacob had retired for the night, Morgan had spread the ranch’s account books on the dining room table, lit an oil lamp and bent himself to the tedium of entering the past month’s bills and receipts. As the twilight deepened, he’d found himself listening, straining his ears for the creak of a floorboard above his head or the opening click of her bedroom door.

He had ordered her to stay put, Morgan reminded himself. But things were much too quiet up there. From what he already knew of Cassandra Riley, he would bet money she was up to no good.

Earlier he had been on the verge of locking her in for the night. But the woman was not a prisoner, he’d reminded himself. Neither, he sensed, was she a fool. More than anything, she needed a refuge for herself and her child. She would not risk her chances by defying his orders; not, at least, until her position was more secure.

But he could have been wrong. Even now, she could be prowling the house, looking for Jacob or anyone else who might believe her story and take her side against him.

Morgan had struggled to concentrate on the long columns of figures. But it was no use. As the silent minutes ticked past, another worrisome possibility had struck him.

What if she’d simply become restless and wandered off into the darkness—or worse, repented of the whole scheme and tried to leave the ranch on her own?

Good riddance, he’d told himself, blowing out the lamp and abandoning the books to darkness. If the woman was reckless enough to go running off alone, who was he to stop her? Until a few hours ago, he had not known Cassandra Riley and her wild scheme existed. As long as she didn’t harm his family, why should he care what happened to her?

Now he stood at the porch rail, his thoughts churning as he stared into the darkness. Beyond him lay the barn, the sprawling complex of sheds and corrals and the long bunkhouse for the hired hands. From the time he was old enough to swing a hammer, he had labored beside his father to build this place. He had sawed logs, dug postholes and hauled the mortar for the stones that walled the first floor of the house. He had fought off locust swarms and cattle rustlers in summer; diphtheria and packs of hungry wolves in winter. He had poured a lifetime of sweat, pain, blood and blisters into this ranch, and he would protect its legacy with the last breath of his life—even from the schemes of a deceitful woman.

Morgan’s eyes scanned the shadows for anything that looked out of place. There was nothing. But then, what had he expected to see? Did he think she was going to steal eggs, or maybe set the barn on fire? What a joke. The harm she could do went far deeper than mere physical damage.

Seething now, he turned away from the porch railing. There was just one way to find out whether Cassandra Riley was following his orders—go upstairs, check her room and see for himself.

If he found her there, he could stop stewing and get back to work. If the room proved to be empty…

But he would deal with that when the time came.

Squaring his shoulders, Morgan opened the door, strode across the landing and quietly mounted the stairs.

Chapter Four

Darkness enfolded Morgan as he reached the landing, but he needed no candle to find his way. The upper floor, built of hand-hewn logs above the original part of the house, was not large in area. Morgan’s own bedroom lay at the far end of the hall with Ryan’s room—now too silent, too empty—opening on the right. The rest of the space was taken up by two guest bedrooms. The smaller of these, originally planned as a child’s room, was the one Morgan had chosen for Cassandra Riley.

He hesitated a moment in the shadows outside her door, then knocked lightly on the polished pine surface. One rap. Two. He waited.

There was no answer.

He knocked again, more forcefully this time. The door planks were thick, he reasoned, and she might not have heard the light rap. Again he waited. Again there was no response.

Morgan exhaled into the silence. He would try the door, he resolved. If it was bolted, at least he would know she was inside, perhaps asleep.

The latch yielded to the light pressure of his thumb. Morgan’s breath caught as the unbolted door swung open into the darkened room.

“Cassandra?” He spoke in a whisper, not wanting to startle her.

When she did not reply, he stepped soundlessly over the threshold. For the space of a breath he saw only shadows. Then a shaft of light from the rising moon gleamed through the uncurtained window, falling across the narrow bunk to illuminate the slight, lumpy form that lay beneath the quilt.

Morgan’s throat tightened as he saw her. He knew he should turn and go, but his feet held him to the floor, refusing to budge. Unable to look away, his beauty-starved eyes drank in the sight of her.

She lay on her back, one pale arm flung upward, straining the fabric of her muslin shift against one tautly swollen breast. Her other arm curled protectively around the bulge of her unborn baby, cradling it as she slept.

Damp and fragrant, her freshly washed hair spilled across the pillow, rippling outward like the rays of the Madonna’s halo in an old painting Morgan had once seen. Framed by that wild sea of hair, her face was as innocent as a child’s.

His eyes traced the petal curve of her lower lip, pausing to linger on her small, stubborn chin. He should have known she would be asleep, he berated himself. The long, solitary journey in a jouncing wagon would have exhausted any woman, let alone one who was heavy with child. And how could she have managed to rest during those nights on the open plain, huddled alone in the darkness, at the mercy of any passing danger? No weapon and a baby on the way. She must have been out of her mind with terror.

What would drive a woman to take such a risk? Morgan asked himself. But he already knew the answer to that question. It was sheer, raw desperation.

The same desperation that would drive her to lie, to cheat, to do anything to secure a future for her child.

She stirred in her sleep, whimpering as her head tossed back forth and on the pillow. Beneath the patchwork quilt, her feet twitched as if she were dreaming of pursuit.

“No…Seamus, no…” Her body jerked and writhed, the words emerging between muffled sobs. “No…”

Her distress seemed very real. But shysters came in all shapes and sizes, Morgan reminded himself. And the ones who played on the sympathies of good people were worse than bank robbers and horse thieves. He could not afford to be touched by the girl’s vulnerability. Not until he had checked out every last detail of her story. If the little witch proved to be lying…

“No…please…” Her body twisted frantically, small hands clawing at the quilt. “Please, Seamus, for the love of heaven, don’t…”

Morgan felt his resolve crumbling. Cassandra Riley might be a scheming little tramp, but right now something in her mind was scaring her half to death. Even though all the warning signs were up, he was no more capable of walking away from her than from a wounded bobcat cub.

His palm tingled as he brushed the damp hair back from her forehead. The feel of her cool, sweet skin made his throat ache. Only now did he realize how much he had wanted to touch her.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his hand lingering on her hair. “You’re dreaming, that’s all. Rest, Cassandra.”

As if she had heard him, she stopped thrashing beneath the quilt. Her whimpers subsided as, little by little, she relaxed in the bed, the rhythm of her breathing deep and even once more.

Had he contrived the whole reason for coming into her room? Had his far-fetched suspicions been nothing more than an excuse for him to be here, standing beside her bed in the breath-filled darkness?

Still looking down at her, Morgan forced his hand to withdraw. Yes, he could understand how Ryan might have fallen in love with this girl. She was no beauty, to be sure, but her spirit and vulnerability would tempt almost any man.

Almost. But not all. Morgan had sworn off love for good after the breakup of his marriage. For love to exist, there had to be trust. And this little flame-haired snip, with her bulging belly and her wild claims about Ryan was as trustworthy as a wagonload of rattlesnakes.

An old family friend, Hamilton Crawford, had recently retired from the Pinkerton agency and was living in Cheyenne. Tomorrow—no, tonight, Morgan resolved—he would write to Ham and ask him to check out Cassandra Riley’s story. That way he could send one of Chang’s boys to Fort Caspar with the letter first thing in the morning. Ham’s reply might be slow in coming, but the mere knowledge that an ex-Pinkerton agent was checking her background could be enough to give the mysterious Miss Riley second thoughts.

But what if she was telling the truth?

Morgan’s eyes lingered on her sleeping face as he pondered the idea, then brusquely dismissed it. Her story couldn’t possibly be true. There were too many coincidences, too many holes. He owed it to his father, and to Ryan’s memory, to uncover the lie and to send her packing before it was too late.

His knuckle brushed her skin as he reached down and tugged the quilt upward to cover her exposed shoulder. The satiny coolness of her flesh tingled all the way up his arm. Ignoring the sensation, he turned and walked quietly out of the room only to pause in the doorway, scowling back at her slumbering form as the thought struck him.

Who the devil was Seamus?

Cassandra awoke to the warmth of sunlight on her face. She opened her eyes, only to jerk them shut again as the morning glare jolted her senses through the bare window.

For the first few seconds she remembered nothing. Where was she? How did she get here? Her mind groped for a foothold on reason. Flinging her forearm across her eyes, she forced herself to lie still and take long, deep breaths.

The memory of the dream, in all its grotesque horror, came back first. Seamus had returned to the shack in Laramie, dressed in the brown suit that Jake had worn for his burial. Terrified by his vacant eyes, she had fled from him, running through the empty stockyards in a dreamer’s slow motion, as if her feet were stuck in thick black tar. He had floated behind her, screaming the vilest names she had ever heard. Bitch…filthy, lying whore…

He had finally cornered her against a loading chute. His death-glazed eyes had glittered like a wolf’s as he closed in on her, mouth smiling, hands reaching for her throat. She had cried out, begging him for her baby’s life…No, Seamus…no…

You’re dreaming, that’s all. Rest, Cassandra.

The low, soothing voice had come out of nowhere, as had the gentle touch on her forehead. The strange thing was, she had known at once that the voice spoke the truth. She was dreaming. Seamus was gone.