Wyoming Widow

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.

She had caused his death herself, and fled, terrified, into the night.

Fully awake now, Cassandra curled onto her side and gazed around the little bedroom. The previous day was coming back to her now. Near the foot of her bed was the pine rocker where Morgan Tolliver—the enemy—had sat. Her sewing kit lay open on the bedside table, with her needle stuck into a spool of brown cotton thread. On the far wall, bathed in morning sunlight, the painting on the elk skin she’d barely noticed last night revealed itself as a swirling arrangement of horses, deer and buffalo, all pursued by mounted warriors in streaming, feathered war bonnets. So exquisitely drawn and positioned were these tiny figures that they seemed to be galloping over the creamy leather surface.

Cassandra sat up slowly, feeling the baby awaken and stir in its warm, secret world. “Getting a little tight for you in there, is it?” she whispered, patting the solid roundness. “Don’t worry, little one. You’ll be out in the world soon enough.”

Carefully she stood up, wincing at the bone-deep soreness in her legs and buttocks. She sighed as her hands massaged the small of her back. How long would it be? she wondered. A month? More? Her menses had always been irregular, and with no experienced woman to guide her through the strangeness of it, she had only a vague idea of how far along she was or what to expect when the time came. She had helped her grandfather at lambing time, and she supposed the process would not be so different. Except this would be her baby, and she would be its mother. She could only pray that when the time came she would know what to do.

But why was she standing here muddling when it was time she got dressed and faced the day? The Tollivers wouldn’t think much of her if she malingered in her bedroom half the morning. And it was essential that they think well of her, or at least that they care about her baby. She had made a poor start last night with Morgan Tolliver. But if she could find other allies here, even friends…