Wyoming Widow. Elizabeth LaneЧитать онлайн книгу.
mental picture her words painted was so ludicrous that Morgan could not suppress a smile. “All right,” he sighed, reaching for the carpetbag. “You win this round. But I’m not finished with you, Miss Cassandra Riley. Not by a long shot.”
“I’m sure you’re not.” She caught the bag as he tossed it, her small, freckled hands as deft as a boy’s. “Now, please be kind enough to take off your shirt.”
Cassandra’s trembling fingers closed on the sewing basket, where it lay crammed in a corner of the hastily packed carpetbag. She struggled to avert her eyes as Morgan Tolliver slipped off his deerskin vest, laid it over the back of the chair, then began to unbutton his sun-bleached cotton work shirt. She had seen her share of half-clad men—Jake, of course, and a few hotel guests who’d startled her to flight when she’d come to clean what she thought was a vacant room. But this man’s bearing was so aloof, his body so lithe and sinewy that she could not resist watching him. He lured her gaze like a cougar slipping out of its own pelt.
Most men she knew wore long johns even in summer. But Morgan Tolliver was bare beneath the shirt, his muscles stretching lean and taut beneath golden mahogany skin. The rose-brown dots of his nipples caught glints of light as he tugged the shirttail free from the waistband of his worn denim pants, stripped the shirt from his arms and tossed it on the bed. A leather pouch the size of a baby’s shoe dangled from a thong around his neck. When he moved, light glinted on the delicate beading and quillwork that adorned the outside.
His eyes watched her every move as she opened the sewing basket, selected a spool of brown thread and snipped off enough length to sew on the button. Willing herself to ignore his open scrutiny, she found a needle and held it up so the light would fall on its eye. Her hands shook as she tried to force the thread through the tiny hole. Her sun-dazzled eyes began to water, blurring her sight as she wet the cut end to a point and tried again and again.
“Here.” His callused fingers brushed hers as he took the needle from her hands and threaded it deftly. “You look like you could use some sleep. I can sew on the button myself.”
“No.” Cassandra snatched the shirt close to her body, as if challenging him to take it from her. “I’ll do it. It’s become a matter of principle. Give me that needle.”
“Principle!” He dropped the threaded needle into her outstretched hand, then lowered himself into the rocker. His savage eyes seemed to burn through her, all the way to her deceptive little heart.
Cassandra knotted the thread and positioned the button, forcing her fingers to perform the familiar task. “I must say, you’re nothing like Ryan,” she said.
“Ryan’s my half brother,” he replied. “My mother was the daughter of a Shoshone medicine man. Ryan’s mother was a pretty blond schoolteacher our father brought home from Saint Louis. She died nine years later, trying to give Ryan a baby sister. Women don’t seem to last long out here. Not white women at least.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“I take it you and Ryan didn’t spend much time talking.”
The edge in his voice made Cassandra want to slap him. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can stop right now,” she retorted hotly. “I didn’t come here to be insulted like—like—”
“Like what?” he demanded when she failed to finish her sentence. “Like a tramp? Like a whore, even? Is that how you came to know about the scar on Ryan’s leg, Miss Cassandra Riley?”
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