Judith E French by Morgan's Woman Page B

“But stay close to the fire. That cat’s probably a long way from here this morning, but we can’t be certain.”
    She rested both hands on her hips and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “The cougar? The cougar that you told me I couldn’t possibly have seen yesterday afternoon? Maybe it wasn’t a mountain lion at all. Maybe those prints you and the Indian found were deer tracks.”
    “Maybe so,” he agreed. “But if it was a doe instead of a puma, it was one that could climb trees.”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” she replied sarcastically.
    Unwilling to continue a conversation that he was obviously losing, Ash went to check Shiloh’s injured leg. As he’d suspected, the shank was swollen. He untied the gelding and led him down to the stream to drink. To his disappointment, Ash saw that the horse was definitely limping.
    “We won’t be breaking camp today,” he said to Tamsin as he fished his coffeepot out of his saddlebag. “Shiloh’s leg needs rest. The torn flesh is a little puffy. There may be infection, thanks to you and your riding.”
    “We can lead him into the stream,” she said. “Running water’s good for swelling. And I’ve a little salve in my pack. He should be right as rain in a day or two.” She used a green branch to pull hot coals over the spot where she’d buried the roots to bake. Dusting ashes off her hands, she said, “I’ve never cooked roots. I hope they’re fit to eat.”
    “If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat dog and fight to get it.”
    “I doubt that.”
    He shrugged, not bothering to answer her. He wished he hadn’t spoken of the bad times to Tamsin. He didn’t know why he had. It wasn’t something he liked to think of, let alone tell a woman.
    The old memories chafed at his mind as he went to the creek to fill the coffeepot with water.
    He’d used his daddy’s birthday knife to try to kill the half-Mexican Comanchero that gray Texas morning. But he’d not been a man yet, and he had a lot to learn about fighting a bigger opponent. First, the trader had beaten him half to death, and then he’d tied him across his daddy’s horse and led him a hundred miles back to camp.
    These renegade Comanche made a living stealing from the Texans and selling horses, loot, and captives south to Mexico. But Juan Fat Knee, the man who’d shot Ash’s father, didn’t trade him away. He’d kept him, as a cross between a slave and a pet, taking perverse pleasure in seeing how much he could mistreat a boy without killing him.
    Ash had eaten dog all right. He’d gnawed the blackened bones and chewed the skin. It had made him so sick, he’d prayed to die, but he hadn’t. He’d survived to relish a lot worse, including raw horse meat and lizard so rank that the camp curs wouldn’t touch it.
    He’d survived two years with the Comanche marauders, and come away wondering if the Lord wouldn’t have done him a favor by letting him take that bullet instead of his father.
    When Ash returned to the fire, he silently added coffee, noting that there was only enough left for one more pot.
    “Were you in the war?” Tamsin asked.
    He nodded, glad for the excuse to stop thinking about the past.
    “I thought you must have, giving your horse that name.” She looked at him through thick dark lashes. This morning she’d pulled her hair into a single knot on the back of her head, but curling strands had come loose around her freckled face. She looked fine, he thought, fine enough to kiss.
    He’d been drunk the night before, but not so drunk he couldn’t remember the taste of her mouth or the feel of her womanly body cuddled up against his. He was glad she’d stopped him. Getting involved with Cannon’s lady friend and a woman who would likely hang for murder wasn’t a smart move.
    “What side were you on?” Tamsin asked. “In the war.”
    “You feel a need to talk all the time?”
    “I asked you a simple question. Are you ashamed of the answer? Did you