"I was terrified, and I went to my employers' home and told them what had happened. They laughed and said the cat must have killed the bird, but they let me sleep there. The next morning, I left town. That's it, that's all there was to my association with Jack Cannon."

"You never slept with him?"

"No! What do you think I am?"

"Did you kiss him?"

"No. Yes…"

"Yes or no?"

"That's what we argued about. He tried to kiss me. He did kiss me, but I turned away. I wasn't ready for that kind of attention from a man. And I wasn't about to be forced into… into trading that for a few suppers."

Ash exhaled softly. "You spin a fine tale, Tamsin. You want me to believe in your complete innocence, yet you defended Cannon soundly enough when I first-"

"I didn't want you prying into my affairs. I was ashamed that I'd been taken in by him. I had no proof that Jack broke into my room. The cat might have killed the meadowlark. And I wasn't sure that he wasn't right, that I had led him on by riding out unchaperoned." She paused. "I can understand why you can't accept my explanation… after letting you…"

"Us, you mean?"

She nodded. "It wasn't the same with Jack. He's attractive, but…"

"He's a sight prettier than me, if my memory serves me well enough."

"He's handsome, but almost too much so. It's still hard for me to believe that a murderer and wanted outlaw would come into town and walk around as though he were an honest citizen."

"But he frightened you."

"Yes, when he kissed me."

"And I don't?"

"Not now," she whispered.

"Maybe you should be afraid of me."

"I don't think so." She sighed. "I don't want to fight with you, Ash. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. I don't want to think about Jack Cannon or the Cheyenne or even about California. I just want to lie here with you and listen to the rain on the roof."

"Just listen?"

"Talk to me. Tell me about you when you were a child. Before your father died."

"Was murdered."

"Was it all violence? Don't you have any good memories?"

"Once I rode a calf and won ten cents at a barn raising."

"That's better." She closed her eyes. "Hold me, please."

"I can do that."

"Tell me something else. Something warm and happy. Something good that happened to you when you lived with Aunt Jane."

"Hmmm, not school. I didn't like that much. Or church, too much preachin'. Sam Houston."

"Who?"

"Not who. What. Sam Houston was my cat. Aunt Jane gave him to me for Christmas one year. He was so tiny, he could fit in the palm of my hand."

"A kitten? I thought children who grew up to be gunslingers had wolves for pets. At least a mean dog."

"I like cats. Always have. They're independent."

"What color was Sam Houston?"

"About the shade of your hair. Maybe more orange."

She laughed and traced tiny circles on his bare chest with her fingertips. He cupped her breast with his hand and was rewarded with her sigh of pleasure.

"Keep that up, and you'll wake the dead."

"You mean, we could… again? So soon?"

He chuckled and brushed the cleft between her breasts with the tip of his tongue.

"Don't laugh at me," she said. "I didn't know. Once my husband… I didn't know a man could…" She left the rest unsaid and began to massage his shoulders and neck.

His loins tightened. "A man can do a lot when he's with you." He rubbed his thumb over her swollen nipple and felt her growing arousal.

"I want to make you happy," she murmured. "Tell me what to do."

He groaned as her exploring hand slid down to caress his loins. "You're doing fine on your own," he managed.

"Make love to me again."

She twisted so that she was sitting upright on top of him. Blood pounded in his head. "Woman," he groaned.

She moved slowly, sensually, teasing him, heating the part of him that was already throbbing with need.

He wanted to tell her that he cared about her, that he believed her, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he let his hands and willing body speak for him. Touching her, feeling her body against his filled him with hot urgency.

"Tamsin… Tamsin…"

"I'm here," she replied. "I'm here for you." She slanted her mouth against his, scorching his flesh with a heated joining that left him breathless and aching.

Arching her back, she traced the outline of his nipples with her tongue, laving each one, then nipping at it until small bursts of pleasure rocketed through his veins.

"How do you want it?" he asked her. "Quick or slow?"

She laughed softly and nibbled on his left earlobe. "Slowly," she teased. "Slow and sweet."

"Witch."

Sweat broke out on his forehead as he fought to control his response, giving her what she'd demanded, loving her with lazy deliberate caresses. And all the while she moved sensually against him, whispering and stroking his most sensitive spots, prolonging the exquisite pleasure until nature could no longer be denied.

Later Ash fell asleep and Tamsin lay awake in his arms still trembling inwardly with an excitement she never dreamed existed. She knew that what she was feeling had to be far more than a physical attraction.

Foolish, impossible thoughts tumbled in her head. She wondered what it would be like to bear Ash's child, to grow old with him. She could almost picture the two of them sitting on a porch in California in the twilight, drinking lemonade, while their grandchildren chased lightning bugs in the garden.

Did they have fireflies on the west coast? Or was that another illusion, as far from reality as her horse farm? Ash had taken what was offered. They had not spoken of love or marriage, and she was worse than a fool if she expected more.

Her jaw tightened. Stubbornness had gotten her this far. She'd find a way to get to California, and she'd find someone like Ash to love her. She'd take her wedding vows in a church with flowers growing around the door, and she'd have her horses and her babies. Somehow… somehow she'd make her dreams come true.

Henry Steele stood by the window of his late brother's bedroom and stared at the flashes of lightning on the western horizon. A small storm had passed over earlier in the evening, dropping a little rain on the pastures. They needed more water. It had been a mild winter and a dry spring. If runoff from the mountains was less than usual, the Lazy S stood to lose livestock.

That didn't sit well with Henry, especially since he'd been left Sam's entire estate in a will made years before Sam and Sarah had married. Even if he decided to sell the ranch and move to St. Louis as Sarah wanted him to, drought would bring the asking price of the land way down.

Throwing a robe over his naked torso, Henry walked quietly out into the hallway, taking care not to wake Sarah. The next door led to another bedroom and beyond that a parlor that had also served as Sam's ranch office. He went in, struck a match, and lit the painted globe lamp on the oak desk.

A stubbed-out cigar lay discarded in an ashtray. Henry lit that from the lamp wick and rested his reading glasses on his nose. Settling onto a high-backed chair, he picked up the copy of the Rocky Mountain News and began to reread the headline story about the robbery and murders committed by Texas Jack Cannon and his gang of cutthroats. He'd gotten to the second page when he heard the door creak and glanced up.

Sarah stood in the doorway wearing a white linen gown with a high neck and long embroidered sleeves. "It's late, Henry," she said. "Why are you up?"

"I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry, did I disturb you when I got up?"

"Haven't you read enough about those awful outlaws?" She came to him and put her arms around his neck. "I can't sleep alone. I keep having nightmares about Sam… about his death."