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
