small room as Morgan Tolliver rose to his feet and stood over Cassandra’s bed. His wind-burnished features might as well have been chiseled from stone. But even he could not mask the emotions that flickered in those anthracite eyes.
Had she reached him? Had the information she’d taken precious time to buy from Yvette, the youngest and prettiest of Flossie’s girls, been worth the price of her grandmother’s garnet earrings? Cassandra’s future, and the future of her child, hung on the outcome of the next few seconds.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she watched his face and waited.
Chapter Three
Her eyes were the color of violets in a spring meadow. Gazing down into their too-innocent depths, Morgan had to force himself to believe this child-woman was lying. Damnation, she had to be lying! It wasn’t like Ryan to get mixed up with such a creature. He’d preferred his women ripe and voluptuous. Cassandra Riley was all eyes and freckles and wild red hair, with barely enough body to contain the child she carried. Even if they’d been acquainted in Cheyenne, Morgan couldn’t imagine his brother would have given her a second glance.
Unless, against all odds, Ryan had fallen in love with her…
But no, even that didn’t make sense. Ryan had a wild streak, but he was decent at heart. If he’d cared for the girl, he would never have run out on her.
She was lying through her pretty little teeth. That’s all there was to it.
But how in blazes, then, did she know about the scar?
“What else do you know about Ryan?” he asked, his voice emerging rough and raw from the tightness of his throat.
“That he was kind and gentle and loved to laugh,” she replied softly. “He never knew about the baby. If he had, things might be different now.”
Morgan felt his jaw muscles tighten as her meaning sank home. If Ryan had known about the baby, maybe he’d have married the poor girl. Maybe he’d have brought her back to the ranch and settled down instead of signing up for that God-cursed government survey expedition.
But this line of thinking was crazy. He was staggering along the edge of believing her, and he couldn’t afford to let himself step over the line. She was a fraud, plain and simple. He’d known it from the moment he set eyes on her.
But what if he was wrong?
What if this conniving little waif was carrying Ryan’s child—the last, best hope that Jacob Tolliver’s line would continue?
Morgan scowled down at the girl, weighing the elements of what he knew. Jacob had always wanted grandsons. When Morgan’s own brief marriage had soured and ended, the old man had shifted his hopes to Ryan. Now those hopes were fading, and Jacob’s life was fading with them. If Ryan failed to return, Morgan feared his father would die of grief.
Unless, woven amid the gloom, some bright thread of promise could be found.
Jacob had not been told about the locket. The old man knew only that a young woman in a broken-down wagon had wandered onto the ranch, alone, pregnant and in desperate need of help. Morgan dared not risk revealing the rest of the story. Not, at least, until he knew the truth of it.
“I’m not asking for charity, mind you.” Her small but determined voice broke into his thoughts. “I’m a hard worker, and I intend to earn every cent of my keep.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Morgan’s gaze flickered downward to the swollen belly beneath the baggy plaid shirt, thinking that there hardly seemed enough of her to carry so much bulk.
“I can cook and wash with the best of them,” she declared. “And while I’m resting up after the baby comes, I can always darn stockings and mend whatever else needs it. I’m a fair hand with a needle and thread.” Her eyes moved to the front of his shirt. “That includes sewing on…buttons.”
Morgan glanced down at his chest. He bit back a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he noticed the loose button, dangling by a single thread, halfway down his shirt.
“Did you happen to rescue my carpetbag from the wagon?” she asked. “I packed my sewing basket inside. Fetch it for me, and I’ll give you a demonstration.”
“Your demonstration can wait.” Morgan edged backward, determined not to give the redheaded charlatan an opening, but she had already spotted her battered valise in the corner where he had dropped it.
“There it is. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I’m not an invalid,” she said. “In any case I can’t imagine that using my fingers will put too much strain on my delicate condition. Now, are you going to bring me that carpetbag and cooperate, or do I have to tie you to the bed and sew on that button by force?”
The 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
