Free Judith E French by Morgan's Woman Page B

feminine ways. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her grandmother had never gotten over the shock of losing her only child. Gran had lived in a wispy world of ghosts and voices only she could hear. She was always happy, always ready to give her granddaughter a hug or asweet. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember Tamsin’s name or who she was.
    Tamsin didn’t blame anyone for her inability to fit into Three Forks society. Her grandfather’s wealth couldn’t make up for her unconventional ways. Her hair was too red and too unruly to be smoothed into a proper coiffure, and her dresses were always torn from climbing fences and trees. All her life she’d heard remarks, some whispered, some rudely spoken aloud.
    “Too broad-shouldered for my taste,” a neighbor’s son had remarked. “They say all heiresses are beautiful, but I’d rather court one of her grandfather’s racehorses.”
    Atwood hadn’t said any of those things, not until after she became his wife and he had control of her inheritance. Then he’d taunted her with far worse. He’d said she was too mannish and stupid to boot.
    She knew he was wrong. The only truly stupid thing she’d done in her life was to accept Atwood’s proposal of marriage.
    She’d known about her husband’s gambling and foolish business ventures, but she hadn’t guessed the extent of the damage. And in the end, the mare and stallion were all she had to start a new life.
    She was well rid of him. She would build again in California, bigger and better. She didn’t need a husband to take care of her. She was quite capable of managing her own—
    Tamsin reined up the gelding. She’d been so busy dredging up old memories that she’d nearly ridden past the entrance to the valley. She dismounted to drink and let the horses drink their fill from the stream.
    Once in the saddle again, she pushed hard up the valley. Ahead mountains rose in folds, some still snowcapped. She had a compass and a map showing two passes through the Rockies. Now she was cutting too farnorth to find either one. She couldn’t go back to Sweetwater, nor could she go south without taking a chance on meeting up with Ash again.
    “I’ll simply have to find another way.”
    She rode on through the heat of the noonday sun, seeing nothing more threatening than a golden eagle winging overhead and a coyote with two pups trotting after her. The air was so clean and sweet that she inhaled it in great gulps, savoring the bite of evergreen on her tongue.
    In midafternoon, Tamsin rode past a herd of elk grazing peacefully in a meadow of yellow flowers not unlike the buttercups that had grown so profusely at home. A massive bull with spreading horns raised his head and gazed at her, but the cows and long-legged calves seemed unconcerned.
    Tamsin was amazed by the vastness of the country. Other than Ash, she’d not seen a single human being since she’d left Sweetwater behind. Moved by the panorama of endless sky and mountains, she rode in silence, filling her eyes and memory with the tranquil beauty. The creak of saddle leather and the comforting cadence of the horses’ hooves were almost hypnotic, lulling her into a sense of deep peace.
    Abruptly, the valley narrowed, and trees lined the passageway. Already shadows lengthened, telling Tamsin that it was time to look for a place to camp for the night. But she had found no other stream, and she was reluctant to make a dry camp.
    A rock fall from the ridge above made her look up in alarm. Small stones tumbled down, unnerving the horses. Laying his black ears flat against his head, Dancer rolled his eyes and snorted. Fancy mouthed the bit and pressed up behind her mate.
    Prickles of apprehension played up and down Tamsin’sspine and the leathers felt suddenly damp against her palm. She urged her mare on, but Dancer blocked their way. Skin rippled over his powerful chest, and he pawed the stony ground.
    “Go on!” she shouted, bringing her reins down across