Wyoming Widow. Elizabeth Lane
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her maiden name. “Cassandra Riley. And yes, that’s what happened. I don’t know if Ryan’s alive or dead, but I thought it right that this child be born here, among his family. Besides—” she cast him what she hoped was a poignant glance “—I had nowhere else to go.”
“Very touching.” His mouth twitched contemptuously. “Let me give you my own version of your story, Miss Riley. My brother liked his women, all right, but he liked them ripe and experienced, with no hidden snares. He would never have taken advantage of someone like…you.”
“But he—”
“Let me finish. I don’t believe you even knew my brother—at least not well enough to be carrying his child. Under circumstances that are none of my concern, you found yourself with child, saw the newspaper story and decided to take advantage of a grieving family.” His dark eyes probed her soul, searching out the lies, the deceit.
“What about the locket?” Cassandra protested. “You saw the picture yourself.”
“A photograph glued into a piece of cheap jewelry doesn’t prove a thing,” he snapped. “Tell me I’m wrong. I dare you.”
Cassandra forced herself to meet those accusing eyes. Ryan Tolliver’s brother had seen through her subterfuge. He had her dead to rights. Maybe if she confessed now he would let her stay. Surely a large ranch like this could use one more cook, laundress or housekeeper.
But no—his pitiless gaze told her she had already carried her gamble too far. If she told this man the truth, he would put her on the road himself, or, worse, have her arrested for fraud. She had no choice except to continue the dangerous game, no choice except to play the one trump card that remained to her.
Cassandra dropped her gaze to her where her hands lay clasped protectively over the roundness of her belly. Slowly, deliberately, she gathered her resolve. When she looked up again, her eyes were clear, and when she spoke, her voice was as calm as a frozen lake.
“Ryan had a scar,” she said, “a jagged white scar, running like a streak of lightning up the inside of his left thigh. He came by it, as I recall, at the age of fourteen when he was gored by a bull elk he’d wounded with his first rifle.”
Silence hung leaden in the 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