riled rattler with the realization that Casey had left. He’d known the infamous lady for only a few days, and when he hadn’t been unconscious, he’d despised her. How did one woman get under a man’s skin so quickly?
She had a rare beauty: red-brown hair that reminded him of a desert sunset and pale blue eyes veiled behind thick, dark lashes. When he walked into her campsite, she looked out of place, as though an angel had taken residence in a man’s world. An angel or a demon? He knew the rumors. A bounty hunter from Missouri said Jenkins had found her in a brothel. One report said Casey and Tim stumbled onto the gang by accident, and Jenkins had to have her. Whatever the truth, she ran from him now.
Morgan saw the grit in her eyes in the mountains of Utah when he shoved his Winchester under her chin. If she feared him, she didn’t show it. The calm speech and soft voice indicated a woman of confidence. He’d expected Casey O’Hare to use her beauty to wiggle out of his hold, but instead she challenged him with a sharp mind—repeatedly. How else could she have survived all those years with Jenkins? She’d lived among one of the most hardened gangs in American history. Casey might have noble intentions of ridding her life of Davis Jenkins, but without help, that animal would not stop until he caught her.
Forget her. She’s not worth it. Look at what she’s done over the years.
Yet she’d put her life on the line for him. Took care of him when anyone else would have left him to die. Risked her life with Jenkins hot on her trail. Morgan had learned just enough to drive him crazy, just enough to wonder if his best-laid plans were wrong. The God he acknowledged in good and needy times might be trying to tell him something . . . or warn him. If he’d have stuck to God’s ways these past four years, then maybe he could decipher the message.
*****
Six hours passed, and still the confusion of what began in the mountains of Utah and continued until this morning in Vernal tore at Casey’s heart. She lifted her tearstained face to the late morning sun and willed the bittersweet memories of Morgan to fade.
This is insane. I hardly know the man. How could I let him torment me so? He had no right to confuse me this way—saying things that most likely meant nothing to him.
She hated to think his reasons for asking her to stay were to trap Jenkins, to satisfy lust, or to earn a bounty. Certainly the past seven years had taught her to be a better judge of character.
She shoved her raging thoughts aside and attempted to dwell on the future. Living in the past invited an early grave, and the only way to clear distance between her and Jenkins was to take advantage of the present. She didn’t need Morgan . . . just like she hadn’t needed Franco. Now why did she think of him? He’d been dead over three years.
Casey shook her head in hopes of dispelling painful regrets. She patted the full saddlebags. Guilt possessed her in one breath for the way Tim got the money, and thankfulness claimed her in another because maybe he cared for her after all.
My poor wayward brother. How much more I want for you.
He’d never been able to save much, but then neither did most of the outlaws. Even Jenkins talked about the ranch he’d one day own in Mexico. They all talked big about buying ranches, cattle, and horses, then settling down, but few managed to hold on to anything except their horses and guns—and seldom their lives. Instead, they all spent their money on horses, fancy saddles, guns, liquor, poker games, brothels, and anything else that fed into their lives.
For Tim, it was always, “I’ll quit after the next job.” But that last job never happened. In the beginning, when she and Tim left home to escape Pa’s beatings, all Tim wanted was to earn a few dollars and take care of Casey.
“I’m joining up with the Jenkins gang,” he said one night while they camped near the border of Missouri and Kansas. “I talked to a few of his men in town, and they could use another gun.”
“That’s wrong, Tim. We’re doing fine by ourselves.”