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 woman was reckless enough to go running off alone, who was he to stop her? Until a few hours ago, he had not known Cassandra Riley and her wild scheme existed. As long as she didn’t harm his family, why should he care what happened to her?
Now he stood at the porch rail, his thoughts churning as he stared into the darkness. Beyond him lay the barn, the sprawling complex of sheds and corrals and the long bunkhouse for the hired hands. From the time he was old enough to swing a hammer, he had labored beside his father to build this place. He had sawed logs, dug postholes and hauled the mortar for the stones that walled the first floor of the house. He had fought off locust swarms and cattle rustlers in summer; diphtheria and packs of hungry wolves in winter. He had poured a lifetime of sweat, pain, blood and blisters into this ranch, and he would protect its legacy with the last breath of his life—even from the schemes of a deceitful woman.
Morgan’s eyes scanned the shadows for anything that looked out of place. There was nothing. But then, what had he expected to see? Did he think she was going to steal eggs, or maybe set the barn on fire? What a joke. The harm she could do went far deeper than mere physical damage.
Seething now, he turned away from the porch railing. There was just one way to find out whether Cassandra Riley was following his orders—go upstairs, check her room and see for himself.
If he found her there, he could stop stewing and get back to work. If the room proved to be empty…
But he would deal with that when the time came.
Squaring his shoulders, Morgan opened the door, strode across the landing and quietly mounted the stairs.
Chapter Four
Darkness enfolded Morgan as he reached the landing, but he needed no candle to find his way. The upper floor, built of hand-hewn logs above the original part of the house, was not large in area. Morgan’s own bedroom lay at the far end of the hall with Ryan’s room—now too silent, too empty—opening on the right. The rest of the space was taken up by two guest bedrooms. The smaller of these, originally planned as a child’s room, was the one Morgan had chosen for Cassandra Riley.
He hesitated a moment in the shadows outside her door, then knocked lightly on the polished pine surface. One rap. Two. He waited.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, more forcefully this time. The door planks were thick, he reasoned, and she might not have heard the light rap. Again he waited. Again there was no response.
Morgan exhaled into the silence. He would try the door, he resolved. If it was bolted, at least he would know she was inside, perhaps asleep.
The latch yielded to the light pressure of his thumb. Morgan’s breath caught as the unbolted door swung open into the darkened room.
“Cassandra?” He spoke in a whisper, not wanting to startle her.
When she did not reply, he stepped soundlessly over the threshold. For the space of a breath he saw only shadows. Then a shaft of light from the rising moon gleamed through the uncurtained window, falling across the narrow bunk to illuminate the slight, lumpy form that lay beneath the quilt.
Morgan’s throat tightened as he saw her. He knew he should turn and go, but his feet held him to the floor, refusing to budge. Unable to look away, his beauty-starved eyes drank in the sight of her.
She lay on her back, one pale arm flung upward, straining the fabric of her muslin shift against one tautly swollen breast. Her other arm curled protectively around the bulge of her unborn baby, cradling it as she slept.
Damp and fragrant, her freshly washed hair spilled across the pillow, rippling outward like the rays of the Madonna’s halo in an old painting Morgan had once seen. Framed by that wild sea of hair, her face was as innocent as a child’s.
His eyes traced the petal curve of her lower lip, pausing to linger on her small, stubborn chin. He should have known she would be asleep, he berated himself. The long, solitary journey in a jouncing wagon would have exhausted any woman, let alone one who was heavy with child. And how could she have managed to rest during those nights on the open plain, huddled alone in the darkness, at the mercy of any passing danger? No weapon and a baby on the way. She must have been out of her mind with terror.
What would drive a woman to take such a risk? Morgan asked himself. But he already knew the answer to that question. It was sheer, raw desperation.
The same desperation that would drive her to lie, to cheat, to do anything to secure a future for her child.
She stirred in her sleep, whimpering as her head tossed back forth and on the pillow. Beneath the patchwork quilt, her feet twitched as if she were dreaming of pursuit.
“No…Seamus, no…” Her body jerked and writhed, the words emerging between muffled sobs. “No…”
Her distress seemed very real. But shysters came in all shapes and sizes, Morgan reminded himself. And the ones who played on the sympathies of good people were worse than bank robbers and horse thieves. He could not afford to be touched by the girl’s vulnerability. Not until he had checked out every last detail of her story. If the little witch proved to be lying…
“No…please…” Her body twisted frantically, small hands clawing at the quilt. “Please, Seamus, for the love of heaven, don’t…”
Morgan felt his resolve crumbling. Cassandra Riley might be a scheming little tramp, but right now something in her mind was scaring her half to death. Even though all the warning signs were up, he was no more capable of walking away from her than from a wounded bobcat cub.
His palm tingled as he brushed the damp hair back from her forehead. The feel of her cool, sweet skin made his throat ache. Only now did he realize how much he had wanted to touch her.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, his hand lingering on her hair. “You’re dreaming, that’s all. Rest, Cassandra.”
As if she had heard him, she stopped thrashing beneath the quilt. Her whimpers subsided as, little by little, she relaxed in the bed, the rhythm of her breathing deep and even once more.
Had he contrived the whole reason for coming into her room? Had his far-fetched suspicions been nothing more than an excuse for him to be here, standing beside her bed in the breath-filled darkness?
Still looking down at her, Morgan forced his hand to withdraw. Yes, he could understand how Ryan might have fallen in love with this girl. She was no beauty, to be sure, but her spirit and vulnerability would tempt almost any man.
Almost. But not all. Morgan had sworn off love for good after the breakup of his marriage. For love to exist, there had to be trust. And this little flame-haired snip, with her bulging belly and her wild claims