Chapter Four
The cowgirl lowered her newspaper and looked up over her sunglasses in a brief study of Morgan, then unfolded her long denim clad legs and clopped across the inlaid stone floor of the terminal.
“Mayfield Morgan?”
“Morgan Mayfield,” said Morgan, realizing that the cowgirl had probably read her name from an alphabetized file and remembered it that way. “That’s me.”
Morgan started to offer her hand, but the cowgirl was still looking across the top of her sunglasses, a bit suspiciously now, as though wondering whether or not to take affront at having been corrected, and Morgan let her hand drop.
Morgan used the opportunity to observe the cowgirl as well. She was pretty, in a tough, weather worn sort of way. Her hat was sweat stained and frayed at the brim. Her small, pert
