She inspected him carefully, as if weighing his size and strength. "I still want to team up with you."
He recalled how quickly she had knifed the Orenian to death on the road. "Okay—if you'll follow me without argument."
"I can take orders." She folded her arms behind her head and leaned back with a grin. Her breasts jutted haughtily beneath a torn blouse. "Most orders, that is."
"Hell, I'm not marrying you!" he snapped.
She laughed scornfully. "You will, Morgan, you will."
Morgan lashed the shotgun to a chair, aimed it at the door, and ran a length of cord from the trigger to the shattered lock. "Don't trip over the cord in the night," he warned as he blew out the lamp. Then he bedded down in the corner on the floor.
A short time later he heard her sobbing softly. "What the devil's wrong?" he snarled disgustedly.
"Thanks, Morgan—thanks," she whispered.
For a moment he felt sorry for her. Apparently she was thanking him for the bed. Fat boy had evidently taken the best of everything and given her the crumbs of Lazarus. Such were the mores of chaos. But Morgan quit congratulating himself. He had chosen the floor because it looked cleaner than the bed.