4

Caleb awoke at the first rumble of thunder. Clouds like great clipper ships were raking across the sky above the ravine. Slate-bottomed, white-topped, glittering with occasional lightning, the squall line raced before the wind.

«Just as well I didn’t try to dry that skirt,» Caleb muttered, yawning. «Sure as God made little green apples, we’re going to get wet all over again.»

Willow didn’t answer, except to make a muffled sound of protest when Caleb’s warmth was replaced by a cold gust of wind as he rolled out of bed.

«Up and at ’em, fancy lady,» he said, pushing his warm stocking feet into cold, stiff boots. «This storm will give us a few safe hours of daylight on the trail.»

Still asleep, Willow pulled the blanket more tightly around herself, trying to preserve the remaining warmth. One of Caleb’s big hands wrapped around the thick wool. With a single motion of his arm, he pulled the blanket and tarpaulin off her.

«Get up, Willow.»

As he spoke, Caleb moved away from the bed he had shared with her. He didn’t trust his response if she turned toward him sleepily and called another man’s name again.

What do you care if Reno’s fancy woman can’t keep her bedmates straight?

Caleb had no answer for the question he asked himself. He only knew that, wisely or foolishly, he did care. He wanted Willow. All that kept him from trying a bit of seduction was the chance — admittedly small, as far as he was concerned — that she actually was married to Matthew Moran. But that slight chance was enough to hold Caleb in check. Stealing some passion from a man’s fancy woman was one thing. Adultery was quite another. No matter how willing the woman might be, no matter how many men she might have had before him, Caleb would no more knowingly commit adultery than he would go back on his given word.

The problem was to determine if the girl in question was indeed married. The solution to that problem occupied part of Caleb’s mind as he climbed up the side of the ravine and looked out over the land.

No one was near. Three miles away, a horseman was headed north on the informal road that ran along the front of the Rockies. A wagon was also headed north, its mules moving smartly in a futile effort to outrun the weather. Nobody was visible heading south.

Caleb waited ten more minutes. Nothing else appeared along the track but cloud shadows skimming over the land. Between the clouds, a hawk floated in a piece of sky so blue it made Caleb’s eyes water to look at it. Sunlight the color of molten gold poured over the land. The light was hot and clean, slicing through the damp chill near the ground like an incandescent sword.

From the ravine below came the soft nickering of a stallion calling to his mares. Caleb smiled and stretched, savoring the peace of the moment and the clean scent of sunlight and earth. It was so still he could hear slight ripping sounds as the horses cropped grass. Then a gust of wind came rushing over the land, bending grass and willows alike, whispering and murmuring like an invisible river as it caressed everything between cloud and earth.

The soft-talking wind awakened Willow. For an instant she thought she was back in West Virginia, a child asleep in the meadow while her family’s horses cropped grass all around her. Then she remembered that the meadow was gone, the farms were gone, and she was no longer a child. She awoke in a rush, sitting straight up in the dappled shade of the thicket. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She certainly didn’t remember lying down on a mattress of limber branches covered by a tarpaulin.

«Caleb?» she called softly.

No one answered.

Anxiously, Willow stood up and pushed out of the tiny clearing in the thicket, ignoring the protests of her stiff body and chapped legs. A quick look assured her that the horses were still picketed downstream, their coats gleaming in the sun as they stretched their necks to get to the last bit of grass within reach of their picket ropes. Willow listened intently, but heard no movements that might have come from a man gathering twigs or seeking the privacy of a dense thicket.

But then, Caleb had never made much noise no matter what the circumstances.

Making as little noise as possible herself, Willow sought the center of a downstream thicket, struggled out of and then back into her clammy skirt, and went to check on her horses. The Arabians were moving well and no stones were caught between steel shoes and hooves. Ishmael’s back wasn’t tender. Nor was he tired. He had enough energy to pretend to be startled by her appearance. He snorted and shied like a colt, then stretched out his neck and fluttered his nostrils in a softnicker, asking her to share in the play.

«You old fraud,» Willow said softly, rubbing the stallion’s nose. «You knew who it was all the time.»

Ishmael nudged her chest playfully. Willow winced. She was still a bit sore from Deuce’s hard head.

Willow glanced at Caleb’s horses, but stayed away from them. She didn’t want to feel the rough edge of his tongue if she spooked the geldings with her flapping yards of skirt. After a final stroke to Ishmael’s velvety muzzle, Willow began gathering twigs for the fire she hoped Caleb would allow them to have.

When Caleb came back from reconnoitering the area around the ravine, he found Willow awake and sitting by a pile of reasonably dry twigs.

«Is it safe to have a fire?» she asked with unconcealed eagerness.

«A small one.»

«On this side of the Mississippi, what other kind is possible? There aren’t any trees.»

«Wait until we get in the mountains. You’ll see trees until you’re sick of them.»

He watched Willow stack twigs for the fire. When she was finished, he removed half and set them aside. Only then did he strike a match and coax a wavering flame from the damp fuel. As soon as the fire caught, Willow got to her feet stiffly. She managed not to groan as she bent over and reached for the coffeepot.

«Drink what’s inside before you use the pot,» Caleb said.

She lifted the lid and looked. The liquid was dark, but not nearly as dark as Caleb’s usual brew.

«What is it?»

«Willow-bark tea. Good for —»

«Aches and pains and fevers,» she interrupted, grimacing. «Tastes like sin itself, too.»

The corner of Caleb’s mouth lifted slightly. «Drink up, honey. You’ll feel better.»

«I don’t want to be greedy,» Willow said, looking at him with an unspoken plea. «How much of the tea is for you?»

«None of it. I’m not a soft southern lady.»

«Neither am I.»

The irritation in Willow’s voice increased Caleb’s smile. «That’s right. You’re a fancy northern lady.»

«I’m not a fancy lady, either,» she retorted, «South or North.»

Caleb’s cool golden glance raked over Willow, taking in her finger-combed hair and her rumpled, clammy clothes.

«I reckon you aren’t,» he drawled. «Bet your fancy man would be surprised to see you now.»

«Matt isn’t a fancy man any more than you are.»

«Oh, yes. I forgot. He’s your…husband.»

The flick of contempt with which Caleb emphasized the last word made Willow blush. Futilely, she wished she could keep from blushing every time she was forced to confront her lie about being married. Yet Matt’s letter had been quite clear about thenecessity: Don’tlet Willy sweet talk her way into coming with you, boys. I know she always had a yen to wander, but out here an unmarried woman is considered fair game for every man’s attentions. We’ve got better things to do than stand guard over our pretty little sister.

With a rather grim pleasure Caleb noted the telltale red stain on Willow’s cheeks. Wondering if now was the time to press her, he hooked his long index finger into the watch pocket of his pants. It wasn’t a watch he touched. It was the locket Rebecca had given him when he had finally badgered her into telling him the truth about the identity of the man who had planted a child within her and then abandoned her to bear his bastard.

And to die of childbed fever hours before the baby’s own death.

All that remained of Rebecca’s life was a name — Matthew «Reno» Moran — and the locket with pictures of Reno’s dead parents inside. If Willow was Reno’s wife, surely she would recognize his parents. But if she had lied, she wouldn’t recognize the photos.

«Been married long?» Caleb asked, his voice neutral.

Frantically, Willow tried to decide if it would be better to have been married a long time or a short one.

«Er…» She bit her lip. «No.»

«Then I guess you don’t know your husband’s parents.»

Willow brightened, more sure of her ground. «Of course I know them. I’ve known them for years.»

«Neighbors, huh?»

She hesitated, then decided to keep the lies as close as possible to the truth. «Not really. Matt’s folks, ah, took me in when I was young. They’re the only parents I remember.»

Caleb smiled sourly. Willow wasn’t much of an actress, which helped him. He supposed most men just looked at her full breasts and narrow waist and didn’t notice the tide of guilt that climbed her cheeks with each lie. Men could be real fools when presented with a sweet smile and a woman’s curving body.

«It’s a good thing, knowing your husband’s parents,» Caleb said. «Makes for an easier marriage all around.»

Willow made a neutral sound and raised the soot-covered coffeepot to her lips, preferring the bitter flavor of the medicinal tea to the taste of any more lies.

Thunder cracked, chasing after lightning made invisible by the brightness of day. Shuddering, Willow lowered the coffeepot.

«There’s more,» Caleb said without looking up from the fire.

«How do you know?»

«There’s always more bitter medicine than a fancy lady is willing to swallow.»

If it hadn’t been for her recent lies, Willow would have objected to Caleb’s comment. As it was, she just raised the pot to her mouth and drank until nothing was left. He watched her from the corner of his eye while he added a few more twigs to the fire. When they caught, he added more fuel until the flames were steady and hot, yet the fire was still no bigger than his hat.

They cooked and ate breakfast in silence. Gradually, Willow realized that the unpleasant tea had worked. She was still stiff, but she no longer had to bite back sounds of pain when she bent her right leg. All too soon breakfast was over, the camp was packed up, and Caleb was saddling his horse. This time Deuce acted as pack animal and Trey bore Caleb’s greater weight.

«Will that stud of yours resent being tied behind a gelding?» Caleb asked.

«I don’t think so.»

He grunted. «We’ll find out quick enough. Which one of the mares is strongest?»

«Either of the sorrels. They’re Ishmael’s daughters. Saddle Dove, the one with only one white sock.»

Caleb saddled Dove and boosted Willow aboard. Though she said nothing, her face visibly tightened as she settled into the sidesaddle once more. Caleb knew that the tea had helped, but no medicine was going to take the discomfort from Willow today, unless maybe it was a shot of Taos lightning.

«Want some whiskey?» Caleb asked.

Willow blinked. «I beg your pardon?»

«Whiskey. It’s a good pain killer.»

«I’ll keep it in mind,» Willow said dryly, amused despite the aching of her body and the burning of her inner thighs each time her damp clothes rubbed against flesh that was already abraded. «For now, I think I’d better stick to willow-bark tea.»

«Suit yourself.»

Thunder crackled again as the clouds overhead joined to shut out the sun. Rain began to fall as Caleb swung onto Trey and took the lead. Deuce trotted off obediently, leading four Arabians. Ishmael snorted and jigged unhappily for the first few miles, then settled down to the indignity of being led by a gelding through a driving rain.

Except for the watery light of late afternoon, the ride was a repeat of the previous night’s endurance contest. Trot, canter, walk, trot, and then trot some more for good measure. Willow barely noticed when the gray of day merged with the black of night. On Caleb’s command she ate cold bacon and biscuits, drank cold coffee, dismounted and walked to spare the mare and restore her own circulation, then mounted and resumed the torment once more.

As the hours wore on, fatigue battled with pain for control of Willow’s body. She thought she could become no more uncomfortable when a cold wind sprang up and she began to shiver. The ice-tipped wind howled down from the slopes of mountains she had glimpsed only once, from Denver, their peaks swathed in storms and their flanks rising like fortresses flung across the western sky. But even those ramparts were invisible now, concealed within the frigid night and storm.

Shivering, Willow hunched down over the saddle horn and hung on, bending her head beneath the icy wind. She was so dazed by cold and fatigue that she didn’t realize the horses had stopped until she felt herself being lifted from the mare’s back. Her wet, heavy skirts slapped across Caleb’s face.

«Caleb?» she asked hoarsely. «Is it dawn?»

«Not by a long shot, but I’ve had enough of this goddamned foolishness,» he said roughly.

Willow didn’t answer, for his words didn’t make sense to her.

The ravine Caleb had chosen for camp was deep enough to baffle the wind. Part of the bank had an overhang that offered shelter from the fitful storm. A huge cottonwood log reflected back the heat of the fire that leaped and burned beneath the overhang, making the earth steam. Transfixed, Willow stared at the unexpected warmth and beauty of the flames.

«Lift up your arms,» Caleb said curtly.

She did, and felt the wet weight of his poncho being peeled from her body. That puzzled her, for at first she didn’t remember putting on the poncho. She forgot her puzzlement when she realized that Caleb was unbuttoning the bodice of her wet riding habit. Automatically she pushed at his hands. It was futile. She might as well have pushed at the invisible mountains.

«What d-do you think you’re d-doing?» she demanded through chattering teeth.

«Keeping you from a dose of lung fever,» he said grimly, yanking off the riding habit without regard for laces or buttons. «My poncho can’t keep you warm in this kind of storm, not when you start out with wet clothes that are too thick and too heavy to get dry from the heat of your body alone. You’re such a little thing.»

Willow looked at thefirelit face of the man who was peeling off her clothes as impersonally as he would have peeled bark from a log. His face was wet, dark with beard stubble, and set in grim lines. His wool shirt and leather vest were black with rain.

«You m-must be f-freezing, too,» she said.

Caleb’s only answer was a grunt of disgust. He drew his belt knife and did what he had been wanting to do since he had first seen Willow dressed in the unwieldy clothes. Steel sliced through stubborn cloth as he stripped folds of wet wool and useless petticoats away from her long legs. When the tip of the knife flicked against metal, Caleb paused long enough to examine the contents of the special leather pocket sewn into Willow’s skirt.

The twin-barrelledderringer looked tiny in his hand. He hefted the gun, saw that it was fully loaded, and set it within Willow’s reach on the cottonwood log. Then he resumed wielding the long-bladed knife with a casual skill that would have been breathtaking under other circumstances, but neither he nor she had breath to spare at the moment — Willow was too busy shivering and Caleb was too busy trying not to notice the transparency that wetness brought to her fine cottonpantelets.

But Caleb would have to have been blind and more saint than man not to notice the elegant lines of Willow’s legs and the lush golden nest at the apex of her thighs. The fine lawn of her camisole was even more transparent, revealing the fullness of her breasts and the rosy peaks tightly drawn against the cold. The temptation to take off his own wet clothes and warm Willow from the inside out was so great that it shook Caleb. He set his jaw and wrapped Willow tightly in the softest of his heavy wool blankets.

«Stay here while I take care of the horses,» he ordered.

Willow wouldn’t have argued even if she could have. The heat from the fire burned against her face almost painfully, but it was the warming of cold skin that hurt, not the flame itself. Even in winter when she and her mother had hidden in the root cellar from soldiers, Willow had never been this chilled. Huddled so close to the fire that her hair and the wool muffler steamed, she was grateful for every golden whip of flame.

By the time Caleb returned from picketing the horses, Willow had quit shivering. She had managed to suspend his heavy poncho from a dead branch near the fire. Steam rose from the wool in silver wisps. She had unwrapped the wet muffler from her head and draped the wool over the cottonwood log as well. The remains of her riding habit were also drying.

Caleb gave Willow a sharp glance but said nothing as he dropped an armload of wood near the fire.

«They’re wet, so feed the branches in one at a time,» he said.

He began rummaging in the canvas sack that held frying pan and food, trying not to notice the silken gleam of Willow’s naked arm as she reached toward the pile of broken branches. When the blanket slipped off her arm, he also tried not to notice the graceful curve of her neck and shoulder. When the blanket slipped even more, he tried not to look at the soft rise of her breasts and the transparent veil of lace that enhanced rather than concealed Willow’s alluring femininity.

The fire that hissed and licked over the wood was no hotter than Caleb’s thoughts. Using a knife as long as his forearm, he sliced bacon with a swift savagery, wanting only to get out of camp and find Willow some decent clothes.

Willow watched in fascination as the wicked blade flashed like lightning, leaving behind a pile of evenly sliced meat. She had never seen such skill.

«You’re very good with that knife.»

Caleb’s mouth curved in an ironic smile. «So I’m told, honey. So I’m told.»

Uncertainly, she smiled in return.

«Make yourself useful,» he said without looking up. «See if the coffee water is hot.»

The coolness in Caleb’s voice made Willow remember his cutting comments about not being her personal slave. Shifting the blanket to allow movement, she came to her knees and leaned toward the coffeepot. A lock of her long, bright hair fell forward as she bent over. The curling ribbon of hair came dangerously close to the flames. Before Willow could realize anything was wrong, Caleb’s hard arm had yanked her over onto her back in a tangle of blanket and legs.

«Don’t you know better than to bend over a fire with your hair loose?» he said scathingly. «I swear, fancy lady, you’re more trouble than a fox in a hen house.»

«I’m not a fancy lady, my hair is too wet to burn, and I’m tired of you belittling me!»

Caleb looked at the angry hazel eyes so close to his and the soft lips trembling with outrage. The rest of Willow was trembling, too. She was furious at his contempt and was making no effort to disguise it.

«You’re tired, period,» Caleb said, releasing Willow abruptly. «As for the rest, wet hair burns just fine and I’ll stop making comments about your uselessness when you start being useful.»

With unnerving swiftness, he stood and went to the place where the pack saddles were. A few moments later he returned with a blue wool shirt that was so dark it was almost black. The shirt was cut in the cavalry style, with a wedge-shaped front opening that could be unbuttoned down either side. Most of the shirts Willow had seen made like that had sported shiny brass buttons. Caleb’s did not. Buttons of dark horn gleamed dully in the firelight.

It occurred to Willow that nothing of Caleb’s was bright or shiny. Saddle, bridle, clothes, spurs, even thegunbelt he wore — not one item had any of the silverconchas or other decorations men often used to catch the eye. She doubted that it was lack of money that kept Caleb’s gear plain. Nothing that he owned was second class or shabby. All of it helped him to pass over the wild land without attracting any more notice than a shadow.

«I know it isn’t very fancy,» Caleb drawled, holding out the shirt to Willow, «but it will save you having to pretend modesty when the blanket slips.»

Not understanding what Caleb meant, Willow followed the direction of his glance. The blanket had slipped until only the taut rise of her nipple prevented the cloth from falling completely away from her breast. With a gasp, Willow snatched up the blanket with both hands and turned her back to the fire. Golden light flickered and danced caressingly over her skin, making her look as though she were a carving made of luminous amber.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around his shirt. He dropped the piece of clothing on Willow and went back to work on dinner, trying to forget the sensual promise of her breast and the elegant beauty of her back rising from the dark folds of his blanket. But he couldn’t forget. He could only remember again and again.

Angry because he couldn’t control his thoughts — much less the hard, unruly response of his body — Caleb cooked bacon in a silence that wasn’t broken even when Willow awkwardly began preparing biscuits one-handed. The other hand was fully occupied hanging onto the blanket to make certain it stayed wrapped around her waist and legs. His shirt fit her like a greatcoat, with the neck sagging down to reveal the delicate lines of her collar bones and the hollow of her throat.

Between shirt and blanket, Willow was largely successful in keeping herself covered. The moments when the blanket opened to reveal curving legs and velvet shadows were few, but they went into Caleb like knives, reminding him of the beauty that lay concealed beneath wool folds.

After dinner, Caleb added more wood to the fire, threw a tarpaulin down on the ground, and turned to Willow. She watched him warily, sensing that he was angry and not knowing why. A more experienced woman would have known the source of Caleb’s raw temper, but Willow wasn’t experienced. All she understood was that Caleb was riding the fine edge of his self-control.

«Can you use a shotgun?» he asked abruptly.

«Yes.»

Caleb’s long arm reached past Willow to the big log, where he had placed both his repeating rifle and his short-barrelledshotgun within easy reach. Willow flinched in the instant before she realized that he wasn’t going to touch her. His mouth tightened at her retreat, but he said nothing as he lifted the shotgun. With the quick, expert motions of a man who has done something countless times before, he pulled the shotgun from its protective buckskin scabbard.

«Take it.»

Willow took the shotgun. Despite its shortened barrel, it was heavy, but she had been expecting the weight. She braced herself and made certain that the barrel didn’t cover anything but the night sky. Caleb nodded with satisfaction. Her actions told him more clearly than any words that she had handled a big gun before.

«It’s loaded,» he said curtly.

She smiled oddly. «Not much use otherwise, is it?»

«Do you know how to reload it?»

«Yes.»

He tossed a small box into her lap. «Forty shells. If any are gone when I get back, I better see a carcass or blood on the ground.»

«Get back? Where are you going?»

«There’s a settlement a few miles away. I want to find out if anyone’s on our trail.»

«How could they be? We’ve done nothing but ride in darkness and rain.»

Caleb looked at Willow through narrowed golden eyes. «Everyone in Denver knew we were headed into the San Juan region. Everyone with the sense to tell up from down knows that the SanJuans are south and west from Denver. The country is damned empty, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to move in. There are only a handful of good passes and all the trails lead to them.»

He waited expectantly. Willow said nothing.

«There are only two good ways to get where we’re going,» Caleb continued, his voice rough. «One is out of Canyon City up a branch of the Arkansas River over a pass and down to the Gunnison River. That gets you to the northern edge of the San Juan country. Or you can go about seventy miles farther south down the front of the Rockies, then cut through the Sangre de Cristo range and pick up the Rio Grande del Norte around Alamosa and head northwest. That brings you to the southeast edge of the SanJuans.»

Caleb waited again. Willow watched him intently but offered no comment.

«Are you listening to me, fancy lady?» he demanded impatiently.

«Yes.»

«If I know where we have to go, so does anyone who wants to follow us,» he said impatiently. «So which route should we take — Canyon City or Alamosa?»

Willow frowned as she visualized again the map that had come with one of Matthew’s letters and now lay within the lining of her big carpetbag. Canyon City had been mentioned. So had Alamosa. So had other cities. None had been preferred. All had been suggested as possible routes, depending on where the Moran brothers started from. Matt had knows that his letter probably would have to be forwarded to wherever his brothers had gone, so he had shown routes to the San Juan country beginning everywhere from West Virginia to Texas and California to Canada.

But Matt hadn’t shown where his gold mine was. He had simply marked five mountain peaks in the San Juan country and trusted his brothers to find him.

«Matt lives on the western watershed of the Great Divide,» Willow said slowly. «The Gunnison is the major river draining the part of the watershed where Matt is.»

Caleb grunted. «That river drains a lot of country. Canyon City is closer to the northern watershed of the Gunnison, but the Alamosa route takes lower passes.»

«Shouldn’t we just go the quickest way?»

«Hell of an idea,» he said sardonically. «If I had a fortune teller’s crystal, I’d know just what to do. But I don’t, so I’ll go on down south a bit and see if anyone knows what the passes are like between here and there.» Caleb turned away, talking as he went. «Let the fire go out. I’ve picketed Ishmael up the ravine and the mares below us. You hear anything stirring up the horses, you grab that shotgun and fade into the nearest thicket. I’ll signal before I come in.»

«How will I know it’s you?»

As Caleb turned back toward her, his right hand moved to his back pocket and then to his mouth with a swift precision that Willow found unexpected in such a big man. Suddenly a haunting chord was breathed into the night, a harmonic shivering as eerie as the howling of a wolf. The harmonica vanished with the same speed that it had appeared.

Before Willow could speak, Caleb had been swallowed up by the night. She heard thehoofbeats of two horses fading down the ravine, then silence.

After a few minutes the normal sounds of the night resumed, smallscurryings and insects rasping. The crackle of the fire seemed very loud, the flames too bright. Gingerly Willow pulled branches back from the fire. Flames shrank, then vanished but for occasional incandescent tongues flaring over coals. In time, even those died to bare gleams against the ashes.

Willow curled up on the tarpaulin, the shotgun next to her, her head resting on the sidesaddle. Despite her reluctance to let down her guard, she quickly fell asleep, too exhausted to fight the needs of her body any longer.