2

Before Willow could respond, there was a commotion from the direction of the dining room. In the spreading silence of the lobby, a man’s voice boomed out.

«You and your second-hand woman can just wait for the next table, old man. In fact, you can damn well wait until me and my friends are finished eating. I don’t want that slut sitting in the same room with me.»

Appalled, Willow turned and looked toward the dining room. An instant later she realized that Eddy and Rose were being confronted by four young men, all of whom wore pistols. A murmur went through the crowd as people backed away from the confrontation. Willow sorted out a few of the muttered words, something about gunmen and Rose refusing to let Slater’s kid brother stay at her boarding house.

Caleb heard the mutterings, too, but he already knew what was going on. He had known since the back of his neck had tightened in an age-old warning of danger and he had spun around to see trouble closing in on his friends. If Eddy had been well, Caleb simply would have walked over to act as an unofficial referee, ensuring that the kid’s friends didn’t interfere with whatever happened between the old lawman and the young outlaw.

But Eddy wasn’t well. He was injured and Johnny Slater knew it. Eddy knew it, too. He had a choice — he could let Rose be insulted or he could try to draw his pistol with his injured right hand. He might attempt a left-handed draw, even though the gun butt was facing the wrong way. No matter which hand, he quite likely would die before the gun barrel cleared the holster.

«No!» Rose said urgently. She stepped in front of Eddy, turning her back on the young tough who had insulted her. «You can’t even hold a fork, much less a gun!»

Before Rose finished speaking, Caleb’s big hand closed on Johnny Slater’s shoulder, spinning him around.

«You’ve got a bad mouth, kid. Folks around Denver are tired of listening to it. Now you can apologize to Mrs. Sorenson and drag your freight out of town or you can go for one of those fancy guns you’re wearing.»

Surprise turned to dismay when Johnny measured the dark promise in Caleb’s eyes. It was one thing to yell across twenty feet of crowded room at an injured man who could barely draw a gun. It was another to face a man belt buckle to belt buckle, a man who was neither injured nor afraid, a man who didn’t give a damn about Kid Slater’s reputation as a gunman with a fast draw and a vicious older brother to back him up.

Johnny Slater began sweating. He looked quickly to his friends, only to discover they were watching him with arms folded, clearly expecting him to take care of the interruption himself.

«Make up your mind, kid,» Caleb said.

The cool impatience in Caleb’s voice made Johnny flinch slightly. His hand crept closer to his pistol, hesitated, crept again. He looked into Caleb’s eyes again and froze.

Caleb made a sound of disgust. «Your older brother may be a real curly wolf, but you’re pure coyote. Apologize to the lady, Kid Coyote.»

«I’m damned if I’m going to apologize to a —»

Caleb slapped Johnny before he could finish the sentence. The open-handed blow was so quick it was almost invisible. It rocked Johnny’s head on his shoulders, sending his fine hat flying. Before Johnny realized what had happened, it was too late. Caleb was slapping him with slow, measured motions, blows that humiliated as much as they hurt; but it was the contemptuous words that hurt most of all.

«Kid Coyote, sneaking around,» Caleb said. «This is for every man you ever shot in theback.»Slap. «For every woman you everinsulted.»Slap. «For every baby you ever stole candyfrom.»Slap. «Now take off your guns, Kid Coyote.»

«What?» Johnny asked, shaking his head, unable to believe what was happening to him.

«Take off yourgunbelts and drop them on the floor.»

Johnny reached for his firstgunbelt with hands made clumsy by a combination of rage and fear. «You’re a dead man, whoever you are! My brother will kill you for this!»

The firstgunbelt hit the floor.

«Any time Slater feels lucky,» Caleb said calmly, «you tell him to ask for Caleb Black.»

The secondgunbelt hit the floor.

«If people don’t know that name,» Caleb continued «tell your brother to ask for the Man from Yuma. As for you, Kid Coyote, you’d be smart never to wear a gun again. Those who live by the sword die by the sword. And you’ll die, kid. If I see you wearing iron anywhere, anytime, I’ll draw down on you and kill you where you stand. Hear me?»

Sullenly, Johnny nodded.

«It’s the only warning you’ll get and one more than you deserve.» Caleb turned away and faced Johnny’s friends. He looked at each one for a long moment, memorizing the faces of his new enemies. Caleb recognized one of them, a bounty hunter and claim jumper from the San Juan mountains. «Shuck those irons, boys.»

Moregunbelts thudded to the floor.

«You’re running in bad company, but it’s a free country. Don’t know how you stand the smell, though.» Caleb tilted his head toward the street. «Get out.»

Radiating frustrated anger, Johnny and his friends left. Not until the door closed behind the last gunman did a ripple of excited talk run through the crowd, speculations and surmises spoken back and forth, another incident added to the growing legend of the Man from Yuma.

Willow made no sound at all. She simply let out her breath and withdrew her hand from the leather-lined pocket of her silk dress where the derringer had lain cold against her palm.

After a few moments people went back to doing whatever they had been doing before Caleb had called Johnny Slater’s bluff. Everyone except Willow walked in a wide circle around the discardedgunbelts and the big man whose eyes were the clear, burning gold of amountion lion’s eyes — or an avenging angel’s.

Caleb turned to Rose. «I’m sorry you had to hear that filth,» he said simply.

Rose tried to speak, smiled tremulously, and managed to whisper, «You’re a good man, Caleb Black. There will always be a place set for you at my table.»

Caleb smiled and touched the widow’s pale cheek with a gentle affection that astonished Willow.

«Thanks,» Eddy said simply to Caleb. «I owe you.»

Caleb shook his head. «You’re the best thing that ever happened to Rose. That’s all the payment I need.»

«Johnny willbackshoot you some day,» Eddy said matter-of-factly. «You should have killed him when you had the chance.»

«There were too many women in the room to start shooting. A wild shot…»

«You’re not a wild shooter.»

With a shrug, Caleb began picking upgunbelts. «Johnny is a foul-mouthed polecat, but he hasn’t killed any of my kin. He insulted Rose and I insulted him. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it.»

«An eye for an eye,» Willow murmured, watching Caleb. «Is that your Western code?»

He straightened and turned toward her with swift, predatory grace. «Not my code, southern lady. God’s. ‘And if any mischief follow, thoushalt give life for life, /Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, /Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe. ’»

The intensity in Caleb’s voice made Willow shiver. «What about forgiveness?» she asked. «What about turning the other cheek?»

«That’s a luxury for city folks who have enough policemen to take care of scum like Kid Coyote. Denver doesn’t have that much law yet. Where I’m taking you there’s no law at all. If a man turns his other cheek, he gets slapped again, harder, until he either fights or stops calling himself a man. Out in those mountains a man takes care of himself because no one else will do it for him.»

«And a woman?» Willow asked unwillingly. «What does she do?»

«She stays in town,» Caleb said bluntly. «If she can’t do that, she finds a man tough enough to protect her and the kids she’ll bear him. That’s the way it is out here, southern lady. Nothing fancy. You kill your own meat, you dress it, you cook it, you eat it, and then you go out and hunt again.» Caleb looked at Willow through narrowed eyes, stepped closer, and said too softly for anyone to overhear, «Still want to search for your…husband?»

Willow looked at the big man looming over her, his eyes like hammered metal and his hands full of weapons. Her first impression of Caleb Black had been correct.

He was dangerous.

Then Willow remembered the brush of his fingertips against Rose’s cheek. Caleb was as hard as a whetstone, yet he was also a decent man. She would be safe with him. She knew it with an inner certainty she didn’t question.

«Yes,» Willow said.

Caleb looked surprised for a moment, but all he said was, «Get ready to ride. We leave in an hour.»

«What? But it’s dark and —»

«One hour, southern lady. Be at the livery stable down the street or I’ll come and drag you out of your room.»

ONE hour and three minutes later, an impatient knock sounded on Willow’s hotel room door. She froze in the act of fastening one of the many stubborn buttons on the bodice of her riding habit.

«Who is it?» she asked, pausing as she pushed a button through a small buttonhole in the heavy wool.

«Caleb Black. You’re late.»

The voice was as low, compelling, and darkly masculine as Willow had remembered. A tiny shivering feeling uncurled in the pit of her stomach. The sensation surprised her, for she had never been afraid of men.

Then Willow realized she wasn’t really afraid of Caleb. He simply was unlike any man she had ever known, which made it impossible for her to predict what he would do next. Or how she would react. His ability to make butterflies flutter in her stomach simply by talking to her through a closed door was disconcerting.

«I’ll be out in a few minutes,» Willow said, her voice unusually husky.

«You’ll be out in thirty seconds or I’ll come in after you.»

«Mr. Black —»

Whatever Willow had been going to say ended in a husky sound of shock when she heard a key scraping in the lock.

«I’m not dressed!»

«Twenty seconds.»

Willow didn’t waste time arguing. Her fingers flew over the buttons. Even so, she barely had managed to close the bodice halfway over her breasts by the time the door opened. When she saw Caleb’s wide shoulders fill the doorway, for an instant she was too shocked to move. The fine lawn of her camisole and its delicate embroidery of flowers were revealed, as was the velvet shadow lying between the full curves of her breasts.

Flushing to the roots of her golden hair, Willow grabbed the edges of her bodice and held them together. Beneath the tide of embarrassment, a flash of fury burned along her high, slanting cheekbones.

«Get out of my room!»

«Don’t get your back up, fancy woman,» Caleb said as he closed the door behind him. «You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.»

Shocked, Willow said the only thing that came to her mind. «How did you get the key to my room?»

«I asked for it. Which one of these carpetbags is going with you?»

For several moments Willow struggled to keep her composure. Caleb might not have much regard for her modesty, but he was making no attempt to take advantage of her. He had looked at her unfastened bodice with complete disinterest. She should have been relieved that he considered her married and therefore out of bounds.

Instead, Willow found herself more than a little irritated by Caleb’s lack of interest in her as a woman. The irrationality of her response only made her more angry.

«I’m taking all my luggage,» Willow said tightly.

Caleb shook his head. «Pick one.»

«But —»

«There’s no time to argue,» he interrupted impatiently. «We’re leaving now and we’re traveling light. There’s a storm coming on. If we get out of here quick enough, we stand a good chance of having our tracks wiped out before anyone realizes we’re gone.»

Willow remembered Johnny Slater’s threat of revenge and frowned. «Do you think Slater’s brother will try to follow us?»

«Jed Slater and anyone else wanting a free woman and expensive horseflesh. That’s a lot of men, and none of them the kind who go to church on Sunday.»

«Mr. Black, I am not a ‘free woman. ’»

He shrugged. «Fine. You’re an expensive woman. Which bag are you taking?»

Willow didn’t trust herself to speak. She went to the smaller bags, grabbed a few items from each and stuffed them in the large carpetbag.

«That one,» she said tightly.

Caleb picked up the bag and turned away, not permitting himself so much as a sidelong glance at the intriguing gaps in Willow’s bodice. The single swift look he had taken when he walked into the room was more than enough. The soft curves and seductive shadows of her body had made him harden in the space of a breath. It had taken a maddening amount of self control not to brush aside her hands and lower his face to her breasts, finding out for himself if she was half as sweet to his tongue as she was to his eyes.

«Southern lady,» Caleb said without looking around, «we —»

«My name is Willow Moran.»

«— aren’t going to a ball,» he said, ignoring her interruption. «That fancy riding outfit of yours is as useless as a four card flush. When that long, flapping skirt gets wet, it will weigh more than you do. Wear something else.»

«Such as?»

«Pants,» he said succinctly.

Willow blinked. He was indeed a practical man.

«That’s impossible,» she said, as much to herself as to Caleb.

«Indian women do it all the time. We’re not riding down country lanes. We’re going over some of the roughest land God made this side of Hell. Last thing you need is yards of cloth flying and flapping and catching on every branch.»

«I’ll just have to do the best I can. I don’t have anything else suitable.»

Against his better judgment, Caleb glanced over his shoulder at Willow. The single lantern in the room was reflected in his eyes, making them look like they burned.

«Then at least take off the petticoats,» he said bluntly.

«I can’t. They’re sewn into the seams of the riding skirt.»

A spatter of rain hit the hotel window. Thunder rumbled distantly. Caleb looked at the black shine of water on the glass, shook his head, and opened the door. A quick glance assured him that no one was in the hall. With a curt gesture he indicated that Willow should precede him through the door.

«What about the rest of my luggage?» Willow asked.

«It will be waiting at Rose’s boarding house when you get back.»

Without another word Willow walked past Caleb into the dark hall, trying not to touch him on the way by. It was impossible. He left very little room when he stood in a doorway. The renewed realization of Caleb’s size sent a flush to Willow’s cheeks and more of the odd, shimmering sensations racing from her breastbone to her knees.

The few hall lights had been put out recently, leaving behind the smell of smoldering wicks.

«Left,» Caleb said in a low voice that carried no farther than Willow.

She turned left, wondering where she was going, for the hotel lobby lay to her right.

«Mr. Black, where —» she began.

«Quiet,» he interrupted swiftly.

A look over her shoulder convinced Willow that it was the wrong time to ask Caleb questions. Wearing the same dark trail clothes he had earlier, he looked like a huge shadow following her. He made no more noise than a shadow, either. If it hadn’t been for the gleam of his eyes and the occasional shine of metal where his jacket had been tucked out of the way behind his gun holster, Caleb would have been nearly invisible.

Uneasily Willow turned around and stared into the darkness ahead of her. She walked slowly, carefully, trying to make her steps as soundless as Caleb’s. The rustling of petticoats beneath her heavy wool riding skirt defeated her.

«Wait,» Caleb said softly.

Willow stopped walking as though she had run into a cliff. She felt the brush of Caleb’s body, then the warmth of him radiated against her as he leaned down, putting his mouth next to her ear.

«I’ll go first,» he said. «The stairs are narrow and uneven. Put your hand on my shoulder for balance.»

Before Willow could answer he brushed by her, turned his back, and waited. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his shoulder. Even through the wool jacket and shirt, she felt the vital heat of Caleb’s body. She drew in her breath swiftly. She hadn’t been this close to a man since her fiance had gone off to war.

But Steven hadn’t affected her like this, her heart racing and her knees going suddenly weak.

When Caleb moved without warning, Willow stumbled and reached out blindly for support. He turned and caught her with the same lightning swiftness that had been Johnny Slater’s undoing. The feel of Caleb’s hands pressed around her waist, digging into her, supporting her, was as unnerving as the speed and power of his body. When he bent to whisper in her ear, Willow couldn’t force herself to breathe.

«If you can’t even walk without tripping in that damned thing,» Caleb muttered roughly, «I’ll take my hunting knife and cut the cloth off at your knees.»

Instinctively, Willow’s hands went to Caleb’s upper arms as she braced herself against his strength.

«You — you surprised me, that’s all,» she whispered. «When you moved.»

Caleb stared down into Willow’s face. It was no more than a pale blur in the darkness. He was grateful. If he couldn’t see her eyes, she couldn’t see the hunger in his. She smelled of lavender and sunshine. Her slender waist felt good in his hands. Too good. It was all he could do not to knead her tender flesh while he drew her hips against his thighs, easing and teasing the hunger that lay rigidly against the dark cloth of his pants.

Abruptly Caleb released Willow, grabbed her carpetbag, and turned his back on her. There was a pause before he felt a small hand settle lightly on his shoulder once more. The heat of her touch went all the way to his heels. Silently, savagely, he cursed his unbridled response to Reno’s fancy lady. Caleb knew he would be suffering the torments of the damned before he pried the secret of Reno’s hideout from Willow.

But pry it out he would. There was no other way to bring down justice on the man who had abandoned Rebecca to a lonely death days after she had given birth to her lover’s child, a child that died within hours of its mother’s death.

In the months since Rebecca had died, Caleb had redoubled his efforts to run Reno to ground. Nothing had helped. When Caleb came to isolated settlements or campfires and asked for information, he was always too late or too early or Reno had never been there at all. Bribery hadn’t worked. The Mexicans and Indians, settlers and prospectors simply stopped talking when Caleb brought up Reno’s name. Reno might have been a heel when it came to seducing virgins, but he had always given a hand or a dollar along the trail whenever either was needed. Anyone who hunted Reno was on his own.

Caleb had hunted Reno relentlessly. The search was made more difficult by the fact that Reno didn’t keep to well-travelledways or make predictable rounds of the lonely settlements. Reno was after Spanish treasure — gold. He had a lone wolf’s taste for high country and forgotten Indian trails leading through a maze of stone canyons and icy granite peaks. Caleb thought gold hunters were fools, but shared Reno’s taste for the untouched high country. In fact, if it weren’t for the cold-hearted seduction and abandonment of his sister Rebecca, Caleb suspected he would have liked Reno. But Rebecca was dead and Reno would die for it.

Life for life.

«Stairs,» Caleb said, his voice low and cold.

Willow felt Caleb’s shoulder dip, then dip again, telling her that he was descending stairs. Carefully, she tested the way ahead with the toe of her riding boot, trying to find where the floor ended and the stairs began. The hard sole of her boot defeated her. Caleb went down another stair, pulling her fingers free of his shoulder.

«Wait,» she whispered, «I can’t tell where the stairs begin.»

She sensed him turning toward her with his unnerving swiftness.

«Hold this,» he said.

The carpetbag was thrust into Willow’s hands. An instant later she was snatched from her feet.

«What are you doing?» she gasped.

«Quiet.»

The savage whisper silenced Willow. The world shifted and spun around her. She hadn’t been picked up and carried since she was a child. The feeling of helplessness was startling, particularly in the dark. She turned her face against Caleb’s muscular chest and hung onto the bag until her fingers ached, wishing she could hang onto him instead. After a few steps, Willow’s fear of falling diminished. Caleb went down the badly made stairs with the absolute certainty of a cat. Sighing deeply, she let out herpentup breath and loosened her grip on the carpetbag.

The warmth of Willow’s sigh was like a brand on Caleb’s chest. He clenched his teeth against the temptation to stop and find her mouth with his own, testing the depths of her sweet feminine heat. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he set Willow on her feet abruptly, took the carpetbag, and turned away from her without a word.

Willow let out another long, shaky breath and tried not to remember how it had felt to have Caleb’s powerful arms around her back and beneath her knees, holding her. She also tried not to remember how good he had smelled, a masculine compound of wool and leather and the storm wind sweeping down from the mountains. With hands that wanted to tremble, she smoothed her riding habit and wondered what had happened to her customary calm. She had faced down armed soldiers with less trembling than she was experiencing now.

The side door of the hotel opened and closed behind Willow with only a few creaks. The alley smelled of garbage and slops. The wind smelled ofwoodsmoke and cold rain. She gathered her long wool skirt as best she could and stepped forward. A barrage of rain raked across her face. She wished she had something more useful to keep off the cold water than the tiny green hat that went with her riding habit.

Caleb used the back door into the livery stable, ushering Willow inside with open impatience. He had no great hope that their departure would go unnoticed for long, but they would need all the head start they could get if they eventually were going to lose any followers. No matter how staunchly Willow had defended her Arabians’ endurance, Caleb doubted that the fine-boned, elegant animals he had glimpsed behind stall doors would be able to keep up with the big Montana horses he owned.

Jed Slater and outlaws like him also owned tough, long-boned horses that were grain-fed and ready to run the legs off any ordinary horses ridden by town posses or angry cowhands. Since Caleb had little hope of outrunning the outlaws, or hiding the tracks of his own two horses and Willow’s five all the way to the SanJuans, somehow he would have to outsmart — or outshoot — the men who would inevitably follow.

And there would be many such men, renegades drawn like flies to honey by the prize of expensive horseflesh and a woman with hair the color of the sun.

The fragrance of lavender drifted over Caleb as Willow moved past him into the stable. He tried not to notice. He failed. With a muttered curse he reached for the matches on the ledge by the door. When the lantern was lit, he crumbled the burned match between his fingers before letting it fall to the dirt floor.

Horses nickered and stretched their heads over stall doors, scenting the familiar presence of humans. Withmurmurous greetings, Willow went to her Arabians, touching them reassuringly. Caleb watched the horses with their delicate heads, sharply pricked ears, and unusually large, widely spaced eyes. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the animals were beautiful. Well-trained, too. As Willow began leading them from the stalls, they followed her without hesitation or shying at the flickering shadows cast by the lantern.

Even the stallion was gentle, though spirit visibly ran through him like lightning through a storm. His sorrel coat flashed red-gold fire at every motion of his body. A clean white blaze went from forehead to muzzle. A single white stocking marked his right front leg. When he moved, it was as though on springs, energy rippling with restrained power, coiled strength waiting for release. Centuries of intense, careful breeding ran through the stallion, apparent in each well-defined muscle and clean line of bone.

«That’s one hell of a stud horse,» Caleb said finally. «It will be worth your life to ride him out of Denver.»

«Ishmael is as gentle as he is strong.»

Caleb grunted. «It wasn’t his manners I was talking about. That stud is enough to tempt a saint into mortal sin, much less the kind of men we’ll see on the way to the SanJuans. Every outlaw and renegade Indian in the territory will take one look at your stallion and start seeing himself in the saddle.»

There was nothing Willow could say. She had noticed on the stage ride that the farther west she came, the more interest her horses excited. Yet she could no more let them go than she could cut off her own fingers. She loved her horses. They were all she had of her past and her only hope for a secure future.

In silence Willow finished leading her four mares from their stalls. Two of the mares were sorrels as fiery as Ishmael. Two were bays with shiny brown bodies and sweeping black manes and tails. All four of the mares moved with the liquid grace of cats.

Any one of them would have been worth killing for.

«Mother of God,» muttered Caleb, looking at the five sleek animals. «Getting those horses to the SanJuans without attracting every outlaw between here and Hell will be like trying to sneak dawn past the night.»

Saying nothing, Willow bent and checked each horse’s hooves for debris or loose shoes. The Arabians made it easy for her. No sooner had she touched a fetlock than a hoof was presented for her inspection. When she was finished, she ran a brush over Ishmael’s glossy back and slid the saddle blanket into place without ruffling any hair.

When Caleb saw Willow reach for the sidesaddle, he was tempted to stop her. A sidesaddle in rough country was hard on the woman and harder on the horse. No matter how accomplished a rider the woman was, her weight was always off-center on the horse’s back.

Yet Caleb watched Willow finish saddling her mount and said nothing, because it suited his purpose to be silent. Anyone posted to watch the stable would duly report that a woman wearing a long riding skirt and using a sidesaddle had left the livery stable in the dead of night. The men who followed would be asking about a woman in fancy clothes riding a clumsy saddle that was rarely seen west of the Mississippi.

But Willow wouldn’t be using that sidesaddle after a few days — not if Caleb had to drag her from it and slice the leather into pigging strings with his big hunting knife.

Caleb led his own two geldings from their stalls. Both animals were ready to travel. He lashed Willow’s carpetbag to the pack saddle, tied a tarpaulin over everything to shed rain, and led the horses into the wide aisle between stalls. Ishmael’s nostrils flared at the presence of the two big geldings, but his ears remained erect. He was curious rather than hostile.

Deliberately Caleb shook out a dark, finely woven poncho right under the stallion’s nose. The sudden snapping of cloth didn’t bother Willow’s horse. Caleb pulled the poncho on, then ran his palm down the stallion’s glossy, muscular neck. The flesh beneath was as hard as his own. The Arabian might look elegant, but it was the elegance of lightning rather than the elegance of a rose.

When Willow was done saddling Ishmael and roping the mares together for easy leading, Caleb walked over and checked each animal’s hooves. They permitted his handling with only a few restless motions. When he finished, he tested the strength and tightness of the sidesaddle’s girth on the stallion.

«Satisfied?» Willow asked.

«With that contraption?» Shaking his head, Caleb pulled on buckskin roping gloves that were worn and supple. «Glad it won’t be my butt banging on that useless leather.»

With a cool sideways look, Willow started to lead Ishmael past Caleb to the mounting block. His hand shot out and closed over the reins, stopping her.

«There won’t be any mounting blocks on the trail,» he pointed out. He bent and laced his fingers together, then looked up at her with clear topaz eyes. «Go ahead, honey. You’ve been wanting to step on me since you first laid eyes on me.»

The deep voice and lazy smile sent quicksilver sensations through Willow. She smiled almost shyly in return and stepped into his hands as though into a stirrup.

Unlike a stirrup, Caleb was alive. And powerful. He lifted her weight with obvious ease. Willow’s right leg, covered with petticoats and heavy wool cloth, hooked around the off-center horn of the sidesaddle, helping to hold her in place on the shallow leather seat. The horn, plus the single stirrup on the left side, was the only purchase offered by the sidesaddle, which had been invented for fashionable turns around a park rather than for serious riding.

«Thank you,» Willow said, looking down into Caleb’s eyes.

«Don’t thank me. I’m leading you into the worst night of your life.» Caleb turned away, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. «Don’t you even have a decent hat or riding coat?»

«I was going to buy what I needed tomorrow.»

He hissed a word beneath his breath.

«My riding habit is warm,» Willow said. «It was made for winter.»

«In West Virginia.»

«We had snow there.»

«How often, how deep, and did you ride all day in it?» Caleb asked sardonically.

«It’s raining now, not snowing.»

Without a word Caleb pulled off his poncho and held it up to her. «Put it on.»

«That’s very kind, but I couldn’t take your —»

«I told you I’m not a kindman,» Calebinterrupted in a voice that was just short of a snarl. «Put the damned thing on before I stuff you in it like a pig in a poke.»

Mutinous hazel eyes glared at Caleb for a long moment before Willow took the poncho, pulled it over her head and down her body. Cut like a jerkin with riding slits, the poncho had fit Caleb’s wide shoulders and lean hips very nicely. It was far too big on Willow.

«Lord, you’re a little bit of a thing,» he muttered.

«I’m five feet, three inches and I was the tallest girl in our valley.»

«Damn small valley.»

Caleb pulled a leather thong from his pocket and cinched in the poncho around Willow’s small waist. Then he rummaged in his big saddlebags until he found a long wool muffler.

«Bend down,» he said.

Willow leaned down to Caleb. Even though she was mounted, she didn’t have to bend far. He was an unusually tall man. He wrapped the muffler securely around her head, tied the ends beneath her chin, and tried not to smile at the picture she made with her clear skin and red lips and his slate-colored muffler making her eyes gleam like smoked crystal.

Abruptly Caleb turned away to his own horse. He untied a heavy leather vest from behind his saddle. The vest was like everything else he owned — dark, unadorned, and made of the best quality material. Combined with his long-sleeved shirt of thick wool, the vest would keep him warm enough for the time being, if not exactly comfortable. He put on the vest, tied the mares’ lead ropes to the pack saddle, and mounted his tall horse with the casual grace of a man born to the saddle.

«Do you have gloves?» Caleb asked curtly.

Willow nodded.

«Put them on.»

«Mr. Black —»

«Try my Christian name, southern lady,» he interrupted. «We’re not real formal out here.»

«Caleb. I’m hot.»

The corner of his mouth turned up. «Enjoy it, Willow. It won’t last.»

Caleb urged his horse out of the barn and into the rain-lashed night. Immediately his pack horse followed, though no lead rope joined it to the saddle horse. After a brief hesitation, the mares followed. Ishmael nickered softly, distressed at being separated from his mares.

«It’s all right,» Willow said encouragingly to the stallion. «It’s all right, boy.»

Yet she was slow to rein the horse toward the barn door. Ishmael had no such reluctance. He trotted out into the stormy darkness, snorting at the cold whip of rain.

It’s got to be allright, Willowtold herself, gasping as silvers of icy rain scored hercheeks. Becauseif it isn’t, I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life.