The coffee was almost warm.
«Ahhhhh,» Willow sighed as she felt the liquid warmth slide down her throat.
«Most women don’t like it so strong.»
Willow jumped, almost dropping the canteen. «Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?»
«Better that than the other way around.»
Ignoring Caleb, she took one more swallow, then another before she looked back at the tall man who loomed over her like the night itself.
«Do you want some?» Willow asked.
She held out the canteen as far as she could while it was still tethered to the saddle. He took the canteen, drank, then gave her a penetrating look before he raised the canteen to his lips once more and drank deeply.
«Take some more,» Caleb said when he handed the canteen over to Willow again. «It’s not hot, but it’s better than the wind.»
The rough velvet darkness of his voice brushed over Willow’s nerves like a caress. She took the canteen with both hands and raised it carefully to her mouth. Putting her lips where his had been was surprisingly intimate. She told herself that it was impossible to taste him on the metal rim, but an odd shiver of pleasure went through her anyway.
Almost reluctantly Willow capped the canteen again. As she went to wrap the strap around the saddle horn once more, the wind gusted, freeing a bit of skirt from between her legs. Cloth slapped lightly against Deuce’s left front leg. The gelding snorted and shied away, yanking the canteen from her grasp and sending her stumbling. More cloth flapped, making Deuce shy again so violently that his head swung hard against Willow’s chest. She went to her knees and stayed there, fighting for breath.
Caleb’s big hand closed around the gelding’s bridle before the animal could shy again.
«Easy son,» he said calmly. «Just a bit of feminine frippery. Nothing to get your water hot over.» Caleb looked at Willow, who was struggling to her feet, encumbered by her heavy, wet riding habit. «Useless as teats on a boar hog,» he muttered. «I told you Deuce wasn’t used to skirts, didn’t I?»
Willow nodded but said nothing. She was too busy trying to get back the breath that the horse had knocked out.
«Are you all right?» Caleb asked abruptly.
Eyes closed, she nodded again, still unable to speak.
Suddenly the earth was jerked from beneath her feet. With a startled sound she opened her eyes and clung to the first thing she could reach — Caleb.
«Take it easy,» he said, holding Willow high against his chest with one arm and wrapping her skirts around her legs with the other. «I’m just getting you out of Deuce’s way before you scare him into running off and leaving me afoot.»
Willow opened her mouth but no words came out. Being held close and upright against Caleb was quite different from being carried like a child in his arms. Even as she reflexively threw her arms around his shoulders to keep her balance, she realized that she was pressed against Caleb’s strong body from her neck to her knees. The sensation was dizzying, making it almost impossible for her to draw a complete breath.
«C–Caleb?» she said huskily, feeling a curious weakness uncurling in her body. «It’s all right. Put me down. I can walk.»
The breathless hesitation in Willow’s voice went through Caleb like lightning through a storm, bringing the dark thunder of desire in its wake.
«You’re lucky to stand up in that damn fancy outfit. For two cents I’d…»
Caleb bit down on the words he wanted to say about ripping the flapping cloth off Willow and stuffing her into his spare shirt and pants. He would have to truss her like a turkey for the oven in order to keep his clothes on her much smaller body. But then, why bother? He had been wanting to see her naked ever since he had glimpsed the taut perfection of her breasts rising from folds of fine lawn.
And then Caleb admitted that the wanting had begun sooner than that. It had begun the first instant he had seen Willow watching him with wide, anxious eyes and a spine straight with the kind of pride that wouldn’t back down for any man.
She’s just a fancywoman, Calebreminded himself grimly, remembering the flush that had burned on Willow’s cheeks when she had described Matthew Moran as herhusband. Afancy woman chasing after her fancy man. No better than she has to be, and maybe a damn sight worse.
Trying not to think what Willow would look like without any clothes at all, Caleb took a few more long steps before he lifted Willow to Ishmael’s back and dumped her there unceremoniously. When she reached automatically for the reins, the fine skin of her hands glowed like pearl in the moonlight.
«What happened to your gloves?» Caleb demanded.
Willow reached into thelefthand pocket of her riding habit, the pocket that didn’t hold the derringer. She found only one glove. Without a word she removed the wet leather and began working it over her hand. When she was finished, she picked up the reins once more.
«Where’s the other glove?» Caleb asked impatiently.
«Somewhere between here and Deuce.»
With a word that made Willow wince, Caleb backtracked. Finding a black glove on dark, wet earth in the middle of the night wasn’t easy. Swearing steadily, he pulled out a sealed tin of matches and struck one. Shielding the flame against the wind, he searched until his fingers were singed. Then he struck another match. Four matches later he found the glove where it had been trampled into the ground by Deuce. The realization that it could just as easily have been Willow’s soft flesh caught beneath the gelding’s big hooves put the finishing touch on Caleb’s temper. He snatched up the lacerated glove, snapped it against his thigh to get rid of the mud, and stalked back to Willow.
«Thank you,» she said in a low voice.
«Stay away from Deuce,» Caleb snarled. «He’s a man’s horse.»
Willow nodded and fumbled with her muddy glove, hoping Caleb wouldn’t notice that her hands were trembling. She told herself that she was simply cold and tired and hungry. And a little bit angry, as well. Certainly she wasn’t hurt by Caleb’s surly lack of manners.
Without another word, Caleb turned and stalked off to where Deuce waited. He went into the saddle with the casual, powerful grace of a mountain lion and touched the gelding’s flanks with the spurs. Instantly, the horse broke into a canter. Caleb held the pace for thirty minutes, then reined in to a walk. Ten minutes later he urged the big gelding into a slow trot, then a fast one.
The pattern held all through the cold, long hours of moonlight — canter, walk, trot, walk, canter, and no real rest. Willow did what she could to spare Ishmael, but there was nothing she could do to spare herself. At first she checked the position of the Big Dipper every time the horses shifted into a walk, then less often. It was simply too discouraging. The stars were barely moving across the black arch of the night. At times she would have sworn they were going backward.
After several hours Willow ignored the taunting stars. She no longer really noticed the difference between walk and canter. Trotting was increasingly painful. Grimly she tried to ease Ishmael’s burden, but her stiff, cold muscles lacked their customary resilience and coordination. When Ishmael stopped, the change of motion nearly threw her from the saddle. She blinked, checked the stars, and realized that even the longest night had an end. Pre-dawn light was silently stealing the stars from the eastern sky.
Wearily, Willow pushed still-damp locks of hair away from her face. She realized that Caleb had led them off the well-travelledtrack to a low, narrow crease between folds in the land. A brook no wider than her hand gleamed in the strengthening light. Thickets of streamside willow bushes grew lushly, as high as a tall man, offering both shelter and concealment. Obviously, Caleb was more interested in the latter quality. He began picketing the horses one by one downstream from the camp, giving them access to both water and the random patches of grass that grew between clumps of brush.
Only when Caleb approached Willow with a picket rope and stake in his hands did she realize she was still sitting like a lump on Ishmael, too dazed even to dismount.
«Get to work, southern lady. You hired a guide, not a personal slave. See if you can find some dry sticks, but don’t try to build a fire. Sure as hell you’d send up a signal that could be seen all the way back to Denver.» Caleb jerked his thumb at one of the pack saddles he had taken off Trey, his second horse. «There’s coffee, side meat,
