strong and willing, but they were being ground down. So was she, even though she had done little more than hang on.
Saying nothing, Willow looked back to the park and to the magnificent, uncaring peaks blocking out the sky wherever she turned.
«Is there really a way through them?» she whispered.
«Yes. It isn’t obvious from where we are, but it’s there just the same. Finding the route isn’t a problem. Getting to it before we’re overtaken by those two gunnies is.»
Wide hazel eyes searched Caleb’s face. «Don’t you think the rain washed out our tracks?»
«Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how good at tracking they are. It’s not something I want to bet your life on.»
Willow closed her eyes, trying not to show how much her composure was costing her. She would have argued with Caleb, but she knew there was no point. She had refused to leave her horses behind. Now she had to live with the result of her refusal.
At least there was an abundance of natural food around. Even if the Arabians wouldn’t follow without being led, they wouldn’t starve. She and Matt could come back for them.
Willow clung to that thought as she dismounted. «I’ll get Dove.»
Caleb watched from beneath hishatbrim while Willow moved among her mares, touching first one and then another, talking to them in a low voice, stroking their warm, sleek hides. He had expected Willow to pitch a fit over his order, but she hadn’t. She had looked at the peaks, looked at him with eyes that made him ache, and then she had climbed down from her stallion and gone about doing what must be done.
It took only a moment for Caleb to switch the saddle to Dove’s back. Despite the altitude and hard trail, the mare had enough energy left to lip playfully at Caleb’s coat sleeve. He smiled and pushed the soft muzzle out of the way, only to have it return again. While he cinched the saddle snugly in place, Dove snuffled over the thick, wooly pelt that lined hisshearling coat.
«You’re like your mistress,» he said, rubbing the mare’s velvety muzzle. «Small but game.»
«I’m not small,» Willow said behind Caleb’s back.
He turned and caught her chin in the palm of his hand, tilting her face up gently toward him. «If Ishmael won’t follow, do you want to ride him instead of Dove?»
Willow knew what Caleb was asking without actually putting it into words: If the horses wouldn’t follow, which one did she want to save?
She closed her eyes. For a moment her long lashes quivered against her cheeks as she fought for control of the tears that burned behind her eyes.
«I — yes,» Willow said huskily, turning away without meeting Caleb’s eyes. «Ishmael.»
«It would be better that way,» Caleb agreed. «There are wild horses around. The mares won’t be alone for long. Some stud will drive his herd up here for summer grazing. He’ll take care of your mares. Ishmael would try, but he’s paddock raised. He doesn’t know about high-country snow and mountain lions.»
Willow nodded but said nothing.
Caleb held out his hands, making them into a stirrup. «Time to go.»
She wanted to tell him that she could mount without his help, but the words would have taken too much effort. She put her foot in his hands and swiftly found herself in the saddle.
The park was well behind them before Caleb reined in at a small creek and looked back to see how well the Arabians were following. His mouth flattened when he saw that Willow was riding sixth in line, keeping the loose mares between her and the pack horse, leaving Ishmael to bring up the rear.
Silently, Caleb admitted that the mares were following well enough, but that didn’t make him like Willow’s position far down the line any better. His concern was somewhat eased by Ishmael’s transformation. Being taken off the lead rope had agreed with the stallion. He was walking like a horse on springs, ranging from side to side when the trail permitted, scenting every breeze, and generally acting for all the world like a wild stud overseeing his herd. Any thought a mare might have had of dragging her feet vanished when Ishmael laid back his ears and offered to nip the laggard’s rump.
As the mares caught up with Caleb, they ranged alongside his horse, drinking thirstily. He fished a handful of jerky from his saddlebag and handed it over to Willow.
«When we leave here, ride right behind me,» Caleb said. «The men trailing us could catch up any time between now and sunset.»
Biting her lip, Willow looked at her mares.
«Don’t worry,» Caleb said. «That red stud of yours will keep the mares in line. That’s one hell of a horse. Any other flat country horse would be dragging his tail by now. Not that one. He’s still got lightning in his eyes and thunder in his hooves. Be interesting to breed him to one of my Montana mares and see what we get.»
Willow looked at Deuce and Trey. A small smile played around her lips. «Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, Caleb, but your Montana horses are geldings, not mares.»
Caleb shot her a look of disbelief, then laughed out loud. The flash of humor in her was as unexpected as the resilient spirit in the Arabians. He leaned forward and tugged gently at one of her golden braids.
«How do you know the difference?» Caleb asked, grinning. «Do tell, honey.»
Willow laughed and blushed at the same time. The sound of her soft laughter blended with the murmuring creek and the sighing wind, becoming part of the beauty of the wild land. Something twisted within Caleb, something very close to the emotion he had felt the first time he had seen the distant peaks of the Rockies and known that he had been born to live among them.
Slowly, Caleb released the golden rope of Willow’s braid, letting it slide between his fingers, wishing he had taken off his riding gloves so that he could feel the silky texture of her hair. When he spoke his voice was deep, almost rough.
«If you fall behind trying to keep your mares following me, I’m going to come back and get you. Then there will be blazing red hell to pay.»
Before Willow could answer, Caleb touched his big horse with spurs and headed across the meadow at a canter.
The land rose steeply again at the far side of the park, forcing the horses to climb until Willow was certain that her head would brush the clouds. The pace slowed to a walk. Willow found herself looking uneasily over her shoulder, half expecting to see riders on dark horses.
Noon came and went unnoticed. The shoulder of land they were climbing was so steep that Caleb was zigzagging upward in long sweeps. Even the Montana horses were breathing deeply and taking small steps, for the footing was made uncertain by loose rock and evergreen debris. Creases in the land held tiny racing brooks, stunted willows, and aspens so slender and supple they looked like pale green flames shimmering on white wicks.
If there was a pass anywhere ahead, Willow saw no sign of it. The peak whose side they were climbing stretched up and up and up until it became swathed in mist. The mountain’s face was seamed by avalanche chutes that were lined with dark, low-growing shrubs and aspen seedlings. Beneath the lid of clouds, other peaks were stacked nearby like cards tightly held in a gambler’s fist.
There were no low places, no inviting valleys or divides winding between thrusts of stone, no visible breaks in the rocky ramparts. More and more often the route Caleb followed took them across patches of broken rock so barren that only avalanche weed grew, sending bright pink spikes lifting toward the overcast sky. Finally, there was rock alone, nothing but broken stone and a single clump of dark spruce and pale aspen ahead, growing in a sheltered fold of land.
Beneath Willow, Dove labored for breath. For the hundredth time, Willow bit back the desire to demand that the relentless climb end until Dove could breathe easily again.
Caleb isn’t a cruel man. He can see how worn Dove is from carrying me. If he thought it was safe to stop, he would.
Willow repeated the words to herself for the next hour, which was how long it took the horses to struggle up the steep route to the small group of trees growing among the rocks. As soon as Caleb reached the grove, he dismounted, jerked off his boots, and pulled on knee-high moccasins.
By the time Dove caught up, Caleb had the repeating rifle free of its scabbard and was inspecting the firing mechanism, making certain no moisture had gotten in during the ride. His gloves were in his coat pocket. Despite
