«Come on, Deuce. Shake a leg,» muttered Caleb as a gust of wind drove cold fingers of rain across his face.
The big horse obligingly picked up the pace to a fast trot. It was the least comfortable of a horse’s gaits for the rider, but it covered the most territory for the least effort on the part of the horse.
When Ishmael increased his speed to match that of the mares in front of him, Willow bit back a groan. In the sidesaddle there was no easy way to lift her weight or post as there was when riding astride with two stirrups. She could tighten her leg around the saddle horn and simultaneously lift up her body by standing in the single stirrup, but the posture was awkward and very hard to maintain. The alternative was to have her backside meet the saddle nearly every time one of Ishmael’s four feet hit the ground. Not only was that hard on her, it was hard on the horse as well.
Willow grabbed the saddle horn with both hands, uncurled her right leg, and lowered it until she was riding astride. The relief was only temporary. The saddle had been constructed to carry weight off center, which meant that the horn was impossibly placed for riding astride. Even worse, there was only one stirrup on which to balance a rider’s weight. Despite that, at a trot Willow’s awkward posture was easier on Ishmael than having his rider bumping up and down with every step.
Unfortunately, due to the sidesaddle’s peculiar construction, riding astride wasn’t easier on Willow. She soon had a stitch in her side from the unnatural posture forced on her by sitting astride in a sidesaddle. She took her mind off her difficulties by fishing out a small tin of candies from time to time and putting one of the potent peppermints in her mouth. The flavor made her think of summers past, warm and sultry, the sun a burning benediction in a hazy, silver-blue sky.
By the time the wind finished tearing apart the storm clouds, Willow was certain dawn couldn’t be far away. She was so certain that when she saw the position of the moon she thought they must have somehow turned around in the darkness. Bracing herself on the padded horn, she looked for the Big Dipper. It wasn’t where it should have been at dawn. In fact, it wasn’t even close.
Dawn was at least four hours away. Perhaps even five.
Dear Lord, isn’t Caleb ever going to let the horses rest? Even the stage animals were changed at regular intervals, and they had no saddles rubbing them.
As though Caleb sensed Willow’s silent question, he reined in Deuce to a walk. Willow let out a sigh of relief and resumed a normal position in the sidesaddle once more. Normal, but not comfortable. The sensitive skin of her inner thighs was chafed from the knees up. The cold, wet fabric of her riding outfit irritated her more than it protected her.
After a time Caleb pulled Deuce to a stop and dismounted. Willow didn’t wait for an invitation. She slid off Ishmael in a tangle of wet fabric. Her feet hit the ground with enough force to make her wince. She wasted no time groaning, for she had no way of knowing how long the rest stop would be.
Working as swiftly as her cold hands would allow, Willow began unsaddling Ishmael. When she finished, she upended the saddle on the wet ground, draped the saddle blanket over it, and began rubbing down Ishmael with a handful of grass. Warmth rose in waving sheets of steam off the stallion’s back where the saddle and blanket had rested, but other than that he showed no sign of the hard ride. Moonlight didn’t reveal any raw spots on his back. Nor did he flinch away from her vigorous rubdown.
«I’m glad we had all those miles from West Virginia to toughen you up,» Willow said softly to Ishmael as she worked over him. «I’d feel terrible if my awkward riding rubbed sores on you. The good Lord knows that my clumsiness is rubbing soresonme. The stage might have been uncomfortable, but at least it kept out most of the rain.»
Sighing, Willow thought of the long ride from the Mississippi. For the first time she understood what a luxury it had been to be able to go from stage to horseback and then back to the stage again, depending on the weather.
Ishmael turned his head, nickered softly, and lipped the cold cloth of Willow’s riding habit.
«Go ahead. Eat the useless thing,» she muttered. «I can’t be much worse off without it than I am with it.»
After a taste, the stallion lost interest in the fabric.
«I don’t blame you,» she said, sighing.
«Don’t tell me your fancy saddle rubbed a hole in that stud’s hide after only a few hours.»
Startled, Willow gasped. She had heard no sound to warn her that Caleb was approaching. After giving him a sidelong glance, she returned to rubbing down her horse.
«Ishmael’s hide is just fine,» she said.
«How about yours?» Caleb asked, looking at the wet, heavy folds of cloth clinging to Willow’s legs.
She said only, «Excuse me, I have to check on the mares.»
«They’re fine. The little sorrel with two white feet had a stone in her shoe, but it hadn’t been in long enough to do any damage. I wouldn’t ride her for a day or so, though, just to be sure.»
«That’s Penny, and thank you for checking,» Willow said, absently wiping off her cheek on her arm as she groomed the stallion. «I’ll ride Dove — the other sorrel — when we switch horses.»
The lock of hair that had been draped wetly across Willow’s eye soon slithered back. She rubbed her face against her arm again. Again the lock moved, only to slide back a few moments later. A gust of wind raced over the land with a husky sound. Shivering, Willow gave a final swipe to Ishmael’s muscular back before she turned away and picked up the saddle blanket. She shook it out thoroughly before she placed it dry side down on the stallion’s back once more.
Caleb watched with eyes made dark by the moon-shadow of his hat brim, impressed despite himself by the fact that Willow was caring for her horse before she cared for herself. When Willow reached for the sidesaddle, his long arm snaked out. He took the saddle and swung it into place on Ishmael’s back. Despite the fact that Caleb used only one hand, the weight of the saddle landed as delicately as a feather on the stallion.
«You’re stiff,» Caleb said curtly. «Walk around. We’ll be riding soon, and we won’t stop again until just before dawn.»
«I see,» Willow said, sighing unconsciously.
He hesitated, then added, «Coffee in my canteen. No cup, though.»
She heard the subtle challenge in Caleb’s voice and knew what he was thinking. Nosouthernlady would share a canteen with a strange man. Her mouth turned down in an unhappy smile as she wondered what Caleb would think of her if he knew she had spent more than one night during the war on her hands and knees in a ravaged kitchen garden, grubbing for anything that had been overlooked by soldiers, so hungry that she ate carrots without washing them, simply rubbing the gritty loam off on her skirt.
«Coffee sounds like heaven,» Willow said simply.
«The canteen is on my saddle.» Caleb secured the sidesaddle’s cinch with a few expert motions. «Watch out for Deuce’s hindquarters. He’s not mean, but he’s not used to flapping skirts.»
Willow carefully gathered the soggy folds of her clothing. The first few steps she took were painful. Gradually her cold-stiffened muscles warmed, making her progress easier. The chafed areas of her legs burned, but there was no help for it until the cloth dried. Even then, the abraded skin would hurt every time her leg rubbed against saddle.
«Hello, Deuce,» Willow said in a low, soothing voice as she approached Caleb’s big gelding — from the side, not the back. «I’m not an Indian or a panther sneaking up on you. I’m just a girl who would cheerfully peel you with a dull knife for a chance to get at the coffee in your rider’s canteen.»
Deuce watched her with half-pricked ears, obviously unimpressed by any threat she might represent. Willow kept talking as she stuffed loose cloth between her legs and clamped them together so that her hands would be free to work over the leather thongs that tied the canteen’s strap to the saddle. Her gloves were more hindrance than help. She struggled to remove them. The leather was as wet as she was and almost as stubborn. Finally, she set her teeth in the fingertips and tugged one by one. Reluctantly, the cold leather separated itself from her hands. She pushed her gloves into a wet pocket of her riding skirt.
The thongs proved to be even more stubborn than Willow’s gloves had been. The cold, damp wind made her fingers clumsy. Finally she gave up trying to free the canteen strap from the saddle. She simply unscrewed the lid, held the canteen at the length of its strap, and drank. After the peppermint she had just finished, the coffee tasted as raw and black as the night. There was one difference, though, and it was the only one that mattered.
