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.»