«Suit yourself.»

Thunder crackled again as the clouds overhead joined to shut out the sun. Rain began to fall as Caleb swung onto Trey and took the lead. Deuce trotted off obediently, leading four Arabians. Ishmael snorted and jigged unhappily for the first few miles, then settled down to the indignity of being led by a gelding through a driving rain.

Except for the watery light of late afternoon, the ride was a repeat of the previous night’s endurance contest. Trot, canter, walk, trot, and then trot some more for good measure. Willow barely noticed when the gray of day merged with the black of night. On Caleb’s command she ate cold bacon and biscuits, drank cold coffee, dismounted and walked to spare the mare and restore her own circulation, then mounted and resumed the torment once more.

As the hours wore on, fatigue battled with pain for control of Willow’s body. She thought she could become no more uncomfortable when a cold wind sprang up and she began to shiver. The ice-tipped wind howled down from the slopes of mountains she had glimpsed only once, from Denver, their peaks swathed in storms and their flanks rising like fortresses flung across the western sky. But even those ramparts were invisible now, concealed within the frigid night and storm.

Shivering, Willow hunched down over the saddle horn and hung on, bending her head beneath the icy wind. She was so dazed by cold and fatigue that she didn’t realize the horses had stopped until she felt herself being lifted from the mare’s back. Her wet, heavy skirts slapped across Caleb’s face.

«Caleb?» she asked hoarsely. «Is it dawn?»

«Not by a long shot, but I’ve had enough of this goddamned foolishness,» he said roughly.

Willow didn’t answer, for his words didn’t make sense to her.

The ravine Caleb had chosen for camp was deep enough to baffle the wind. Part of the bank had an overhang that offered shelter from the fitful storm. A huge cottonwood log reflected back the heat of the fire that leaped and burned beneath the overhang, making the earth steam. Transfixed, Willow stared at the unexpected warmth and beauty of the flames.

«Lift up your arms,» Caleb said curtly.

She did, and felt the wet weight of his poncho being peeled from her body. That puzzled her, for at first she didn’t remember putting on the poncho. She forgot her puzzlement when she realized that Caleb was unbuttoning the bodice of her wet riding habit. Automatically she pushed at his hands. It was futile. She might as well have pushed at the invisible mountains.

«What d-do you think you’re d-doing?» she demanded through chattering teeth.

«Keeping you from a dose of lung fever,» he said grimly, yanking off the riding habit without regard for laces or buttons. «My poncho can’t keep you warm in this kind of storm, not when you start out with wet clothes that are too thick and too heavy to get dry from the heat of your body alone. You’re such a little thing.»

Willow looked at thefirelit face of the man who was peeling off her clothes as impersonally as he would have peeled bark from a log. His face was wet, dark with beard stubble, and set in grim lines. His wool shirt and leather vest were black with rain.

«You m-must be f-freezing, too,» she said.

Caleb’s only answer was a grunt of disgust. He drew his belt knife and did what he had been wanting to do since he had first seen Willow dressed in the unwieldy clothes. Steel sliced through stubborn cloth as he stripped folds of wet wool and useless petticoats away from her long legs. When the tip of the knife flicked against metal, Caleb paused long enough to examine the contents of the special leather pocket sewn into Willow’s skirt.

The twin-barrelledderringer looked tiny in his hand. He hefted the gun, saw that it was fully loaded, and set it within Willow’s reach on the cottonwood log. Then he resumed wielding the long-bladed knife with a casual skill that would have been breathtaking under other circumstances, but neither he nor she had breath to spare at the moment — Willow was too busy shivering and Caleb was too busy trying not to notice the transparency that wetness brought to her fine cottonpantelets.

But Caleb would have to have been blind and more saint than man not to notice the elegant lines of Willow’s legs and the lush golden nest at the apex of her thighs. The fine lawn of her camisole was even more transparent, revealing the fullness of her breasts and the rosy peaks tightly drawn against the cold. The temptation to take off his own wet clothes and warm Willow from the inside out was so great that it shook Caleb. He set his jaw and wrapped Willow tightly in the softest of his heavy wool blankets.

«Stay here while I take care of the horses,» he ordered.

Willow wouldn’t have argued even if she could have. The heat from the fire burned against her face almost painfully, but it was the warming of cold skin that hurt, not the flame itself. Even in winter when she and her mother had hidden in the root cellar from soldiers, Willow had never been this chilled. Huddled so close to the fire that her hair and the wool muffler steamed, she was grateful for every golden whip of flame.

By the time Caleb returned from picketing the horses, Willow had quit shivering. She had managed to suspend his heavy poncho from a dead branch near the fire. Steam rose from the wool in silver wisps. She had unwrapped the wet muffler from her head and draped the wool over the cottonwood log as well. The remains of her riding habit were also drying.

Caleb gave Willow a sharp glance but said nothing as he dropped an armload of wood near the fire.

«They’re wet, so feed the branches in one at a time,» he said.

He began rummaging in the canvas sack that held frying pan and food, trying not to notice the silken gleam of Willow’s naked arm as she reached toward the pile of broken branches. When the blanket slipped off her arm, he also tried not to notice the graceful curve of her neck and shoulder. When the blanket slipped even more, he tried not to look at the soft rise of her breasts and the transparent veil of lace that enhanced rather than concealed Willow’s alluring femininity.

The fire that hissed and licked over the wood was no hotter than Caleb’s thoughts. Using a knife as long as his forearm, he sliced bacon with a swift savagery, wanting only to get out of camp and find Willow some decent clothes.

Willow watched in fascination as the wicked blade flashed like lightning, leaving behind a pile of evenly sliced meat. She had never seen such skill.

«You’re very good with that knife.»

Caleb’s mouth curved in an ironic smile. «So I’m told, honey. So I’m told.»

Uncertainly, she smiled in return.

«Make yourself useful,» he said without looking up. «See if the coffee water is hot.»

The coolness in Caleb’s voice made Willow remember his cutting comments about not being her personal slave. Shifting the blanket to allow movement, she came to her knees and leaned toward the coffeepot. A lock of her long, bright hair fell forward as she bent over. The curling ribbon of hair came dangerously close to the flames. Before Willow could realize anything was wrong, Caleb’s hard arm had yanked her over onto her back in a tangle of blanket and legs.

«Don’t you know better than to bend over a fire with your hair loose?» he said scathingly. «I swear, fancy lady, you’re more trouble than a fox in a hen house.»

«I’m not a fancy lady, my hair is too wet to burn, and I’m tired of you belittling me!»

Caleb looked at the angry hazel eyes so close to his and the soft lips trembling with outrage. The rest of Willow was trembling, too. She was furious at his contempt and was making no effort to disguise it.

«You’re tired, period,» Caleb said, releasing Willow abruptly. «As for the rest, wet hair burns just fine and I’ll stop making comments about your uselessness when you start being useful.»

With unnerving swiftness, he stood and went to the place where the pack saddles were. A few moments later he returned with a blue wool shirt that was so dark it was almost black. The shirt was cut in the cavalry style, with a wedge-shaped front opening that could be unbuttoned down either side. Most of the shirts Willow had seen made like that had sported shiny brass buttons. Caleb’s did not. Buttons of dark horn gleamed dully in the firelight.

It occurred to Willow that nothing of Caleb’s was bright or shiny. Saddle, bridle, clothes, spurs, even thegunbelt he wore — not one item had any of the silverconchas or other decorations men often used to catch the eye. She doubted that it was lack of money that kept Caleb’s gear plain. Nothing that he owned was second class or shabby. All of it helped him to pass over the wild land without attracting any more notice than a shadow.

«I know it isn’t very fancy,» Caleb drawled, holding out the shirt to Willow, «but it will save you having to pretend modesty when the blanket slips.»

Not understanding what Caleb meant, Willow followed the direction of his glance. The blanket had slipped until only the taut rise of her nipple prevented the cloth from falling completely away from her breast. With a gasp, Willow snatched up the blanket with both hands and turned her back to the fire. Golden light flickered and danced caressingly over her skin, making her look as though she were a carving made of luminous amber.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around his shirt. He dropped the piece of clothing on Willow and went back to work on dinner, trying to forget the sensual promise of her breast and the elegant beauty of her back rising from the dark folds of his blanket. But he couldn’t forget. He could only remember again and again.