«I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary,» Caleb said. «There’s more than one way to skin a cat.»

«A mountain pass isn’t a cat. You might sneak by Slater’s gang on the Rio Grande del Norte, but you won’t have a chance in hell going through Canyon City.»

«There are other passes.»

Wolfe’s black eyebrows rose. «Not many white men know about them.»

«My daddy was with an Army survey party in the fifties. There are other passes.»

With a shrug, Wolfe changed the subject. «Is that stud of hers half what rumor says?»

«Prettiest piece of horseflesh I’ve ever seen,» Caleb said simply.

«Pretty isn’t much of a recommendation for a horse or a woman,» Wolfe said dryly.

«That stud is a lot tougher than he looks. Gentle and quick, too. Make a hell of a trail horse.»

«How’s his stamina?»

«He’s keeping up. So are the mares.»

«Leave the Arabians with me. They’ll only slow you down, especially in the high country.»

«Willow wouldn’t leave them in Denver. Doubt that she’ll leave them here, but I’ll offer. You better pray she doesn’t take me up on it. Having those horses would bring Slater’s outfit down on you like a rash.»

Wolfe smiled. «I’d take it as a personal favor.»

Shaking his head, Caleb chuckled. That was one of the things he liked best about Wolfe — the man was a fighter to the marrow of his bones.

«What about the girl?» Wolfe asked. «Is she holding up all right?»

«She’s like her horses,» Caleb admitted. «Game little thing. Once I get her some dry clothes and a decent saddle, she’ll make it through the passes.»

«Then it’s true? She’s actually riding a sidesaddle?»

Caleb grunted. «It’s true.»

«Be damned. I haven’t seen one of those since I was in England,» Wolfe said.

«If I never see another one again, it will be too soon. Pure foolishness.»

Wolfe smiled gently. «Maybe, but those English ladies looked like beautiful butterflies perched on the backs of their big Irish horses.»

«Hell, if I’d known you felt like that, I’d have brought the damned thing to you. Your shirttail cousin could have used it the next time she visits you.»

«Lady JessicaCharteris prefers to ride bareback at a dead run.» The amusement faded from Wolfe’s voice as he continued, «In any case, the last letter mentioned a marriage. I don’t thinkJessi will be coming to America to plague me again.»

Wolfe looked away, measuring the increasing light rather than confronting the surprising sense of loss he had felt when the letter had arrived telling of Jessica’s pending marriage.

«Better leave your horses under cover here,» Wolfe said. «Slater’s man might have heard that you visit me from time to time. He’ll be looking for tracks from seven horses, not two, but…» Wolfe shrugged and said no more.

Caleb dismounted, tied his horses back in the thick brush that surrounded the runoff from Cottonwood Springs, and walked alongside Wolfe toward the cabin.

«WhenJessi rode with you, did she have anything better to wear than an outfit with flapping skirts and more petticoats than a tree has leaves?»

Wolfe’s smile flashed. «How about buckskin pants and a buckskin shirt made for her by my aunt? Last timeJessi was here she also sweet-talked me into buying her some of those Levis that all the Forty-Ninersand Fifty-Ninerswore. Had a hell of a time finding a pair small enough. Same for the saddle.»

«Sweet-talked you, huh? I’d like to meet that girl. Is she the kind that would get on her high horse if I borrowed her clothes and saddle and let another girl use them for a few weeks?»

«Doubt it. Besides, even if she brought her damned blue-blooded husband here, she wouldn’t shock a bloody peer of the realm by appearing in public wearing pants and riding astride.»

The contempt in Wolfe’s voice when he spoke ofJessi’s future husband didn’t surprise Caleb. Other than the headstrong young Jessica, Wolfe had little use for the British aristocracy that was one-half of his heritage.

«In that case,» Caleb said, «I’d appreciate the loan of her clothes.»

«Take them. She’ll never use them again. Anything else? Don’t be shy. Hell of a lot better to get it from me than to go into Canyon City for supplies and have the Slater bunch down on you like a hard rain.»

«I’d been counting on picking up supplies in Canyon City,» Caleb admitted.

«Name it and you’ve got it.»

«Food for us and grain for the horses, if you can spare it,» Caleb said. «Grass is fine for a time, but where we’re going, the horses will need the kind of stamina that only grain gives.»

«Food is no problem. Will a hundred pounds of grain be enough?»

Caleb let out a relieved breath. «Thanks, compadre. Can you spare a blanket or two? Unless this storm breaks, it will be damned cold in the first pass.»

«I’ve got something better than blankets. Sleeping bags.»

A half-disgusted, half-amused sound was Caleb’s only answer.

«Jessiinsisted,» Wolfe continued, ignoring his friend. «After the first night on the trail, I stopped complaining. No matter how much you thrash around, no cold air gets in.»

Caleb cut a sideways glance at Wolfe. «Getting newfangled in your old age, aren’t you?»

Wolfe smiled, for there wasn’t a day’s difference in their ages. Both men had turned thirty in late April. «I like my comforts. I’m not an Old Testament sort like you.»

For an instant, Caleb remembered Willow’swords: Aneye for an eye. Is that your Western code?

«I’ll settle for old-fashioned blankets.» Silently, Caleb fished a gold piece from his pocket. «If this doesn’t cover it, just —» he began.

«Put it away before you make me mad, you stiff-necked son of a bitch,» Wolfe interrupted.

Caleb gave the other man a slicing, sideways look, but put the coin back in his pocket.

They walked in silence to the door of the cabin. The interior was dark, cool, furnished with a western flavor. The instant the door closed behind them, Wolfe turned toward Caleb and started talking about the one thing he and Caleb had never discussed after the first time the issue came up — a man called Reno.

«I’m glad you’ll be too busy to hunt Reno for a time,» Wolfe said quietly. «You never said what you wanted with him and I’m not asking. None of my business. But I’m telling you something, Cal. If you ever find Reno, be damned sure you’ve got a good reason to draw on him, because a second after you do, both of you are likely to be dead.»

Caleb said nothing. Beneath the dark brim of his hat, his eyes were expressionless.

Wolfe looked at Caleb’s hard face. «You hearme, amigo? You and Reno are too well matched.»

«I hear you.»

«And?»

«So be it.»

ISHMAEL’S ringing whinny brought Willow awake with a pounding heart. Slanting sunlight streamed into the ravine, but she took little notice of its beauty. Grabbing the shotgun in one hand and the blanket in the other, she raced for cover, making as little noise as possible. When she could go no deeper in the dense thicket she turned around and crouched, motionless, straining to see what had disturbed her stallion.

A ghostly sound slid through the silence, echo of a wolf’s wild cry.

After a minute Caleb rode into sight, leading Trey. It took a moment for Willow to realize what was different about the pack horse — Trey was wearing a riding saddle rather than the familiar pack saddle. Two bags of corn were roped over the saddle and a thick bedroll was tied on behind. A sheepskin jacket was lashed on top.

«Anything bother you?» Caleb asked when Willow emerged from the thicket.

«Not until a minute ago, when Ishmael scented you.»

«That’s why I came in upwind, to give you warning.» Caleb dismounted, stretched, and began stripping gear off Deuce with quick, almost angry motions of his hands. «No one is around. While I rub down Deuce, make coffee over the smallest fire you know how to build.»

Willow started toward Trey, wanting to help Caleb, who looked tired. At a curt gesture from him, she retreated.

«Work on the fire, fancy lady. Flames don’t care about flapping skirts or blankets. My horses do.»

When Caleb was finished with Deuce, he went to work on Trey. The scent of grain carried downwind to the four mares when he took the bags off the saddle. The Arabians nickered eagerly. He untied one of the fifty-pound bags of grain, lifted it easily, and went from horse to horse, pouring a small mound of grain for each one. The mares’ dainty muzzles and delicate greed reminded Caleb of their mistress stealing every last taste of bacon from her fingertips with tiny, secret licks of her tongue.

The thought sent a surge of desire through Caleb. Ruthlessly, he shunted it aside and concentrated on what lay ahead — trails and passes, storms and sunlight, endurance and exhaustion, Slater’s bunch and Willow’s fancy man.

With a grimace, Caleb rubbed the back of his neck and headed for the campfire. It burned hotly, making coffee bubble and seethe. Willow knelt nearby, wearing his shirt rolled up to her elbows and the blanket wrapped around her hips. She had braided her hair and tied it with narrow strips of lace ripped from her petticoats. Dressed as she was, there should have been nothing appealing about her.

But when Willow came to Caleb and knelt beside him, her hands full of fragrant food, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms. He should have been too tired to feel desire, but the proof of his ability was stretched hard against his pants.

With a savage word, Caleb reached for his coffee cup.

«Caleb?» Willow asked uncertainly, not understanding the bleak intensity of his eyes.