In the months since Rebecca had died, Caleb had redoubled his efforts to run Reno to ground. Nothing had helped. When Caleb came to isolated settlements or campfires and asked for information, he was always too late or too early or Reno had never been there at all. Bribery hadn’t worked. The Mexicans and Indians, settlers and prospectors simply stopped talking when Caleb brought up Reno’s name. Reno might have been a heel when it came to seducing virgins, but he had always given a hand or a dollar along the trail whenever either was needed. Anyone who hunted Reno was on his own.

Caleb had hunted Reno relentlessly. The search was made more difficult by the fact that Reno didn’t keep to well-travelledways or make predictable rounds of the lonely settlements. Reno was after Spanish treasure — gold. He had a lone wolf’s taste for high country and forgotten Indian trails leading through a maze of stone canyons and icy granite peaks. Caleb thought gold hunters were fools, but shared Reno’s taste for the untouched high country. In fact, if it weren’t for the cold-hearted seduction and abandonment of his sister Rebecca, Caleb suspected he would have liked Reno. But Rebecca was dead and Reno would die for it.

Life for life.

«Stairs,» Caleb said, his voice low and cold.

Willow felt Caleb’s shoulder dip, then dip again, telling her that he was descending stairs. Carefully, she tested the way ahead with the toe of her riding boot, trying to find where the floor ended and the stairs began. The hard sole of her boot defeated her. Caleb went down another stair, pulling her fingers free of his shoulder.

«Wait,» she whispered, «I can’t tell where the stairs begin.»

She sensed him turning toward her with his unnerving swiftness.

«Hold this,» he said.

The carpetbag was thrust into Willow’s hands. An instant later she was snatched from her feet.

«What are you doing?» she gasped.

«Quiet.»

The savage whisper silenced Willow. The world shifted and spun around her. She hadn’t been picked up and carried since she was a child. The feeling of helplessness was startling, particularly in the dark. She turned her face against Caleb’s muscular chest and hung onto the bag until her fingers ached, wishing she could hang onto him instead. After a few steps, Willow’s fear of falling diminished. Caleb went down the badly made stairs with the absolute certainty of a cat. Sighing deeply, she let out herpentup breath and loosened her grip on the carpetbag.

The warmth of Willow’s sigh was like a brand on Caleb’s chest. He clenched his teeth against the temptation to stop and find her mouth with his own, testing the depths of her sweet feminine heat. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he set Willow on her feet abruptly, took the carpetbag, and turned away from her without a word.

Willow let out another long, shaky breath and tried not to remember how it had felt to have Caleb’s powerful arms around her back and beneath her knees, holding her. She also tried not to remember how good he had smelled, a masculine compound of wool and leather and the storm wind sweeping down from the mountains. With hands that wanted to tremble, she smoothed her riding habit and wondered what had happened to her customary calm. She had faced down armed soldiers with less trembling than she was experiencing now.

The side door of the hotel opened and closed behind Willow with only a few creaks. The alley smelled of garbage and slops. The wind smelled ofwoodsmoke and cold rain. She gathered her long wool skirt as best she could and stepped forward. A barrage of rain raked across her face. She wished she had something more useful to keep off the cold water than the tiny green hat that went with her riding habit.

Caleb used the back door into the livery stable, ushering Willow inside with open impatience. He had no great hope that their departure would go unnoticed for long, but they would need all the head start they could get if they eventually were going to lose any followers. No matter how staunchly Willow had defended her Arabians’ endurance, Caleb doubted that the fine-boned, elegant animals he had glimpsed behind stall doors would be able to keep up with the big Montana horses he owned.

Jed Slater and outlaws like him also owned tough, long-boned horses that were grain-fed and ready to run the legs off any ordinary horses ridden by town posses or angry cowhands. Since Caleb had little hope of outrunning the outlaws, or hiding the tracks of his own two horses and Willow’s five all the way to the SanJuans, somehow he would have to outsmart — or outshoot — the men who would inevitably follow.

And there would be many such men, renegades drawn like flies to honey by the prize of expensive horseflesh and a woman with hair the color of the sun.

The fragrance of lavender drifted over Caleb as Willow moved past him into the stable. He tried not to notice. He failed. With a muttered curse he reached for the matches on the ledge by the door. When the lantern was lit, he crumbled the burned match between his fingers before letting it fall to the dirt floor.

Horses nickered and stretched their heads over stall doors, scenting the familiar presence of humans. Withmurmurous greetings, Willow went to her Arabians, touching them reassuringly. Caleb watched the horses with their delicate heads, sharply pricked ears, and unusually large, widely spaced eyes. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the animals were beautiful. Well-trained, too. As Willow began leading them from the stalls, they followed her without hesitation or shying at the flickering shadows cast by the lantern.

Even the stallion was gentle, though spirit visibly ran through him like lightning through a storm. His sorrel coat flashed red-gold fire at every motion of his body. A clean white blaze went from forehead to muzzle. A single white stocking marked his right front leg. When he moved, it was as though on springs, energy rippling with restrained power, coiled strength waiting for release. Centuries of intense, careful breeding ran through the stallion, apparent in each well-defined muscle and clean line of bone.

«That’s one hell of a stud horse,» Caleb said finally. «It will be worth your life to ride him out of Denver.»

«Ishmael is as gentle as he is strong.»

Caleb grunted. «It wasn’t his manners I was talking about. That stud is enough to tempt a saint into mortal sin, much less the kind of men we’ll see on the way to the SanJuans. Every outlaw and renegade Indian in the territory will take one look at your stallion and start seeing himself in the saddle.»

There was nothing Willow could say. She had noticed on the stage ride that the farther west she came, the more interest her horses excited. Yet she could no more let them go than she could cut off her own fingers. She loved her horses. They were all she had of her past and her only hope for a secure future.

In silence Willow finished leading her four mares from their stalls. Two of the mares were sorrels as fiery as Ishmael. Two were bays with shiny brown bodies and sweeping black manes and tails. All four of the mares moved with the liquid grace of cats.

Any one of them would have been worth killing for.

«Mother of God,» muttered Caleb, looking at the five sleek animals. «Getting those horses to the SanJuans without attracting every outlaw between here and Hell will be like trying to sneak dawn past the night.»

Saying nothing, Willow bent and checked each horse’s hooves for debris or loose shoes. The Arabians made it easy for her. No sooner had she touched a fetlock than a hoof was presented for her inspection. When she was finished, she ran a brush over Ishmael’s glossy back and slid the saddle blanket into place without ruffling any hair.

When Caleb saw Willow reach for the sidesaddle, he was tempted to stop her. A sidesaddle in rough country was hard on the woman and harder on the horse. No matter how accomplished a rider the woman was, her weight was always off-center on the horse’s back.

Yet Caleb watched Willow finish saddling her mount and said nothing, because it suited his purpose to be silent. Anyone posted to watch the stable would duly report that a woman wearing a long riding skirt and using a sidesaddle had left the livery stable in the dead of night. The men who followed would be asking about a woman in fancy clothes riding a clumsy saddle that was rarely seen west of the Mississippi.

But Willow wouldn’t be using that sidesaddle after a few days — not if Caleb had to drag her from it and slice the leather into pigging strings with his big hunting knife.

Caleb led his own two geldings from their stalls. Both animals were ready to travel. He lashed Willow’s carpetbag to the pack saddle, tied a tarpaulin over everything to shed rain, and led the horses into the wide aisle between stalls. Ishmael’s nostrils flared at the presence of the two big geldings, but his ears remained erect. He was curious rather than hostile.

Deliberately Caleb shook out a dark, finely woven poncho right under the stallion’s nose. The sudden snapping of cloth didn’t bother Willow’s horse. Caleb pulled the poncho on, then ran his palm down the stallion’s glossy, muscular neck. The flesh beneath was as hard as his own. The Arabian might look elegant, but it was the elegance of lightning rather than the elegance of a rose.

When Willow was done saddling Ishmael and roping the mares together for easy leading, Caleb walked over and checked each animal’s hooves. They permitted his handling with only a few restless motions. When he finished, he tested the strength and tightness of the sidesaddle’s girth on the stallion.

«Satisfied?» Willow asked.