«C–Caleb?» she said huskily, feeling a curious weakness uncurling in her body. «It’s all right. Put me down. I can walk.»

The breathless hesitation in Willow’s voice went through Caleb like lightning through a storm, bringing the dark thunder of desire in its wake.

«You’re lucky to stand up in that damn fancy outfit. For two cents I’d…»

Caleb bit down on the words he wanted to say about ripping the flapping cloth off Willow and stuffing her into his spare shirt and pants. He would have to truss her like a turkey for the oven in order to keep his clothes on her much smaller body. But then, why bother? He had been wanting to see her naked ever since he had glimpsed the taut perfection of her breasts rising from folds of fine lawn.

And then Caleb admitted that the wanting had begun sooner than that. It had begun the first instant he had seen Willow watching him with wide, anxious eyes and a spine straight with the kind of pride that wouldn’t back down for any man.

She’s just a fancywoman, Calebreminded himself grimly, remembering the flush that had burned on Willow’s cheeks when she had described Matthew Moran as herhusband. Afancy woman chasing after her fancy man. No better than she has to be, and maybe a damn sight worse.

Trying not to think what Willow would look like without any clothes at all, Caleb took a few more long steps before he lifted Willow to Ishmael’s back and dumped her there unceremoniously. When she reached automatically for the reins, the fine skin of her hands glowed like pearl in the moonlight.

«What happened to your gloves?» Caleb demanded.

Willow reached into thelefthand pocket of her riding habit, the pocket that didn’t hold the derringer. She found only one glove. Without a word she removed the wet leather and began working it over her hand. When she was finished, she picked up the reins once more.

«Where’s the other glove?» Caleb asked impatiently.

«Somewhere between here and Deuce.»

With a word that made Willow wince, Caleb backtracked. Finding a black glove on dark, wet earth in the middle of the night wasn’t easy. Swearing steadily, he pulled out a sealed tin of matches and struck one. Shielding the flame against the wind, he searched until his fingers were singed. Then he struck another match. Four matches later he found the glove where it had been trampled into the ground by Deuce. The realization that it could just as easily have been Willow’s soft flesh caught beneath the gelding’s big hooves put the finishing touch on Caleb’s temper. He snatched up the lacerated glove, snapped it against his thigh to get rid of the mud, and stalked back to Willow.

«Thank you,» she said in a low voice.

«Stay away from Deuce,» Caleb snarled. «He’s a man’s horse.»

Willow nodded and fumbled with her muddy glove, hoping Caleb wouldn’t notice that her hands were trembling. She told herself that she was simply cold and tired and hungry. And a little bit angry, as well. Certainly she wasn’t hurt by Caleb’s surly lack of manners.

Without another word, Caleb turned and stalked off to where Deuce waited. He went into the saddle with the casual, powerful grace of a mountain lion and touched the gelding’s flanks with the spurs. Instantly, the horse broke into a canter. Caleb held the pace for thirty minutes, then reined in to a walk. Ten minutes later he urged the big gelding into a slow trot, then a fast one.

The pattern held all through the cold, long hours of moonlight — canter, walk, trot, walk, canter, and no real rest. Willow did what she could to spare Ishmael, but there was nothing she could do to spare herself. At first she checked the position of the Big Dipper every time the horses shifted into a walk, then less often. It was simply too discouraging. The stars were barely moving across the black arch of the night. At times she would have sworn they were going backward.

After several hours Willow ignored the taunting stars. She no longer really noticed the difference between walk and canter. Trotting was increasingly painful. Grimly she tried to ease Ishmael’s burden, but her stiff, cold muscles lacked their customary resilience and coordination. When Ishmael stopped, the change of motion nearly threw her from the saddle. She blinked, checked the stars, and realized that even the longest night had an end. Pre-dawn light was silently stealing the stars from the eastern sky.

Wearily, Willow pushed still-damp locks of hair away from her face. She realized that Caleb had led them off the well-travelledtrack to a low, narrow crease between folds in the land. A brook no wider than her hand gleamed in the strengthening light. Thickets of streamside willow bushes grew lushly, as high as a tall man, offering both shelter and concealment. Obviously, Caleb was more interested in the latter quality. He began picketing the horses one by one downstream from the camp, giving them access to both water and the random patches of grass that grew between clumps of brush.

Only when Caleb approached Willow with a picket rope and stake in his hands did she realize she was still sitting like a lump on Ishmael, too dazed even to dismount.

«Get to work, southern lady. You hired a guide, not a personal slave. See if you can find some dry sticks, but don’t try to build a fire. Sure as hell you’d send up a signal that could be seen all the way back to Denver.» Caleb jerked his thumb at one of the pack saddles he had taken off Trey, his second horse. «There’s coffee, side meat, and flour over there. Can you cook?»

Numbly, Willow nodded.

«Then get cracking,» he said. «When the sun tops that hill, I’m drowning the campfire. Whatever isn’t cooked by then we eat raw or go without.»

Willow started to dismount, only to discover that her right leg wouldn’t cooperate. It had gone to sleep. Using both hands, she lifted her leg over the horn and gritted her teeth, for pain returned as blood flowed freely once more.

With narrowed eyes, Caleb watched. He had known the ride would be hard on Willow, but he hadn’t known how hard. He barely resisted the urge to lift her off the horse and carry her to a bed within a streamside thicket. But it had taken longer to find a safe camping spot than he had expected. Unless she worked alongside him, their only food would be cold jerky or hardtack and even colder stream water. He could survive on that indefinitely — he had often enough in the past — but he doubted that Willow would last two days on that diet. She was so tired her skin looked transparent.

Abruptly, Caleb lifted Willow from the saddle. When her feet touched the earth, he felt her knees buckle. He caught and held her, breathing in the faint hint of lavender and rain that she wore like an invisible veil. In his memory he tasted peppermint again, a freshness that had both startled and aroused him when he had realized its source was her lips touching the canteen’s rim just before his.

«Can’t you even stand up?» Caleb asked, his tone clipped, almost harsh.

Thewhiplike quality of Caleb’s voice stiffened Willow’s spine. She pushed away from him and began working over Ishmael’s saddle girth with clumsy hands.

«Go gather kindling, southern lady,» Caleb said, brushing her hands aside. «I’ll take care of your stud.»

The nickname was like a slap. For an instant Willow felt like lashing out in return, but she lacked the energy. In any case, at the moment Caleb was able to give better care to her stallion than she was, and her horse’s well-being mattered more than her pride.

Without a word Willow turned away from Caleb. She headed for the most dense thicket she could find, pushed inside, and kept going until she could see nothing when she looked over her shoulder but greenery. Only then did she begin struggling with the intricate fastenings of her long skirt. She peeled wet cloth and matted petticoats down her legs and prayed Caleb was gentleman enough not to follow her.

By the time she finished she was shivering. Even so, it was painful to drag the heavy divided skirt back up legs chapped raw by repeated rubbing against wet cloth. Taking small steps, walking awkwardly to spare her sensitive inner thighs, Willow began gathering twigs and small dead branches from the thicket. As she worked, her body slowly warmed and became less stiff.

By the time she had gathered a small pile of wood and emerged from the thicket, Caleb had finished picketing the horses. He was sitting on his heels beneath an overhanging screen of shrubbery, peeling shavings of dry wood from the inner bark of a small downed cottonwood. His wickedly sharp hunting knife was as long as his forearm. The blade flashed and gleamed like water in the vague pre-dawn light.

Willow dropped her double handful of twigs on the ground beside Caleb and turned away. With a barely stifled groan she knelt next to one pack saddle. A few minutes later she had found everything she needed to make biscuits and bacon. When she looked up, Caleb had just finished suspending a small coffee pot from a tripod of branches. Beneath the pot was a fire so tiny he could have covered it with his hat. What little smoke the fire made rose up and was dispersed by the screen of willows. Unless someone rode close by — and downwind — there would be no way to know that anyone was camped in one of the many deep creases that scored the land.

The secrecy of the camp both reassured Willow and made her uneasy at the same time. Caleb’s care said more than any words that he expected to be followed. Even if he hadn’t expected it, obviously he felt that anyone he met in the wild land was as likely to be enemy as friend.

The message of the hidden camp was repeated in the expression on Caleb’s face. Lighted from beneath by small flames, black shadows licking and shifting over his hard features, his eyes were feral with reflected fire and his mouth looked like it had forgotten how to smile. There was nothing of comfort in him for a young woman too tired to hold her eyes open and too cold to take a breath without shivering.