Caleb turned to Rose. “I’m sorry you had to hear that filth,” he said simply.
Rose tried to speak, smiled tremulously, and managed to whisper, “You’re a good man, Caleb Black. There will always be a place set for you at my table.”
Caleb smiled and touched the widow’s pale cheek with a gentle affection that astonished Willow.
“Thanks,” Eddy said simply to Caleb. “I owe you.”
Caleb shook his head. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to Rose. That’s all the payment I need.”
“Johnny will backshoot you some day,” Eddy said matter-of-factly. “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”
“There were too many women in the room to start shooting. A wild shot…”
“You’re not a wild shooter.”
With a shrug, Caleb began picking up gunbelts. “Johnny is a foul-mouthed polecat, but he hasn’t killed any of my kin. He insulted Rose and I insulted him. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it.”
“An eye for an eye,” Willow murmured, watching Caleb. “Is that your Western code?”
He straightened and turned toward her with swift, predatory grace. “Not my code, southern lady. God’s. ‘And if any mischief follow, thou shalt give life for life, /Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, /Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’”
The intensity in Caleb’s voice made Willow shiver. “What about forgiveness?” she asked. “What about turning the other cheek?”
“That’s a luxury for city folks who have enough policemen to take care of scum like Kid Coyote. Denver doesn’t have that much law yet. Where I’m taking you there’s no law at all. If a man turns his other cheek, he gets slapped again, harder, until he either fights or stops calling himself a man. Out in those mountains a man takes care of himself because no one else will do it for him.”
“And a woman?” Willow asked unwillingly. “What does she do?”
“She stays in town,” Caleb said bluntly. “If she can’t do that, she finds a man tough enough to protect her and the kids she’ll bear him. That’s the way it is out here, southern lady. Nothing fancy. You kill your own meat, you dress it, you cook it, you eat it, and then you go out and hunt again.” Caleb looked at Willow through narrowed eyes, stepped closer, and said too softly for anyone to overhear, “Still want to search for your…husband?”
Willow looked at the big man looming over her, his eyes like hammered metal and his hands full of weapons. Her first impression of Caleb Black had been correct.
He was dangerous.
Then Willow remembered the brush of his fingertips against Rose’s cheek. Caleb was as hard as a whetstone, yet he was also a decent man. She would be safe with him. She knew it with an inner certainty she didn’t question.
“Yes,” Willow said.
Caleb looked surprised for a moment, but all he said was, “Get ready to ride. We leave in an hour.”
“What? But it’s dark and—”
“One hour, southern lady. Be at the livery stable down the street or I’ll come and drag you out of your room.”
ONE hour and three minutes later, an impatient knock sounded on Willow’s hotel room door. She froze in the act of fastening one of the many stubborn buttons on the bodice of her riding habit.
“Who is it?” she asked, pausing as she pushed a button through a small buttonhole in the heavy wool.
“Caleb Black. You’re late.”
The voice was as low, compelling, and darkly masculine as Willow had remembered. A tiny shivering feeling uncurled in the pit of her stomach. The sensation surprised her, for she had never been afraid of men.
Then Willow realized she wasn’t really afraid of Caleb. He simply was unlike any man she had ever known, which made it impossible for her to predict what he would do next. Or how she would react. His ability to make butterflies flutter in her stomach simply by talking to her through a closed door was disconcerting.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Willow said, her voice unusually husky.
“You’ll be out in thirty seconds or I’ll come in after you.”
“Mr. Black—”
Whatever Willow had been going to say ended in a husky sound of shock when she heard a key scraping in the lock.
“I’m not dressed!”
“Twenty seconds.”
Willow didn’t waste time arguing. Her fingers flew over the buttons. Even so, she barely had managed to close the bodice halfway over her breasts by the time the door opened. When she saw Caleb’s wide shoulders fill the doorway, for an instant she was too shocked to move. The fine lawn of her camisole and its delicate embroidery of flowers were revealed, as was the velvet shadow lying between the full curves of her breasts.
Flushing to the roots of her golden hair, Willow grabbed the edges of her bodice and held them together. Beneath the tide of embarrassment, a flash of fury burned along her high, slanting cheekbones.
“Get out of my room!”
“Don’t get your back up, fancy woman,” Caleb said as he closed the door behind him. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Shocked, Willow said the only thing that came to her mind. “How did you get the key to my room?”
“I asked for it. Which one of these carpetbags is going with you?”
For several moments Willow struggled to keep her composure. Caleb might not have much regard for her modesty, but he was making no attempt to take advantage of her. He had looked at her unfastened bodice with complete disinterest. She should have been relieved that he considered her married and therefore out of bounds.
Instead, Willow found herself more than a little irritated by Caleb’s lack of interest in her as a woman. The irrationality of her response only made her more angry.
“I’m taking all my luggage,” Willow said tightly.
Caleb shook his head. “Pick one.”
“But—”
“There’s no time to argue,” he interrupted impatiently. “We’re leaving now and we’re traveling light. There’s a storm coming on. If we get out of here quick enough, we stand a good chance of having our tracks wiped out before anyone realizes we’re gone.”
Willow remembered Johnny Slater’s threat of revenge and frowned. “Do you think Slater’s brother will try to follow us?”
“Jed Slater and anyone else wanting a free woman and expensive horseflesh. That’s a lot of men, and none of them the kind who go to church on Sunday.”
“Mr. Black, I am not a ‘free woman.’”
He shrugged. “Fine. You’re an expensive woman. Which bag are you taking?”
Willow didn’t trust herself to speak. She went to the smaller bags, grabbed a few items from each and stuffed them in the large carpetbag.
“That one,” she said tightly.
Caleb picked up the bag and turned away, not permitting himself so much as a sidelong glance at the intriguing gaps in Willow’s bodice. The single swift look he had taken when he walked into the room was more than enough. The soft curves and seductive shadows of her body had made him harden in the space of a breath. It had taken a maddening amount of self control not to brush aside her hands and lower his face to her breasts, finding out for himself if she was half as sweet to his tongue as she was to his eyes.
“Southern lady,” Caleb said without looking around, “we—”
“My name is Willow Moran.”
“—aren’t going to a ball,” he said, ignoring her interruption. “That fancy riding outfit of yours is as useless as a four card flush. When that long, flapping skirt gets wet, it will weigh more than you do. Wear something else.”
“Such as?”
“Pants,” he said succinctly.
Willow blinked. He was indeed a practical man.
“That’s impossible,” she said, as much to herself as to Caleb.
“Indian women do it all the time. We’re not riding down country lanes. We’re going over some of the roughest
land God made this side of Hell. Last thing you need is yards of cloth flying and flapping and catching on every branch.”
“I’ll just have to do the best I can. I don’t have anything else suitable.”
Against his better judgment, Caleb glanced over his shoulder at Willow. The single lantern in the room was reflected in his eyes, making them look like they burned.
“Then at least take off the petticoats,” he said bluntly.
“I can’t. They’re sewn into the seams of the riding skirt.”
A spatter of rain hit the hotel window. Thunder rumbled distantly. Caleb looked at the black shine of water on the glass, shook his head, and opened the door. A quick glance assured him that no one was in the hall. With a curt gesture he indicated that Willow should precede him through the door.
“What about the rest of my luggage?” Willow asked.
“It will be waiting at Rose’s boarding house when you get back.”
Without another word Willow walked past Caleb into the dark hall, trying not to touch him on the way by. It was impossible. He left very little room when he stood in a doorway. The renewed realization of Caleb’s size sent a flush to Willow’s cheeks and more of the odd, shimmering sensations racing from her breastbone to her knees.
The few hall lights had been put out recently, leaving behind the smell of smoldering wicks.
“Left,” Caleb said in a low voice that carried no farther than Willow.
She turned left, wondering where she was going, for the hotel lobby lay to her right.
“Mr. Black, where—” she began.
“Quiet,” he interrupted swiftly.
A look over her shoulder convinced Willow that it was the wrong time to ask Caleb questions. Wearing the same dark trail clothes he had earlier, he looked like a huge shadow following her. He made no more noise than a shadow, either. If it hadn’t been for the gleam of his eyes and the occasional shine of metal where his jacket had been tucked out of the way behind his gun holster, Caleb would have been nearly invisible.
Uneasily Willow turned around and stared into the darkness ahead of her. She walked slowly, carefully, trying to make her steps as soundless as Caleb’s. The rustling of petticoats beneath her heavy wool riding skirt defeated her.
“Wait,” Caleb said softly.
Willow stopped walking as though she had run into a cliff. She felt the brush of Caleb’s body, then the warmth of him radiated against her as he leaned down, putting his mouth next to her ear.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “The stairs are narrow and uneven. Put your hand on my shoulder for balance.”
Before Willow could answer he brushed by her, turned his back, and waited. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his shoulder. Even through the wool jacket and shirt, she felt the vital heat of Caleb’s body. She drew in her breath swiftly. She hadn’t been this close to a man since her fiancé had gone off to war.
But Steven hadn’t affected her like this, her heart racing and her knees going suddenly weak.
When Caleb moved without warning, Willow stumbled and reached out blindly for support. He turned and caught her with the same lightning swiftness that had been Johnny Slater’s undoing. The feel of Caleb’s hands pressed around her waist, digging into her, supporting her, was as unnerving as the speed and power of his body. When he bent to whisper in her ear, Willow couldn’t force herself to breathe.
“If you can’t even walk without tripping in that damned thing,” Caleb muttered roughly, “I’ll take my hunting knife and cut the cloth off at your knees.”
Instinctively, Willow’s hands went to Caleb’s upper arms as she braced herself against his strength.
“You—you surprised me, that’s all,” she whispered. “When you moved.”
Caleb stared down into Willow’s face. It was no more than a pale blur in the darkness. He was grateful. If he couldn’t see her eyes, she couldn’t see the hunger in his. She smelled of lavender and sunshine. Her slender waist felt good in his hands. Too good. It was all he could do not to knead her tender flesh while he drew her hips against his thighs, easing and teasing the hunger that lay rigidly against the dark cloth of his pants.
Abruptly Caleb released Willow, grabbed her carpetbag, and turned his back on her. There was a pause before he felt a small hand settle lightly on his shoulder once more. The heat of her touch went all the way to his heels. Silently, savagely, he cursed his unbridled response to Reno’s fancy lady. Caleb knew he would be suffering the torments of the damned before he pried the secret of Reno’s hideout from Willow.
But pry it out he would. There was no other way to bring down justice on the man who had abandoned Rebecca to a lonely death days after she had given birth to her lover’s child, a child that died within hours of its mother’s death.
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-travelled ways 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 her pentup 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 experi
encing 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 of woodsmoke 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 San Juans, 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. With murmurous 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.
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