“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 Jessica Charteris 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 think Jessi 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.
“When Jessi 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 time Jessi was here she also sweet-talked me into buying her some of those Levis that all the Forty-Niners and Fifty-Niners wore. 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 of Jessi’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.
“Jessi insisted,” 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’s words: An eye 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 hear me, 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.
“The passes are open, so long as you don’t get caught in a storm. Slater’s gang divided up. They’re waiting for us somewhere along the Rio Grande and the Arkansas both,” he said flatly.
What he didn’t say was that Slater had also put a bounty on Caleb’s head, enough hard cash to make every outlaw between Wyoming and Mexico sit up and rub his hands with greed.
“What are we going to do?”
Caleb’s bleak, golden glance fell on the sidesaddle. With an angry motion he grabbed it and chucked it into the small stream that ran alongside camp. Her torn riding habit followed.
“Caleb! What in heaven’s name are—”
“They’re looking for a girl fool enough to ride sidesaddle into the Rockies,” Caleb interrupted in a cold voice, looking into Willow’s started hazel eyes. “I don’t know any girl that foolish. Do you?”
Willow’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Good,” Caleb said, nodding curtly. “They’re looking for a girl stupid enough to wear fancy, flapping clothes that never dry out from rainstorm to rainstorm. I don’t know any girl that stupid. Do you?”
Lacing her fingers together, Willow said nothing.
Caleb grunted and continued. “They’re looking for a girl stubborn enough to try and sneak five fancy horses past every damned outlaw between her and hell. I don’t know any girl that stubborn. Do you?”
“My horses go with me,” Willow said instantly.“That was part of our bargain, Caleb Black. Are you going back on your word?”
The instant the words were out of her mouth, Willow wished she could call them back. But it was too late. She had said them and now she must face Caleb’s wrath.
“I’ve never gone back on my word to anyone, not even to a spoiled southern lady who is no better than she has to be,” Caleb said icily.
Without looking away from Willow, he yanked the ties of the thick bedroll and unrolled it with a snap of his wrist, revealing the clothes that had been packed inside. He grabbed a fistful of buckskin, denim, and cotton flannel.
“Start with the flannel longjohns,” Caleb said in a cold voice. “Then put on the buckskin pants. Then the Levis. On top, wear—”
“I’ve been dressing myself for years,” Willow interrupted. “I can tell top from bottom.”
Caleb stuffed the clothes into her outstretched hands. “There’s a hat and jacket for you inside Wolfe’s sheepskin jacket. He didn’t have a slicker for Jessi. Sorry.”
“What about you?”
“Wolfe and I both hate slickers. They only work if you’re sitting inside a tent.”
Curiosity finally overcame Willow’s caution. “Who is Wolfe? Is Jessi his wife?”
“His name is Wolfe Lonetree. Jessi is his stepmother’s cousin or some such.”
“Where does he live? I’d like to thank him personally.”
“I doubt that you’d have much to do with him.”
“Why not?”
“His daddy was a British blueblood, but his mother was the daughter of a Cheyenne shaman.”
“A medicine woman?” Willow asked eagerly.
Caleb looked down at her through slitted eyes. He saw only curiosity rather than the contempt many people had toward a man of mixed blood.
“I never asked him,” Caleb said finally. “Why?”
“She would know the healing plants of the West,” Willow explained. “I’ve recognized some that are the same as back home, but not many.”
“You’re the damnedest southern lady I’ve ever met.”
“Probably because I’m not a southern lady,” she retorted.
Caleb smiled slightly. “Couldn’t tell it by the drawl. Listening to you is like licking honey off a spoon.”
“Just because I don’t have a voice like a gravelbottom river—”
“You can insult me some other time,” he said, cutting across her words. “We’ve got better things to do right now.”
With quick motions, Caleb tossed the blankets Wolfe had given him onto the tarpaulin, set his saddle in place as a pillow, and crawled into the makeshift bed.
Willow looked around and saw no other blankets. “Where is my bed?”
“Same place it was last night.” He lifted the blankets, indicating the empty half of the tarpaulin. “Right here.”
She looked as shocked as she felt. “I slept next to you?”
“You sure did.”
“But I—I don’t remember it.”
“You were so tired you wouldn’t have noticed if a buffalo crawled in and snored in your ear,” Caleb said. “Now you can sleep next to me and stay warm or you can sleep alone and get cold. Your choice, fancy lady. Either way, put out the fire after you’ve changed your clothes.”
Before Willow could think of a suitable answer, Caleb pulled his hat down over his eyes, shutting her out. Within moments his breathing changed, slowing and deepening.
Willow watched Caleb for a while longer, seeing the even rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. He seemed to be asleep. Even so, she considered retreating into the brush to dress, but was reluctant to drag the wonderfully dry clothes into the dripping willow thicket. Besides, it would be chilly away from the cheerful leap of flames.
“Caleb?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Nor did he stir.
Abruptly, Willow made her decision. Moving slowly and silently so as not to awaken Caleb, she took off her boots and she set down the clothes on the strip of tarpaulin he had left empty. Easing the longjohn bottoms from the tangle of clothes, she turned her back and left the blanket she was wearing open. Fumbling slightly, she pulled the ribbons that fastened the pantelets around her waist. The thin cotton fluttered down her legs and heaped around her ankles beneath the blanket entirely. She stepped out of the frail cloth and managed to pull on the longjohn bottoms without dropping the blanket entirely.
It wasn’t easy. Whoever had been the previous owner of the underwear was somewhat smaller than Willow. What should have been a loosely fitted garment covered her like a second, supple skin. The long-sleeved top was as snug as the bottom. The result wasn’t uncomfortable, simply unexpected.
For Caleb it was breathtaking, especially as Willow had tired of wrestling with the blanket and let it drop in order to pull the top of the underwear into place. When she finished, she ran her hands over the soft, warm flannel and made a sound of pleasure. Caleb set his teeth against a groan. He would have given a great deal to have his hands running over the same fabric and to hear Willow murmur with pleasure in response to the touch.
Grimly, Caleb closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, making no noise as he turned his back on Willow. She didn’t notice his change of position when she bent to the new clothes once more, for she was entranced by the feel of the buckskin pants. They were softer
than velvet and supple as the wind.
With a murmuring sound of pleasure, Willow ran her palm over the pants before pulling them into place over the longjohns. Again, the fit was close without being uncomfortable. The top, with its rain-shedding fringe and laces down to her breasts, was as soft as the pants and fitted her just as lovingly. Like the underwear, the buckskins were fragrant with the rose petal sachet that had been tucked in the folds. She took a few tentative steps, feeling as though she might float away without the accustomed weight of skirt and petticoats. The freedom of movement pants gave her was almost startling.
Mother would have an attack of the vapors if she saw me in pants, Willow thought with a combination of amusement and sadness. But beggars can’t be choosers.
Besides, the pants are warm and they cover as much of me as a skirt would. They just don’t cover it in quite the same way.
All that remained were the Levis and the wool lumberman’s jacket with its big checks of blended red and black. The Levis were looser than the other clothes, as was the jacket. The derringer fit so nicely in one of the jacket’s large front pockets that Willow left it there. The fly front fastening of the Levis baffled her for a moment, then her fingers went to work over the stubborn steel buttons. Finally, she shoved her arms into the jacket’s sleeves. The jacket had been made for a man rather than for a woman, which meant that the buttons were on the wrong side. Both Levis and jacket had been worn enough to make them flexible.
Willow picked up the pearl-gray, flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat that had been rolled among the clothes. A few strokes of her hands pushed the hat back into shape. She put it on her head, fastened the chin strings, and wished she had a mirror.
“Just as well I don’t,” she muttered softly. “My hair must look like river weed.”
The warmth of the clothes seeped into Willow, making her realize how long it had been since she had been dry. Almost fearfully, she glanced up at the sky. No clouds were overhead, but that was no guarantee that it wouldn’t rain later on. By the end of daylight, clouds could easily pour down from the peaks in one squall line after another.
Wind blew with a long, lonely cry, reminding Willow of the icy night she had endured. Sparks leaped up from the flames. Quickly she pulled apart the fuel, and the fire guttered and died. As she banked the few coals in ashes, she regretted the loss of warmth. She looked at the narrow strip of tarpaulin that remained and realized all over again what a big man Caleb Black really was. The thought was daunting, but not as dismaying as the idea of lying down on the cold, wet ground in her dry clothes.
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