Only His

by Lowell, Elizabeth

  “One is as useless as another. Those are mountain peaks, not camps. We could look for five years and never find anything but rough country.”

  “You needn’t sound so happy about it,” Willow grumbled. “Why don’t you want to find Matt?”

  Caleb looked at her almost fiercely before he spoke. “That’s rough country. Let me take you back to Wolfe Lonetree. He’ll protect you and the Arabians while I look for your brother.”

  “If I’m not along, you’ll never get close to Matt. If he doesn’t want to be found, you have a better chance of catching moonlight on water than catching him.”

  Caleb bit back a curse. That was exactly what it had been like chasing Reno—trying to catch moonlight on water.

  But then I didn’t know where the son of a bitch was. Now I do.

  Willow frowned over the map. “I can’t understand why Matt didn’t leave better clues. He isn’t a careless kind of person. He was the one who taught me how to navigate by the stars, taking reading and drawing lines and making angles of intersection.” She bit her lower lip. “All I can figure is if we light a fire at any one of those five peaks, he’ll be able to see us. You know the country. You can find a place that can be seen for a long way and we’ll light a fire and—”

  “Get our fool heads shot off,” Caleb said flatly, interrupting Willow. “Nobody lights a signal fire in that country unless he’s looking to get his scalp lifted. Your brother knows it, too, or he would have been dead long ago.”

  “But then why did he say it?”

  “It’s a trap.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Matt wouldn’t want to hurt his brothers.”

  “Are your brothers fools?”

  Willow laughed. “Hardly. Matt is the youngest. He learned a lot of what he knows from his older brothers.”

  “Then none of your brothers would be damn fool enough to light a fire in Indian country and wait like a staked goat for whatever came.”

  Willow wanted to argue, but knew it would do no good. Caleb was right. None of the Moran brothers would be that foolish.

  “A trap,” she said unhappily.

  “Like you said, your brother is a careful man.”

  “Then we’ll just have to climb each peak until we find his camp,” Willow said, taking the map from Caleb.

  He heard the determination in her voice and knew she wouldn’t stop seeking her brother until she found him or died trying. Reno had written for help and Willow had answered in the only way she could.

  “You’re going to find your brother come Hell or high water, is that it?”

  “If you were me, would you do any less?” she asked, wondering at the tangible hostility in Caleb every time her brother was mentioned.

  Caleb closed his eyes and tasted the pain that the future would bring, Willow’s screams echoing as she watched her beloved brother and the man she loved face each other over drawn weapons, gunfire echoing and death coming down like thunder.

  Be sure you’ve got a good reason to draw on Reno, because a second after you do, both of you are likely to be dead.

  “So be it,” Caleb said bleakly.

  Fear went through Willow like black lightning. “Caleb?” she asked shakily. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer. He went to his saddlebags, pulled out his journal, a pencil, and a ruler, and came back to where Willow waited, map in hand and fear in her heart. Saying nothing, he took the map, spread it on his journal, and began drawing lines.

  “What are you doing?” she asked finally.

  “Finding your goddamned brother.”

  Willow winced. “But how?”

  “He’s a careful kind of man. He was real careful how he drew these triangles, even though he stood them every which way on the paper.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The triangles are all the same kind, with one angle of ninety degrees and two angles of forty-five degrees.”

  Willow stared at the triangles and saw that Caleb was right.

  “If you cut the ninety degree angle in two and drop a line down through the base, you get two equal triangles,” Caleb said, working swiftly as he talked.

  “So?”

  “So if you lay a ruler along that dividing line and draw it out to the edges of the map, and you do it for each triangle, all the lines should intersect somewhere. ‘Three points, two halves, one gathering.’ It should be about—”

  “There!” Willow interrupted, pointing to the map where line after line had crossed. “Caleb, you’ve done it! That’s where Matt is!”

  Caleb said nothing. He simply noted the area of intersection in relation to landmarks both in his mind and on the map, and then threw the paper into the fire. Willow made a startled sound as flames bit ravenously into the map. Before she could move to prevent it, the paper writhed and curled and turned to ash.

  “Good thing your Arabians are in good shape,” Caleb said tightly. “We’ve got Hell’s own ride ahead.”

  He looked from the fire to Willow. In the twilight her eyes were mysterious, the color of autumn rain. The thought of losing her was a knife turning in him. Silently, he held out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation, not understanding the darkness she saw in him, but knowing that he needed her. When he drew her closer, she came willingly, needing him in the same way. For long minutes, they held each other, neither moving except to cling more tightly, as though they expected to be torn apart in the next instant.

  “Love,” Willow whispered finally, looking up at Caleb. “What’s wrong?”

  His only answer was a kiss that didn’t end until he was deep inside her and she was shivering with the fulfillment that grew more consuming each time he came to her. After he sipped the ecstatic tears from her lashes, he began all over again, taking and giving and sharing until there was no yesterday, no tomorrow, nothing but the timeless instant when two became one.

  When Willow fell asleep, she was still joined with Caleb. For a long time he listened to her slow breaths, felt her small stirrings, watched moonlight glow on her cheeks. When he could bear it no longer, he closed his eyes and fell asleep, praying that Reno was already dead.

  WILLOW stood in the stirrups and looked over Ishmael’s pricked ears. The land fell away before her in so many shades of green she couldn’t find names to describe all of them. The countryside was neither flat nor truly mountainous. Although distant clusters of high peaks jutted sporadically from the horizon, the land between the clusters was mile upon mile of rumpled forest and grassland, as though a huge patchwork quilt had been thrown over an uneven floor. The wrinkles were long, high ridges where pine and aspen and scrub oak grew. The troughs between wrinkles were equally long, wide parks where rivers ran.

  Taking a deep breath, Willow tasted the freshness of the air, grateful that she had finally adapted to the altitude. Caleb had told her that even at its lowest point, the land was nearly seven thousand feet high. Many of the peaks were twice that height. It was like riding on the green roof of the world with stone chimneys rising in the distance. The sense of openness was exhilarating.

  Nowhere could be seen smoke, buildings, rutted roads, fences, or any permanent sign of man. Yet men were out there, somewhere. Caleb had seen tracks in places where mountains pinched the grassland into divides that were natural funnels for travelers. Some of the tracks had been headed north or east. Most of them hadn’t. Most of them were headed toward the San Juans.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Caleb said, pointing. “The farthest peaks you can see.”

  From where Willow was, the cluster of mountains looked rather like a low, spiky, purple crown set with fractured pearls. The country between her and the San Juans was as wild as it was beautiful.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” she asked, having learned that travel time rather than distance was the only measure that counted in the West.

  “Two days if we could ride directly. As it is, we’ll be lucky to do it in four.”

&nbs
p; “Why?”

  “Indians,” Caleb said. “The Utes are damn tired of tripping over white men every time they turn around. Then there’s always Slater and his bunch.”

  “Don’t you think we lost them?”

  “It’s hard to lose someone who knows where you’re going,” Caleb said sardonically.

  “Won’t they give up after not finding any of our tracks for almost three weeks?”

  “Would you give up?” he asked.

  Willow looked away from the bleak clarity of Calleb’s eyes. Although he hadn’t mentioned abandoning the hunt again, she knew he wanted to. Yet when she asked why, he changed the subject with an abruptness that stung.

  “Jed Slater is riding a grudge,” Caleb said, looking away from Willow. “He’s the kind of man who will ride it until he dies or I do.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to find Matt?” Willow asked, remembering the older Slater brother’s reputation as a gunman. “Because you know Slater will be looking for you in the same place?”

  Caleb gave Willow a hooded glance. “Only a fool hunts trouble. Enough of it comes without looking for more.”

  He kicked Deuce lightly, sending the horse trotting down into the long, winding park that eventually would descend to a grassy valley thousands of feet below their present elevation. Unhappily, Willow looked at Caleb’s broad back vanishing down the trail and wished she had phrased her question more tactfully. No man liked admitting that he was looking for ways to avoid a fight.

  Frowning, Willow urged Ishmael forward, thinking about the man she loved rather than the route ahead. Caleb had been withdrawn since they had left the little valley yesterday. He had kept to a hard pace, his whole manner that of a man getting through a distasteful task as quickly as possible. And never once, either in the valley or after it, had he spoken of what would happen between the two of them after they found her brother. Never once had Caleb said that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her, that he even wanted to be with her after his promise to guide her to her brother had been kept.

  Yet Willow had awakened this morning to find Caleb looking at her with a yearning that was so great it had made her heart turn over. Then he had gotten up without a word, leaving her with tears standing in her eyes and fear coiling coldly in her stomach.

  The memory haunted Willow throughout the long day, prickling her skin like an icy rash, making the beauty of the land bittersweet.

  The long descent from the high country ended as many others had, in a wide valley that wound between ranges of mountains. Their route took them along a river that was rarely more than a hundred feet across. The water was clear, clean, and swift. Aspen and a tree that looked like a poplar grew along the river’s edge, spreading masses of shivering silvergreen leaves across the sky. Flowers of every hue winked and flirted among the grasses, telling of a spring that was not yet spent.

  As always, the sun was hot. Willow was wearing only Levis and the buckskin shirt with most of its laces undone. The flannel underwear that had felt so good in the higher country was now folded and rolled into a blanket behind her saddle, along with the heavy wool jacket. The silver murmuring of the river had become a siren song promising cool, pure water to ease her growing thirst.

  Just when Willow was certain Caleb was going to go past supper without stopping, he reined in, dismounted, and walked back to her.

  “We’ll rest here for a bit.”

  Willow began to dismount, only to be plucked from Ishmael’s back. Caleb lowered her slowly to the ground, letting her slide down his front. The look in his eyes and the frank arousal of his body made her heartbeat double. The uneasiness that had haunted her all day was replaced by a giddy sense of relief and a glittering rush of anticipation. Heat rippled through her, transforming her. In the space of a few breaths her body changed, preparing itself for the joining to come.

  “Rest?” Willow asked, smiling, wanting so much to take the darkness from Caleb’s eyes. One of her hands drifted down his body. “Are you sure that’s all you had in mind?”

  His breath came in swiftly. “I thought I might catch some trout for supper.”

  “You might,” she agreed. Her hand moved slowly, measuring and pleasuring him in the same motion, glorying in the answering blaze of his eyes, all darkness gone. “Depends on the bait. Or is it the pole?”

  “You,” he said huskily, “are one sassy little trout.”

  “But I rise to your bait every time.”

  “No, honey. I rise to yours.”

  Willow’s soft laugh was as sensual as the slow movement of her hand. “Shall we argue about it?”

  His answering smile was lazy and hungry at the same time. “Yes, I think we shall.” Long fingers worked over the fastening of her Levis. “Two falls out of three?”

  “You’re bigger than I am,” she pointed out.

  “Harder, too.” Caleb’s hand slid between layers of cloth. “But it’s too late to get cold feet now.”

  The only answer Willow could make was a throaty sound of pleasure as his long fingers touched her. He knelt quickly, stripping away her boots and Levis. He had no patience for his own clothes. He simply unfastened his pants and pulled her to the ground astride him, wild with a need he couldn’t control.

  “God,” he groaned when he teased and tested her, “you’re softer every time. Hotter. Sweeter.”

  Willow tried to answer, but the feel of Caleb thrusting deeply into her body took away her breath. The hunger in him was almost violent, as though he must have all of her, know all of her, touch all of her in some elemental way. The first shattering wave of pleasure hit her as soon as they were fully joined, but it was the desperate need in him that stripped away the world, leaving only Caleb and the ecstasy that destroyed and created her in the same endless instant. Small cries rippled from her as she surrendered body and soul to the man she loved.

  The depth and quickness of Willow’s response was as exciting to Caleb as the heat of her body melting around him, telling him that she was his woman, only his. It was what he needed, what he had sought through the long hours in which he had circled and circled the dilemma of Reno Moran and found no solution, no reprieve except this, the joining that was unlike anything Caleb had ever known. The passion in Willow was as hot as the sun and as deep as time, an intensity of feeling that reached down into his soul.

  And soon she would hate him with a passion as deep as her love.

  Willow’s name came from Caleb’s lips as a broken cry, for the passion he had called from her had claimed him as well, giving him more completely to her with each raking pulse of ecstasy, an elemental surrender of self that was not unlike her own.

  He held her, praying that Reno would never be found…and knowing he would.

  “MORE tracks?” Willow asked.

  Caleb nodded. He hadn’t shaved since they left the hidden valley, but even six days of beard stubble couldn’t hide his grim expression.

  “Shod?”

  He nodded again.

  “How many horses?”

  Though Willow’s voice was no more than a thread of sound, Caleb heard. Sometimes he thought he could hear her in the silence of his mind, a woman crying passion, crying love, crying grief, crying hate.

  “No less than twelve horses,” Caleb said roughly, preferring the unhappy truth of enemies to the thoughts that stalked him no matter how ruthlessly he shoved them aside. “No more than sixteen. Hard to tell. They weren’t picketed separately.”

  Willow frowned and looked around. The days of cautious, relentless travel had brought them among the splendor of the San Juan mountains. At present, she and Caleb were in the midst of a high, grassy basin that was perhaps two miles across and circled by snowy peaks of breathtaking size and ruggedness. Slender aspen grew in the rolling folds of the basin, providing cover for deer and for people such as Willow and Caleb, who had no desire to be spotted from nearby peaks or ridges.

  But the basin would soon be transformed as all other parks and meadows had been trans
formed by the rising of the land. Rugged peaks would close in, the meadows would shrink, and the creeks would race between dark walls of stone until a higher meadow was reached, a smaller meadow, and the cycle would be repeated again and again until they came to the headwaters of a tiny brook at the apex of yet another pass. Then the route would begin to descend, repeating the cycle in reverse, creeks becoming rivers and meadows becoming huge parks once more.

  “Is there another pass we could take?” Willow asked.

  “There’s always another pass somewhere.”

  She bit her lower lip. “But not nearby, is that it?”

  “That’s it. We’d have to backtrack a few hours to where the creek forked. Then we’d have to go three days out of our way to come in from the other side of that mountain.” Caleb jerked his thumb over his shoulder, looked at Willow, and waited.

  “Are we close to Matt?” she asked finally.

  “If he drew the map right and we read it right, yes.”

  “While you were scouting ahead, I thought I heard gunfire,” she said.

  “You’ve got good ears,” Caleb said. Nothing in his tone revealed that he had been hoping she hadn’t heard the shots.

  “Was it you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Matt?”

  “Doubt it. More likely someone from Slater’s bunch saw a deer. A bunch of armed men don’t need to worry overmuch about attracting Utes by shooting fresh meat.”

  “Matt is alone.”

  “He’s used to it.”

  “I heard five shots. How many does it take to kill one deer?”

  Caleb said nothing. He knew that more than one or two shots usually meant a fight, not a hunt.

  “Matt might be hurt,” Willow said urgently. “Caleb, we have to find him!”

  “More likely we’ll find Slater’s bunch if we head up that draw,” Caleb said, his voice flat. But even as he spoke, he was reining his horse around, heading into the canyon that rose on either side of the river. “I’ll ride ahead. You keep that shotgun handy. Unless we have Satan’s own luck, we’re going to need it.”