Only His

3

Before they had gone three miles, Willow’s riding skirt and petticoats were soaked through. Wet cloth rubbed against her legs at every movement Ishmael made. Caleb set a hard pace through the storm, wanting to get as far away from Denver as possible before the rain stopped washing away the tracks of seven horses headed south on the treeless, well-beaten track that ran along the massive front range of the Rocky Mountains.

Alternately trotting and cantering, walking only when the land became uneven beneath the horses’ driving hooves, Caleb led Willow through the night and the icy, intermittent rains of early June. After the first several hours he no longer checked over his shoulder every few minutes. The Arabian mares were keeping pace with his mountain-bred horses, which meant that Ishmael wasn’t far behind. The stallion would follow his mares into the mouth of Hell itself, a fact which Caleb had counted on.

What surprised Caleb was that Willow managed to ride Ishmael with grace despite the handicap of flapping skirts, awkward sidesaddle, and storm. Yet no matter how well Willow rode, Caleb doubted that she was comfortable. He certainly wasn’t. Cold rain dripped constantly down his face and under his collar. Though his torso remained reasonably warm beneath layers of wool and leather, water was seeping down into his boots. His legs were cold. They would get colder before they got warm.

Caleb didn’t dwell on his own discomfort. He had known before he began the ride that it would be hard, long, and uncomfortable. In fact, he had counted on it. Outlaws were lazy men, more interested in their own pleasures than anything else. They would be slow to stir from their warm beds and the women they had rented along with the rooms.

As Caleb and Willow pressed on through the night, the storm gradually abated. Distant lightning still flared, but the thunder that followed was so far away as to be barely a grumble. Rain still fell, but the wet veils were being torn apart by gusts of wind. Soon there would be no more rain to dissolve the sharp edges of thehoofprints that stretched back in the night behind the seven horses like a twisted ribbon.

The land pitched up again in one of the many long folds that stretched out from the granite wall of the mountains. Caleb didn’t let his big gelding fall back into a walk, but instead touched him with the brass cavalry spurs that were a legacy of his brief, turbulent stint as an Army Scout in the New Mexican campaigns of the War Between the States. Even while still in the Army, Caleb had filed off the sharp rowels of the regulation spurs, much to the anger of his superior officer. It was just one of the many ways Caleb had defied regulations that made no sense to him. A horse gouged by sharp spurs was a nervous horse, and a nervous horse was useless in a battle, a fact which Caleb appreciated even if the inexperienced lieutenant who led them had not.

«Come on, Deuce. Shake a leg,» muttered Caleb as a gust of wind drove cold fingers of rain across his face.

The big horse obligingly picked up the pace to a fast trot. It was the least comfortable of a horse’s gaits for the rider, but it covered the most territory for the least effort on the part of the horse.

When Ishmael increased his speed to match that of the mares in front of him, Willow bit back a groan. In the sidesaddle there was no easy way to lift her weight or post as there was when riding astride with two stirrups. She could tighten her leg around the saddle horn and simultaneously lift up her body by standing in the single stirrup, but the posture was awkward and very hard to maintain. The alternative was to have her backside meet the saddle nearly every time one of Ishmael’s four feet hit the ground. Not only was that hard on her, it was hard on the horse as well.

Willow grabbed the saddle horn with both hands, uncurled her right leg, and lowered it until she was riding astride. The relief was only temporary. The saddle had been constructed to carry weight off center, which meant that the horn was impossibly placed for riding astride. Even worse, there was only one stirrup on which to balance a rider’s weight. Despite that, at a trot Willow’s awkward posture was easier on Ishmael than having his rider bumping up and down with every step.

Unfortunately, due to the sidesaddle’s peculiar construction, riding astride wasn’t easier on Willow. She soon had a stitch in her side from the unnatural posture forced on her by sitting astride in a sidesaddle. She took her mind off her difficulties by fishing out a small tin of candies from time to time and putting one of the potent peppermints in her mouth. The flavor made her think of summers past, warm and sultry, the sun a burning benediction in a hazy, silver-blue sky.

By the time the wind finished tearing apart the storm clouds, Willow was certain dawn couldn’t be far away. She was so certain that when she saw the position of the moon she thought they must have somehow turned around in the darkness. Bracing herself on the padded horn, she looked for the Big Dipper. It wasn’t where it should have been at dawn. In fact, it wasn’t even close.

Dawn was at least four hours away. Perhaps even five.

Dear Lord, isn’t Caleb ever going to let the horses rest? Even the stage animals were changed at regular intervals, and they had no saddles rubbing them.

As though Caleb sensed Willow’s silent question, he reined in Deuce to a walk. Willow let out a sigh of relief and resumed a normal position in the sidesaddle once more. Normal, but not comfortable. The sensitive skin of her inner thighs was chafed from the knees up. The cold, wet fabric of her riding outfit irritated her more than it protected her.

After a time Caleb pulled Deuce to a stop and dismounted. Willow didn’t wait for an invitation. She slid off Ishmael in a tangle of wet fabric. Her feet hit the ground with enough force to make her wince. She wasted no time groaning, for she had no way of knowing how long the rest stop would be.

Working as swiftly as her cold hands would allow, Willow began unsaddling Ishmael. When she finished, she upended the saddle on the wet ground, draped the saddle blanket over it, and began rubbing down Ishmael with a handful of grass. Warmth rose in waving sheets of steam off the stallion’s back where the saddle and blanket had rested, but other than that he showed no sign of the hard ride. Moonlight didn’t reveal any raw spots on his back. Nor did he flinch away from her vigorous rubdown.

«I’m glad we had all those miles from West Virginia to toughen you up,» Willow said softly to Ishmael as she worked over him. «I’d feel terrible if my awkward riding rubbed sores on you. The good Lord knows that my clumsiness is rubbing soresonme. The stage might have been uncomfortable, but at least it kept out most of the rain.»

Sighing, Willow thought of the long ride from the Mississippi. For the first time she understood what a luxury it had been to be able to go from stage to horseback and then back to the stage again, depending on the weather.

Ishmael turned his head, nickered softly, and lipped the cold cloth of Willow’s riding habit.

«Go ahead. Eat the useless thing,» she muttered. «I can’t be much worse off without it than I am with it.»

After a taste, the stallion lost interest in the fabric.

«I don’t blame you,» she said, sighing.

«Don’t tell me your fancy saddle rubbed a hole in that stud’s hide after only a few hours.»

Startled, Willow gasped. She had heard no sound to warn her that Caleb was approaching. After giving him a sidelong glance, she returned to rubbing down her horse.

«Ishmael’s hide is just fine,» she said.

«How about yours?» Caleb asked, looking at the wet, heavy folds of cloth clinging to Willow’s legs.

She said only, «Excuse me, I have to check on the mares.»

«They’re fine. The little sorrel with two white feet had a stone in her shoe, but it hadn’t been in long enough to do any damage. I wouldn’t ride her for a day or so, though, just to be sure.»

«That’s Penny, and thank you for checking,» Willow said, absently wiping off her cheek on her arm as she groomed the stallion. «I’ll ride Dove — the other sorrel — when we switch horses.»

The lock of hair that had been draped wetly across Willow’s eye soon slithered back. She rubbed her face against her arm again. Again the lock moved, only to slide back a few moments later. A gust of wind raced over the land with a husky sound. Shivering, Willow gave a final swipe to Ishmael’s muscular back before she turned away and picked up the saddle blanket. She shook it out thoroughly before she placed it dry side down on the stallion’s back once more.

Caleb watched with eyes made dark by the moon-shadow of his hat brim, impressed despite himself by the fact that Willow was caring for her horse before she cared for herself. When Willow reached for the sidesaddle, his long arm snaked out. He took the saddle and swung it into place on Ishmael’s back. Despite the fact that Caleb used only one hand, the weight of the saddle landed as delicately as a feather on the stallion.

«You’re stiff,» Caleb said curtly. «Walk around. We’ll be riding soon, and we won’t stop again until just before dawn.»

«I see,» Willow said, sighing unconsciously.

He hesitated, then added, «Coffee in my canteen. No cup, though.»

She heard the subtle challenge in Caleb’s voice and knew what he was thinking. Nosouthernlady would share a canteen with a strange man. Her mouth turned down in an unhappy smile as she wondered what Caleb would think of her if he knew she had spent more than one night during the war on her hands and knees in a ravaged kitchen garden, grubbing for anything that had been overlooked by soldiers, so hungry that she ate carrots without washing them, simply rubbing the gritty loam off on her skirt.

«Coffee sounds like heaven,» Willow said simply.

«The canteen is on my saddle.» Caleb secured the sidesaddle’s cinch with a few expert motions. «Watch out for Deuce’s hindquarters. He’s not mean, but he’s not used to flapping skirts.»

Willow carefully gathered the soggy folds of her clothing. The first few steps she took were painful. Gradually her cold-stiffened muscles warmed, making her progress easier. The chafed areas of her legs burned, but there was no help for it until the cloth dried. Even then, the abraded skin would hurt every time her leg rubbed against saddle.

«Hello, Deuce,» Willow said in a low, soothing voice as she approached Caleb’s big gelding — from the side, not the back. «I’m not an Indian or a panther sneaking up on you. I’m just a girl who would cheerfully peel you with a dull knife for a chance to get at the coffee in your rider’s canteen.»

Deuce watched her with half-pricked ears, obviously unimpressed by any threat she might represent. Willow kept talking as she stuffed loose cloth between her legs and clamped them together so that her hands would be free to work over the leather thongs that tied the canteen’s strap to the saddle. Her gloves were more hindrance than help. She struggled to remove them. The leather was as wet as she was and almost as stubborn. Finally, she set her teeth in the fingertips and tugged one by one. Reluctantly, the cold leather separated itself from her hands. She pushed her gloves into a wet pocket of her riding skirt.

The thongs proved to be even more stubborn than Willow’s gloves had been. The cold, damp wind made her fingers clumsy. Finally she gave up trying to free the canteen strap from the saddle. She simply unscrewed the lid, held the canteen at the length of its strap, and drank. After the peppermint she had just finished, the coffee tasted as raw and black as the night. There was one difference, though, and it was the only one that mattered. The coffee was almost warm.

«Ahhhhh,» Willow sighed as she felt the liquid warmth slide down her throat.

«Most women don’t like it so strong.»

Willow jumped, almost dropping the canteen. «Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?»

«Better that than the other way around.»

Ignoring Caleb, she took one more swallow, then another before she looked back at the tall man who loomed over her like the night itself.

«Do you want some?» Willow asked.

She held out the canteen as far as she could while it was still tethered to the saddle. He took the canteen, drank, then gave her a penetrating look before he raised the canteen to his lips once more and drank deeply.

«Take some more,» Caleb said when he handed the canteen over to Willow again. «It’s not hot, but it’s better than the wind.»

The rough velvet darkness of his voice brushed over Willow’s nerves like a caress. She took the canteen with both hands and raised it carefully to her mouth. Putting her lips where his had been was surprisingly intimate. She told herself that it was impossible to taste him on the metal rim, but an odd shiver of pleasure went through her anyway.

Almost reluctantly Willow capped the canteen again. As she went to wrap the strap around the saddle horn once more, the wind gusted, freeing a bit of skirt from between her legs. Cloth slapped lightly against Deuce’s left front leg. The gelding snorted and shied away, yanking the canteen from her grasp and sending her stumbling. More cloth flapped, making Deuce shy again so violently that his head swung hard against Willow’s chest. She went to her knees and stayed there, fighting for breath.

Caleb’s big hand closed around the gelding’s bridle before the animal could shy again.

«Easy son,» he said calmly. «Just a bit of feminine frippery. Nothing to get your water hot over.» Caleb looked at Willow, who was struggling to her feet, encumbered by her heavy, wet riding habit. «Useless as teats on a boar hog,» he muttered. «I told you Deuce wasn’t used to skirts, didn’t I?»

Willow nodded but said nothing. She was too busy trying to get back the breath that the horse had knocked out.

«Are you all right?» Caleb asked abruptly.

Eyes closed, she nodded again, still unable to speak.

Suddenly the earth was jerked from beneath her feet. With a startled sound she opened her eyes and clung to the first thing she could reach — Caleb.

«Take it easy,» he said, holding Willow high against his chest with one arm and wrapping her skirts around her legs with the other. «I’m just getting you out of Deuce’s way before you scare him into running off and leaving me afoot.»

Willow opened her mouth but no words came out. Being held close and upright against Caleb was quite different from being carried like a child in his arms. Even as she reflexively threw her arms around his shoulders to keep her balance, she realized that she was pressed against Caleb’s strong body from her neck to her knees. The sensation was dizzying, making it almost impossible for her to draw a complete breath.

«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.

I’ve survivedworse, Willowreminded herselfsilently. Besides, I didn’t hire Caleb for comfort, I hired him to take me to Matt. I’ve got nothing to complain about on that score. We must have come forty miles last night. Sooner started, sooner finished, as Papa used to say.

Willow mixed dough in the cast iron frying pan until the dough was the right consistency to clean the pan’s black surface. Then she stood stiffly and carried meat, dough, and pan to the tiny fire.

«May I use your knife?» she asked.

Caleb glanced up sharply. Willow’s voice was hoarse, either from lack of use or from the damp chill of the long night.

«The side meat,» she explained, not understanding the intensity of his look.

«Sit down,» Caleb said roughly, lifting the pan from her hands. «I’ll take care of it.»

Gratefully, Willow sank to the ground and stretched out, caring little that the earth beneath her was wet and cold. The ground was blessedly motionless and supported her without any effort on her part.

She was asleep before she took two breaths.

When Caleb looked up from slicing meat, he thought Willow had fainted. He came to his feet in a rush, then knelt at her side. The skin of her throat felt cool beneath his fingers, but her pulse was steady and deep and her breathing was regular. He shook his head, divided between irritation and reluctant approval of her stubbornness.

«Fancy woman or not, you’re no quitter,» he muttered.

Glancing up from time to time, Caleb resumed slicing meat into the frying pan. As soon as the coffee water boiled, he added grounds and put it back over the fire to cook. When the coffee was finished, he cooked the meat, stacked it on a piece of bark, and added the biscuit dough to the pan.

While the biscuits cooked, he began systematically cutting thick, dark willow canes as big around as his thumb from the living thicket. He peeled the bark, poured the coffee into his canteen, filled the coffeepot again, and put it over the first to heat. When the water boiled he added a handful of shredded bark and set the pot aside.

«Willow, wake up.»

Caleb’s voice was low yet clear. She didn’t respond. He leaned over and shook her shoulder gently. There was no response. The cloth beneath his hand was cold and wet. He glanced up at the sky, wondering if there was time to dry her skirt over the fire. A second was all it took for him to conclude that he couldn’t take the risk. The sun had already risen, which meant people would be up and stirring along the trail. There were no settlements along this part of the mountain range. Any sign of smoke would be like a beacon pointing toward their camping area. Willow would have to sleep wet.

Caleb put out the fire before he turned toward Willow once more.

«Wake up, honey,» Caleb said, shaking her a little less gently.

Slowly, Willow’s eyes opened, but she wasn’t truly awake. Wide and dazed, her eyes were flecked with gold and green, silver and blue. Her eyelashes were a tawny darkness that emphasized the hazel beauty of her eyes. Against the gleaming pastel dawn, she could see only the silhouette of a flat-crowned hat pushed back over a thatch of very dark hair.

«Matt?» she whispered, reaching up to touch him. «Is it really you? It’s been so long and I’ve been so lonely. …»

Caleb’s expression hardened when he heard Willow call out to her absent lover.

«Wake up, southern lady,» he said coldly. «I cooked breakfast for you, but I’m damned if I’ll feed it to you.» Impatiently, he pulled Willow upright and shoved the canteen of coffee into her hand. «Drink.»

Automatically Willow obeyed the hard edge of command in Caleb’s voice. The coffee was just short of scalding. She swallowed, blinked back tears, and drank again, eager for the strong flavor and life-giving warmth. As she swallowed, she felt the streamer of heat uncurling all the way to her stomach. Shivering with pleasure, she drank more.

«Now eat,» Caleb said, taking the canteen from her.

Willow took the bacon and biscuit that were shoved into her hands and looked at them without interest. She was too tired to go through the motions of chewing. Sighing, she started to lie down again.

«No, you don’t,» Caleb said, pulling her upright. «Eat or you’ll be so weak tonight I’ll have to tie you on your horse. And that’s just what I’ll do if I have to, southern lady.»

A single glance told Willow that he meant every word. She sighed and looked longingly at the canteen he had placed beyond her reach.

«More coffee?» Willow asked hopefully. Her voice still sounded hoarse.

«After you eat.»

«I’m not hungry.»

«You will be after your stomach gets the message that food is available.»

Willow knew Caleb was right, but that didn’t make the food look any better to her. The first few mouthfuls were the hardest. After that, her appetite improved until she was matching Caleb bite for bite and licking her fingers with surreptitious, delicate greed. He smiled slightly and piled more bacon and biscuits in her hands. She murmured her thanks even as her teeth sank into the crisp bacon. The bottom of the biscuits was like fry bread, tender and crisp from the residue of bacon fat in the pan. She had tasted nothing more delicious, not even the tender carrots she had gleaned in a frenzy of hunger from a ravaged garden.

Finally Willow could eat no more. Before she could ask, the canteen of coffee appeared beneath her nose.

«Thank you,» Willow said softly.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the hot fragrance of coffee from the open canteen. The sensual pleasure she took in the scent was as clear as the dawn stealing over the land. After she drank, she sighed and smiled.

Caleb’s body clenched against a painful shaft of raw desire. The temptation to bend over and lick the sheen of coffee from Willow’s lips was so great that he had to look away.

«I’m sorry,» she said, nudging his hand with the canteen. «I didn’t mean to be greedy.»

Caleb took the canteen, glanced down at the metal neck, and thought of the soft lips that had so recently touched it. With a searing, silent curse he capped the canteen without drinking and stood up.

«I’m going to take a look around.»

Willow barely heard him. She was stretched out on the ground once more, asleep between one breath and the next.

Caleb climbed silently up the side of the gully, stopping just short of the top. Setting aside his hat, he eased up until he could see over the land. Nothing moved but the brilliant flood of dawn. Withdrawing as quietly as he had come, Caleb went back to the bottom of the crease. It was the work of only a few minutes to cut springy, leafy branches and cover them with one of the tarpaulins that had kept the supplies dry.

Willow didn’t awaken when Caleb lifted her and set her on the wilderness bed. Nor did she awaken when he lay down beside her and covered both of them with a blanket and another tarpaulin. She simply sighed and curled closer to the warmth that radiated from his big body.

Angrily, Caleb remembered how Willow had reached for him and huskily called another man’s name. But as he looked at her wan face and theraintarnished gold of her hair peeking out from beneath his wool muffler, Caleb remembered what she had said about the war…living on a strip of land raided by both sides, no man to help her, and an ailing mother to care for. Under the circumstances, Caleb wondered if he could condemn Willow because she had become a fancy lady in order to survive. Other women rented out their company for less reason than survival.

And some foolish girls, like his sister, gave their virtue and their lives for a handful of smoothly spoken lies about love.

«You were luckier than Rebecca,» Caleb said in a low voice as he watched Willow. «You survived. But when you sold yourself to my sister’s seducer, you sold yourself to a dead man.»

Satisfaction curled through Caleb at the thought that never again would Willow wake up in Matthew Moran’s bed and softly call his name.