Only His

by Elizabeth Lowell

  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 the raintarnished 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.

  4

  C ALEB awoke at the first rumble of thunder. Clouds like great clipper ships were raking across the sky above the ravine. Slate-bottomed, white-topped, glittering with occasional lightning, the squall line raced before the wind.

  “Just as well I didn’t try to dry that skirt,” Caleb muttered, yawning. “Sure as God made little green apples, we’re going to get wet all over again.”

  Willow didn’t answer, except to make a muffled sound of protest when Caleb’s warmth was replaced by a cold gust of wind as he rolled out of bed.

  “Up and at ’em, fancy lady,” he said, pushing his warm stocking feet into cold, stiff boots. “This storm will give us a few safe hours of daylight on the trail.”

  Still asleep, Willow pulled the blanket more tightly around herself, trying to preserve the remaining warmth. One of Caleb’s big hands wrapped around the thick wool. With a single motion of his arm, he pulled the blanket and tarpaulin off her.

  “Get up, Willow.”

  As he spoke, Caleb moved away from the bed he had shared with her. He didn’t trust his response if she turned toward him sleepily and called another man’s name again.

  What do you care if Reno’s fancy woman can’t keep her bedmates straight?

  Caleb had no answer for the question he asked himself. He only knew that, wisely or foolishly, he did care. He wanted Willow. All that kept him from trying a bit of seduction was the chance—admittedly small, as far as he was concerned—that she actually was married to Matthew Moran. But that slight chance was enough to hold Caleb in check. Stealing some passion from a man’s fancy woman was one thing. Adultery was quite another. No matter how willing the woman might be, no matter how many men she might have had before him, Caleb would no more knowingly commit adultery than he would go back on his given word.

  The problem was to determine if the girl in question was indeed married. The solution to that problem occupied part of Caleb’s mind as he climbed up the side of the ravine and looked out over the land.

  No one was near. Three miles away, a horseman was headed north on the informal road that ran along the front of the Rockies. A wagon was also headed north, its mules moving smartly in a futile effort to outrun the weather. Nobody was visible heading south.

  Caleb waited ten more minutes. Nothing else appeared along the track but cloud shadows skimming over the land. Between the clouds, a hawk floated in a piece of sky so blue it made Caleb’s eyes water to look at it. Sunlight the color of molten gold poured over the land. The light was hot and clean, slicing through the damp chill near the ground like an incandescent sword.

  From the ravine below came the soft nickering of a stallion calling to his mares. Caleb smiled and stretched, savoring the peace of the moment and the clean scent of sunlight and earth. It was so still he could hear slight ripping sounds as the horses cropped grass. Then a gust of wind came rushing over the land, bending grass and willows alike, whispering and murmuring like an invisible river as it caressed everything between cloud and earth.

  The soft-talking wind awakened Willow. For an instant she thought she was back in West Virginia, a child asleep in the meadow while her family’s horses cropped grass all around her. Then she remembered that the meadow was gone, the farms were gone, and she was no longer a child. She awoke in a rush, sitting straight up
in the dappled shade of the thicket. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She certainly didn’t remember lying down on a mattress of limber branches covered by a tarpaulin.

  “Caleb?” she called softly.

  No one answered.

  Anxiously, Willow stood up and pushed out of the tiny clearing in the thicket, ignoring the protests of her stiff body and chapped legs. A quick look assured her that the horses were still picketed downstream, their coats gleaming in the sun as they stretched their necks to get to the last bit of grass within reach of their picket ropes. Willow listened intently, but heard no movements that might have come from a man gathering twigs or seeking the privacy of a dense thicket.

  But then, Caleb had never made much noise no matter what the circumstances.

  Making as little noise as possible herself, Willow sought the center of a downstream thicket, struggled out of and then back into her clammy skirt, and went to check on her horses. The Arabians were moving well and no stones were caught between steel shoes and hooves. Ishmael’s back wasn’t tender. Nor was he tired. He had enough energy to pretend to be startled by her appearance. He snorted and shied like a colt, then stretched out his neck and fluttered his nostrils in a soft nicker, asking her to share in the play.

  “You old fraud,” Willow said softly, rubbing the stallion’s nose. “You knew who it was all the time.”

  Ishmael nudged her chest playfully. Willow winced. She was still a bit sore from Deuce’s hard head.

  Willow glanced at Caleb’s horses, but stayed away from them. She didn’t want to feel the rough edge of his tongue if she spooked the geldings with her flapping yards of skirt. After a final stroke to Ishmael’s velvety muzzle, Willow began gathering twigs for the fire she hoped Caleb would allow them to have.

  When Caleb came back from reconnoitering the area around the ravine, he found Willow awake and sitting by a pile of reasonably dry twigs.

  “Is it safe to have a fire?” she asked with unconcealed eagerness.

  “A small one.”

  “On this side of the Mississippi, what other kind is possible? There aren’t any trees.”

  “Wait until we get in the mountains. You’ll see trees until you’re sick of them.”

  He watched Willow stack twigs for the fire. When she was finished, he removed half and set them aside. Only then did he strike a match and coax a wavering flame from the damp fuel. As soon as the fire caught, Willow got to her feet stiffly. She managed not to groan as she bent over and reached for the coffeepot.

  “Drink what’s inside before you use the pot,” Caleb said.

  She lifted the lid and looked. The liquid was dark, but not nearly as dark as Caleb’s usual brew.

  “What is it?”

  “Willow-bark tea. Good for—”

  “Aches and pains and fevers,” she interrupted, grimacing. “Tastes like sin itself, too.”

  The corner of Caleb’s mouth lifted slightly. “Drink up, honey. You’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t want to be greedy,” Willow said, looking at him with an unspoken plea. “How much of the tea is for you?”

  “None of it. I’m not a soft southern lady.”

  “Neither am I.”

  The irritation in Willow’s voice increased Caleb’s smile. “That’s right. You’re a fancy northern lady.”

  “I’m not a fancy lady, either,” she retorted, “South or North.”

  Caleb’s cool golden glance raked over Willow, taking in her finger-combed hair and her rumpled, clammy clothes.

  “I reckon you aren’t,” he drawled. “Bet your fancy man would be surprised to see you now.”

  “Matt isn’t a fancy man any more than you are.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot. He’s your…husband.”

  The flick of contempt with which Caleb emphasized the last word made Willow blush. Futilely, she wished she could keep from blushing every time she was forced to confront her lie about being married. Yet Matt’s letter had been quite clear about the necessity: Don’t let Willy sweet talk her way into coming with you, boys. I know she always had a yen to wander, but out here an unmarried woman is considered fair game for every man’s attentions. We’ve got better things to do than stand guard over our pretty little sister.

  With a rather grim pleasure Caleb noted the telltale red stain on Willow’s cheeks. Wondering if now was the time to press her, he hooked his long index finger into the watch pocket of his pants. It wasn’t a watch he touched. It was the locket Rebecca had given him when he had finally badgered her into telling him the truth about the identity of the man who had planted a child within her and then abandoned her to bear his bastard.

  And to die of childbed fever hours before the baby’s own death.

  All that remained of Rebecca’s life was a name—Matthew “Reno” Moran—and the locket with pictures of Reno’s dead parents inside. If Willow was Reno’s wife, surely she would recognize his parents. But if she had lied, she wouldn’t recognize the photos.

  “Been married long?” Caleb asked, his voice neutral.

  Frantically, Willow tried to decide if it would be better to have been married a long time or a short one.

  “Er…” She bit her lip. “No.”

  “Then I guess you don’t know your husband’s parents.”

  Willow brightened, more sure of her ground. “Of course I know them. I’ve known them for years.”

  “Neighbors, huh?”

  She hesitated, then decided to keep the lies as close as possible to the truth. “Not really. Matt’s folks, ah, took me in when I was young. They’re the only parents I remember.”

  Caleb smiled sourly. Willow wasn’t much of an actress, which helped him. He supposed most men just looked at her full breasts and narrow waist and didn’t notice the tide of guilt that climbed her cheeks with each lie. Men could be real fools when presented with a sweet smile and a woman’s curving body.

  “It’s a good thing, knowing your husband’s parents,” Caleb said. “Makes for an easier marriage all around.”

  Willow made a neutral sound and raised the soot-covered coffeepot to her lips, preferring the bitter flavor of the medicinal tea to the taste of any more lies.

  Thunder cracked, chasing after lightning made invisible by the brightness of day. Shuddering, Willow lowered the coffeepot.

  “There’s more,” Caleb said without looking up from the fire.

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s always more bitter medicine than a fancy lady is willing to swallow.”

  If it hadn’t been for her recent lies, Willow would have objected to Caleb’s comment. As it was, she just raised the pot to her mouth and drank until nothing was left. He watched her from the corner of his eye while he added a few more twigs to the fire. When they caught, he added more fuel until the flames were steady and hot, yet the fire was still no bigger than his hat.

  They cooked and ate breakfast in silence. Gradually, Willow realized that the unpleasant tea had worked. She was still stiff, but she no longer had to bite back sounds of pain when she bent her right leg. All too soon breakfast was over, the camp was packed up, and Caleb was saddling his horse. This time Deuce acted as pack animal and Trey bore Caleb’s greater weight.

  “Will that stud of yours resent being tied behind a gelding?” Caleb asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He grunted. “We’ll find out quick enough. Which one of the mares is strongest?”

  “Either of the sorrels. They’re Ishmael’s daughters. Saddle Dove, the one with only one white sock.”

  Caleb saddled Dove and boosted Willow aboard. Though she said nothing, her face visibly tightened as she settled into the sidesaddle once more. Caleb knew that the tea had helped, but no medicine was going to take the discomfort from Willow today, unless maybe it was a shot of Taos lightning.

  “Want some whiskey?” Caleb asked.

  Willow blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Whiskey. It’s a good pain killer.”

>   “I’ll keep it in mind,” Willow said dryly, amused despite the aching of her body and the burning of her inner thighs each time her damp clothes rubbed against flesh that was already abraded. “For now, I think I’d better stick to willow-bark tea.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Thunder crackled again as the clouds overhead joined to shut out the sun. Rain began to fall as Caleb swung onto Trey and took the lead. Deuce trotted off obediently, leading four Arabians. Ishmael snorted and jigged unhappily for the first few miles, then settled down to the indignity of being led by a gelding through a driving rain.

  Except for the watery light of late afternoon, the ride was a repeat of the previous night’s endurance contest. Trot, canter, walk, trot, and then trot some more for good measure. Willow barely noticed when the gray of day merged with the black of night. On Caleb’s command she ate cold bacon and biscuits, drank cold coffee, dismounted and walked to spare the mare and restore her own circulation, then mounted and resumed the torment once more.

  As the hours wore on, fatigue battled with pain for control of Willow’s body. She thought she could become no more uncomfortable when a cold wind sprang up and she began to shiver. The ice-tipped wind howled down from the slopes of mountains she had glimpsed only once, from Denver, their peaks swathed in storms and their flanks rising like fortresses flung across the western sky. But even those ramparts were invisible now, concealed within the frigid night and storm.

  Shivering, Willow hunched down over the saddle horn and hung on, bending her head beneath the icy wind. She was so dazed by cold and fatigue that she didn’t realize the horses had stopped until she felt herself being lifted from the mare’s back. Her wet, heavy skirts slapped across Caleb’s face.

  “Caleb?” she asked hoarsely. “Is it dawn?”

  “Not by a long shot, but I’ve had enough of this goddamned foolishness,” he said roughly.

  Willow didn’t answer, for his words didn’t make sense to her.

  The ravine Caleb had chosen for camp was deep enough to baffle the wind. Part of the bank had an overhang that offered shelter from the fitful storm. A huge cottonwood log reflected back the heat of the fire that leaped and burned beneath the overhang, making the earth steam. Transfixed, Willow stared at the unexpected warmth and beauty of the flames.