Saying nothing, Willow looked back to the park and to the magnificent, uncaring peaks blocking out the sky wherever she turned.
“Is there really a way through them?” she whispered.
“Yes. It isn’t obvious from where we are, but it’s there just the same. Finding the route isn’t a problem. Getting to it before we’re overtaken by those two gunnies is.”
Wide hazel eyes searched Caleb’s face. “Don’t you think the rain washed out our tracks?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how good at tracking they are. It’s not something I want to bet your life on.”
Willow closed her eyes, trying not to show how much her composure was costing her. She would have argued with Caleb, but she knew there was no point. She had refused to leave her horses behind. Now she had to live with the result of her refusal.
At least there was an abundance of natural food around. Even if the Arabians wouldn’t follow without being led, they wouldn’t starve. She and Matt could come back for them.
Willow clung to that thought as she dismounted. “I’ll get Dove.”
Caleb watched from beneath his hatbrim while Willow moved among her mares, touching first one and then another, talking to them in a low voice, stroking their warm, sleek hides. He had expected Willow to pitch a fit over his order, but she hadn’t. She had looked at the peaks, looked at him with eyes that made him ache, and then she had climbed down from her stallion and gone about doing what must be done.
It took only a moment for Caleb to switch the saddle to Dove’s back. Despite the altitude and hard trail, the mare had enough energy left to lip playfully at Caleb’s coat sleeve. He smiled and pushed the soft muzzle out of the way, only to have it return again. While he cinched the saddle snugly in place, Dove snuffled over the thick, wooly pelt that lined his shearling coat.
“You’re like your mistress,” he said, rubbing the mare’s velvety muzzle. “Small but game.”
“I’m not small,” Willow said behind Caleb’s back.
He turned and caught her chin in the palm of his hand, tilting her face up gently toward him. “If Ishmael won’t follow, do you want to ride him instead of Dove?”
Willow knew what Caleb was asking without actually putting it into words: If the horses wouldn’t follow, which one did she want to save?
She closed her eyes. For a moment her long lashes quivered against her cheeks as she fought for control of the tears that burned behind her eyes.
“I—yes,” Willow said huskily, turning away without meeting Caleb’s eyes. “Ishmael.”
“It would be better that way,” Caleb agreed. “There are wild horses around. The mares won’t be alone for long. Some stud will drive his herd up here for summer grazing. He’ll take care of your mares. Ishmael would try, but he’s paddock raised. He doesn’t know about high-country snow and mountain lions.”
Willow nodded but said nothing.
Caleb held out his hands, making them into a stirrup. “Time to go.”
She wanted to tell him that she could mount without his help, but the words would have taken too much effort. She put her foot in his hands and swiftly found herself in the saddle.
The park was well behind them before Caleb reined in at a small creek and looked back to see how well the Arabians were following. His mouth flattened when he saw that Willow was riding sixth in line, keeping the loose mares between her and the pack horse, leaving Ishmael to bring up the rear.
Silently, Caleb admitted that the mares were following well enough, but that didn’t make him like Willow’s position far down the line any better. His concern was somewhat eased by Ishmael’s transformation. Being taken off the lead rope had agreed with the stallion. He was walking like a horse on springs, ranging from side to side when the trail permitted, scenting every breeze, and generally acting for all the world like a wild stud overseeing his herd. Any thought a mare might have had of dragging her feet vanished when Ishmael laid back his ears and offered to nip the laggard’s rump.
As the mares caught up with Caleb, they ranged alongside his horse, drinking thirstily. He fished a handful of jerky from his saddlebag and handed it over to Willow.
“When we leave here, ride right behind me,” Caleb said. “The men trailing us could catch up any time between now and sunset.”
Biting her lip, Willow looked at her mares.
“Don’t worry,” Caleb said. “That red stud of yours will keep the mares in line. That’s one hell of a horse. Any other flat country horse would be dragging his tail by now. Not that one. He’s still got lightning in his eyes and thunder in his hooves. Be interesting to breed him to one of my Montana mares and see what we get.”
Willow looked at Deuce and Trey. A small smile played around her lips. “Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, Caleb, but your Montana horses are geldings, not mares.”
Caleb shot her a look of disbelief, then laughed out loud. The flash of humor in her was as unexpected as the resilient spirit in the Arabians. He leaned forward and tugged gently at one of her golden braids.
“How do you know the difference?” Caleb asked, grinning. “Do tell, honey.”
Willow laughed and blushed at the same time. The sound of her soft laughter blended with the murmuring creek and the sighing wind, becoming part of the beauty of the wild land. Something twisted within Caleb, something very close to the emotion he had felt the first time he had seen the distant peaks of the Rockies and known that he had been born to live among them.
Slowly, Caleb released the golden rope of Willow’s braid, letting it slide between his fingers, wishing he had taken off his riding gloves so that he could feel the silky texture of her hair. When he spoke his voice was deep, almost rough.
“If you fall behind trying to keep your mares following me, I’m going to come back and get you. Then there will be blazing red hell to pay.”
Before Willow could answer, Caleb touched his big horse with spurs and headed across the meadow at a canter.
The land rose steeply again at the far side of the park, forcing the horses to climb until Willow was certain that her head would brush the clouds. The pace slowed to a walk. Willow found herself looking uneasily over her shoulder, half expecting to see riders on dark horses.
Noon came and went unnoticed. The shoulder of land they were climbing was so steep that Caleb was zigzagging upward in long sweeps. Even the Montana horses were breathing deeply and taking small steps, for the footing was made uncertain by loose rock and evergreen debris. Creases in the land held tiny racing brooks, stunted willows, and aspens so slender and supple they looked like pale green flames shimmering on white wicks.
If there was a pass anywhere ahead, Willow saw no sign of it. The peak whose side they were climbing stretched up and up and up until it became swathed in mist. The mountain’s face was seamed by avalanche chutes that were lined with dark, low-growing shrubs and aspen seedlings. Beneath the lid of clouds, other peaks were stacked nearby like cards tightly held in a gambler’s fist.
There were no low places, no inviting valleys or divides winding between thrusts of stone, no visible breaks in the rocky ramparts. More and more often the route Caleb followed took them across patches of broken rock so barren that only avalanche weed grew, sending bright pink spikes lifting toward the overcast sky. Finally, there was rock alone, nothing but broken stone and a single clump of dark spruce and pale aspen ahead, growing in a sheltered fold of land.
Beneath Willow, Dove labored for breath. For the hundredth time, Willow bit back the desire to demand that the relentless climb end until Dove could breathe easily again.
Caleb isn’t a cruel man. He can see how worn Dove is from carrying me. If he thought it was safe to stop, he would.
Willow repeated the words to herself for the next hour, which was how long it took the horses to struggle up the steep route to the small group of trees growing among the rocks. As soon as Caleb reached the grove, he dismounted, jerked off his boots, and pulled on knee-high moccasins.
<
br /> By the time Dove caught up, Caleb had the repeating rifle free of its scabbard and was inspecting the firing mechanism, making certain no moisture had gotten in during the ride. His gloves were in his coat pocket. Despite the cold air, his bare fingers were swift and sure as he worked over the rifle. When he looked up, there was no more comfort in his eyes than there was in the chill gleam of the rifle barrel.
“How do your horses feel about gunfire?” he asked.
“They got used to it during the war. Are we finally stopping?”
“We don’t have any choice. It took us half an hour to go three miles and gain five hundred feet of altitude. We’ve got a thousand feet higher to go. Without rest, your mares won’t make it at all.”
Willow didn’t disagree.
“I’m going to watch our backtrail,” Caleb continued. “Get some rest yourself. You look like a gust of wind would blow you away.”
He walked off, moving over the loose rock without hesitation or noise, for the soft soles of his moccasins allowed him to feel if the footing was secure before he committed his weight to it. He walked until he reached a low pile of boulders that would both conceal him and give him a clear field of fire over the open parts of the trail below. He settled in behind the rocks, rested the rifle barrel in a notch between two boulders, and began scanning the landscape, sighting over the rifle barrel.
Fifteen minutes passed before he heard Willow’s soft voice.
“Caleb? Where are you?”
“Over here,” he replied.
Willow scrambled down into the boulders, only to find there was very little room in the stony nest. Caleb’s wide shoulders all but filled the space.
“Why aren’t you resting?” he asked.
“I thought you might be thirsty.” Breathing quickly from the short walk, she squeezed in next to him and held out the canteen. “You didn’t take time to drink.”
He uncapped the canteen, lifted it, and tasted a tantalizing hint of peppermint. “You did.”
“What?” Willow asked as she settled gingerly onto the rocky ground.
“You drank. I can taste it.”
She gave him a startled look.
“Mint,” he said simply.
Pink climbed up her cheeks when she realized what he meant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He put the pad of his thumb against her lips, stopping her embarrassed apology. “I like the taste of you, Willow.”
For a moment the silence was so intense she was certain Caleb could hear the wild beating of her heart. The corner of his mouth lifted in what could have been a smile. His touch became heavier, pressing against the inside of her lower lip in a caress that was as unexpected as it was sensual. Then his hand lifted, leaving her feeling disoriented. He brought his thumb to his lips, tasted it, and smiled.
“Mint.”
Willow took a shaky breath and wondered at the feelings coursing through her. The white curve of Caleb’s teeth against his black beard was unreasonably handsome. The gold in his eyes was a fire burning, watching her.
Caleb turned away and pulled the spyglass from his coat pocket, changing the direction of his thoughts in the most efficient way he could. Methodically, he began quartering the backtrail. After a few moments, his breath came out in a hissing curse.
Far below, a horseman was coming at rapid clip, taking the same way over the land that Caleb and Willow had. Even using the spyglass, the distance was so great that Caleb couldn’t identify the man. Caleb waited. A second man came out of the forest. He, too, was riding a dark, rangy horse.
Caleb kept watching, but no other figures showed up in the magnified circle of the spyglass. Two men, two dark horses that showed signs of being ridden hard over a long distance. They were the same men he had seen last night. Caleb was as certain of it as he was of the smooth brass tube in his hand.
“The altitude has slowed them a little, but not enough,” Caleb said.
“Altitude?”
“We’re more than eight thousand feet high. That’s why you’re out of breath after a few steps. It gets to the horses the same way until they’re used to it. Mine are mountain horses. So are theirs. Yours aren’t.”
“What are we going to do?”
Caleb lifted his rifle and sighted down its barrel. The men were still out of range. Even so, he didn’t lower the rifle. He simply waited.
Willow saw a stillness come over Caleb, the ingathering of muscle and concentration of a cat about to spring. Far below and off to the left, two riders were crossing the distant park at a hard canter. He levered a shell into the rifle’s firing chamber and began tracking the second of the two riders.
“Are you going to shoot them without even finding out who they are?” Willow asked, her voice strained.
“I know who they are.”
“But—”
“Look up that mountain,” Caleb interrupted savagely. “Do you see any cover, any place to hide a person, much less seven horses, if someone starts shooting from below?”
“No,” Willow said unhappily.
“Think about it, southern lady. Once we leave that grove, we’re sitting ducks.”
Willow laced her fingers together and held on hard, trying not to tremble while Caleb shifted position very slightly, never taking his eyes from the men below.
“How about it?” he asked without looking away from the men. “You want to take a chance on those two being God-fearing, church-going boys who just happened to be taking a long ride over a hard, little-known pass that leads to nothing but another long ride and another little-known pass?”
“No,” she whispered.
Caleb smiled grimly. “Don’t sound so unhappy, honey. At this range I’ll be lucky to get close enough to scare them.” He sighted on the second man but made no effort to take slack off the trigger. “Wish to hell Wolfe was here. That man is pure hell with a rifle.”
A misty rain began to fall as the two riders vanished into the forest that ringed the park. If they followed the tracks, they would emerge again at the bottom of the slope in twenty minutes. Caleb lowered the rifle and turned to Willow.
“You better go back to the grove,” he said. “If one of those men has a big-bore Sharps rifle, things could get real lively in these rocks.”
“At this range?”
“I’ve seen men killed at six hundred yards with a big Sharps. I’ve heard of men killed at eight hundred yards.”
“How far down is it to the park?” Willow asked.
“Less than a thousand feet straight down. Where they’ll come out of the trees, they’re maybe six hundred yards away. That wouldn’t be a problem for Wolfe, but I’m only middling good with a long gun. Get moving, honey.”
Willow started to come to her feet, only to be yanked down by Caleb.
“Those damn fools are coming straight up! They must be afraid they’ll lose us in the rain!”
The men burst out of the trees about nine hundred yards away, spurring their horses in great lunges, climbing diagonally across the mouth of an avalanche chute. Caleb tracked the second man with the rifle but did not shoot. They would have to criss-cross that chute, and others, several times before they gained the cover of the grove where seven horses were concealed. At a normal pace it would take the men half an hour to climb to where Caleb and Willow were concealed, yet the men were less than three thousand feet away as a rifle bullet flew, and they were closing fast.
“Keep your head down,” Caleb ordered.
Crouched among the cold rocks, Willow watched the only thing she could see—Caleb Black. He was both motionless and relaxed, holding the rifle easily, waiting for the men to come closer. His eyes were those of a bird of prey, intent and clear. No tension showed in his hands or in his face. Willow wondered how many times he had waited like this during the war, utterly still, watching prey that were also men come closer with each instant.
Aiming low to compensate for the steep slope, Caleb squinted into the shifting veil of rain and squeezed the trigger. T
he rifle leaped in his hands. Before the report echoed away down the mountainside, he fired quickly, repeatedly, levering bullets into the firing chamber without drawing the rifle barrel off target.
The second man yelled and grabbed his right arm. The first man drew his rifle from its saddle scabbard, but was forced to drop the weapon and hang onto the saddle horn with both hands as his horse started plunging wildly down the slope. Bullets whined and ricocheted off stone, sending sharp rock chips flying around the horses’ feet and stinging their bellies. Bucking, sliding on their hocks, fighting their riders every step of the way, the horses tried to bolt back down the mountainside.
Swearing beneath his breath because he had missed one of the men and failed to seriously wound the other, Caleb kept levering in bullets and firing. When a bullet whined off a nearby boulder, the uninjured rider spurred his horse savagely. It panicked, lost its footing, and rolled head over heels downhill. The rider didn’t kick clear of the stirrups in time. When the horse regained its feet and plunged on down the mountainside, the rider stayed sprawled on the rocky slope. The second rider looked back but kept going, abandoning his partner to whatever fate awaited.
Caleb let out a long breath, sighted, and squeezed the trigger very gently. The rifle leaped. The fleeing rider pitched forward for an instant, then struggled upright once more. The forested flank of the mountain reached out, swallowing up horse and rider before Caleb could fire again. The skirmish had lasted less than a minute.
“Damnation.”
Silence came, almost stunning in the aftermath of the rifle fire. Willow looked up and shook her head, dazed by the number of times Caleb had shot. She had heard of repeating rifles, but had never seen one in action. The amount of bullets one man could shoot in a short time was frightening.
“You’re a one-man army with that rifle,” she said faintly.
“Some godforsaken army,” Caleb muttered, scowling bleakly down the slope as he methodically fed shells into the rifle, replacing those he had used. “Can’t hit the broad side of a barn at six hundred yards.”
Only His Page 11
