“In this light you’d be lucky to see the barn.” Shifting so that she could look through a crack between rocks, Willow peered downslope. “Looks like you hit one of them.”
“His stupidity laid him low, not me. Damn fool spurred his horse when it was already scared enough to jump over the moon. Horse went down and so did he.”
“Is he alive?”
Caleb shrugged and continued peering down the mountainside over his rifle barrel, trying to pick out any motion of a horse returning or a man moving up to the edge of the forest to return Caleb’s fire.
The drumroll of running horses drifted back up the slope, the hoofbeats sounding thick and slurred in the silence that had followed the sharp, distinct reports of the rifle.
“Time to go,” Caleb said.
“What about him?” Willow asked, looking at the fallen rider.
“He’s counting the wages of sin. Leave him to it.”
7
C
ALEB led the way up and across the wet, rocky slope at a pace that was just short of suicidal. Even his big horses were breathing hard before they cleared the ridgeline and began winding down the other side. The forest grew higher on the far side of the mountain, embracing Caleb and Willow almost immediately. Spruce and fir became mixed once more with aspen. The rain diminished to nothing more than a wet whisper. Aspen trunks glowed with a ghostly radiance.
There were many possible paths off the mountain. Caleb ignored the obvious ones as he pressed on around the shoulder, zigzagging through the steepest parts, always descending. As he rode, he pulled out his father’s journal and checked landmarks against those his father had noted.
When Caleb finally signalled a stop, Willow glanced numbly at the sun. It was several hours until sunset on what had become the longest day of her life. She had gone from exhaustion to a grim kind of indifference. It took her several minutes to realize that Caleb had vanished. She pulled the shotgun from its scab bard, clung to the saddlehorn, and waited for him to emerge from the shifting play of forest and clearings.
The pale, chill mist of the heights had given way to broken clouds. A restless wind cried softly through evergreens and made aspen quiver with a sound like distant rain. When the sun broke through the clouds, it burned with a pure, intense heat that soon had Willow removing her jacket, unlacing her buckskin shirt and furtively unbuttoning the soft red flannel beneath to allow the breeze to cool her.
The soft, eerie cry of Caleb’s harmonica warned Willow that he had returned. Relieved, she put the shotgun back in the scabbard and urged Dove forward. Caleb emerged from the forest ahead, riding Trey. He had long since shed his shearling jacket and leather vest, and had unfastened several buttons on his wool shirt as well.
“If there’s anyone around, he’s leaving fewer tracks than a shadow,” Caleb said. “Come on. According to Dad’s journal, there’s a good campsite just ahead.”
“Are we really going to camp so early?” Willow asked, trying and failing to keep the hope from her voice.
“The Arabians are game, but they’re not used to altitude. If we don’t rest them, you’ll be afoot by this time tomorrow. That would be a shame, because by this time tomorrow we’re going to have God’s own storm.”
Willow measured the sky with dazed hazel eyes. It had looked a lot worse and only spit a few drops.
“It will rain, southern lady. If we were still a thousand feet higher, it would snow.”
“Snow?” Willow asked, unconsciously flapping her buckskin shirt to allow more cooling air beneath.
“Snow,” he repeated.
What Caleb didn’t say was that they should push on without resting, for a storm could easily close any of the several passes between them and the San Juan region for a day or a week. But Willow looked too pale for Caleb’s comfort, almost transparent, and there were deep lavender smudges beneath her eyes.
Reno has been waiting this long for my bullet, Caleb told himself silently. He can wait awhile longer. Sure as hell it won’t make any difference to Rebecca.
Willow saw the suddenly grim line of Caleb’s mouth and said no more about the weather. Sun or snow or rain, it didn’t matter to her. The horses needed rest and so did she. She didn’t know what Caleb was made of—rawhide and granite, most likely—but even he had to be feeling the strain of constant travel and little sleep.
Half an hour later Caleb led Willow into the big meadow his father had mentioned. Deer bounded away as the riders emerged from the forest into open space. Not until they were on the far side and concealed among trees once more did Caleb dismount and begin stripping gear from his horse.
From the corner of his eye he saw Willow painfully drag her leg over the saddle. He moved swiftly to her, knowing what was going to happen. Her legs buckled, his hands shot out, and he caught her just before she hit the ground.
“Easy does it,” Caleb said, holding Willow upright with an arm around her waist and her weight braced against his hip. “Now try standing.”
Slowly, Willow’s legs accepted her weight.
“Walk for a bit,” Caleb said.
Walking slowly, supporting Willow, he helped her to work out the cramps in her legs. After a few minutes, she was able to walk on her own.
“All right?” he asked, releasing her reluctantly.
“Yes,” she said huskily. “Thank you.”
She took a deep breath and started toward Dove. The hot golden light slanting between clouds made everything glow with an energy she wished she could share.
“I’ll take care of Dove,” Caleb said. “Picket your other mares along the edge of the meadow. Leave the stud loose. He’ll be better than a hound for picking up scents, and he’s not going anywhere those mares don’t go.”
By the time Willow was finished, Caleb had the rest of the horses stripped of gear and picketed in the grass. He went from horse to horse and poured a mound of grain near each one. Soon the sounds of strong teeth crunching hard kernels became as much a part of the meadow as the silky whisper of the small brook winding through grass a hundred feet away.
“Sit down and rest while I build a fire,” Caleb said.
Willow let out a sound of relief and said, “I was afraid we were going to have another cold camp.”
He smiled thinly. “Even if those gunnies had friends, no man’s going to come over that mountain today, wondering every step of the way if I’m going to cut loose on him again.”
Despite her fatigue, Willow picketed her horses and gathered enough dry wood for a fire before she allowed herself to rest. Caleb had put the saddles over a fallen log. She propped herself against the nearest saddle, sighed, and was asleep before she took another breath.
Caleb returned from the forest, saw that Willow was asleep, and covered her with a blanket to ward off the chill of the ground. She didn’t awaken when he went into the forest once more and returned with a huge armload of springy evergreen boughs. Nor did she stir when he went into a nearby thicket of young evergreens, spread the boughs into a bed, and began tying the supple young trees overhead to form a living tent.
His big, lethally sharp knife quickly cut more boughs to weave among the still-living branches, filling in holes until he had made a surprisingly watertight structure. The opening beneath was small, fragrant, and protected. One tarpaulin was lashed over the top of the living shelter. The other went over the cut boughs. He shook out the sole cotton flannel blanket as a sheet, added two heavy wool blankets on top, and the wilderness bed was complete.
When Caleb came outside again, Willow was still fast asleep.
“Willow,” he said, sitting on his heels next to her.
She didn’t stir.
Bending down slowly, Caleb brushed his lips over her cheek, inhaled deeply, and wondered how any woman who had spent as much time on hard trails as she had could still smell of rose petals.
“I’ll be back,” Caleb said as he stroked golden strands of hair away from Willow’s eyes.
She sighed and turned towar
d his touch, curling trustingly against his hand. Slowly he gathered her into his arms and stood. The slight weight of her pierced him, reminding him of how small she was and how much had been demanded of her on the trail. He was as tired as he had been since the war. He could imagine how exhausted she must be.
Taking care not to awaken Willow, Caleb carried her into the fragrant shelter he had made.
“Sleep for a little while,” he whispered.
He brushed the back of his fingers over her soft cheek and retreated from the shelter as silently as the sunlight sliding back up the mountain slopes.
MARVELOUS scents awakened Willow—bread and onions and trout and bacon and coffee all mixed together with evergreen resins and the coolness of a mountain evening.
“I’m dreaming,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. She inhaled deeply. The enticing aromas remained.
“Do you want to eat or sleep?” Caleb asked from just beyond the shelter.
Willow’s stomach growled loudly.
He laughed and went back to the fire. “Up and at ’em, honey.”
A few moments later Willow emerged from the shelter. Overhead the sky was scarlet and gold. The surrounding peaks were a crystalline black with edges sharp enough to draw blood. The horses were grazing quietly at the fringe of the meadow. The only sound was the muted crackle of the small, carefully shielded fire.
Caleb handed Willow a battered tin plate and a tin fork with one bent tine. Startled, she looked at him.
“I know it’s not very fancy for a southern lady,” he began coolly, “but—”
“Oh, do hush up!” Willow interrupted. She took the plate and the fork and sat cross-legged near the fire. “I was just surprised to see a plate and fork. I didn’t know you had anything but a knife longer than my forearm, a frying pan, and a little pot with a broken hinge for coffee. Suddenly, all kinds of things appear, forks and plates and evergreen tents.”
“No point in getting out the cutlery for bread and bacon,” Caleb said, amused without showing it. Politely, he offered her a tin cup. “Mind the rim. It will burn your soft little mouth.”
Hazel eyes flashed with reflected firelight as Willow shot him an irritated look. “I’ve drunk from tin cups before.”
“Didn’t know you fancy southern women favored tin.”
Whatever Willow had been going to say was lost when she saw the contents of the frying pan.
“Trout?” she said, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. “Where on earth did you get them?”
“Undercut bank at the far end of the meadow.”
“I didn’t know you brought a fishing rod.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how…?”
“Little devils smelled that bacon grease and just jumped right into the pan.”
Willow opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head as she stared at the succulent, golden-brown fish. “Caleb Black, you are the most astonishing, maddening man.”
Smiling slightly, he took the tin plate from her hand, bent over the skillet, and deftly used the tip of his big hunting knife to flip two fish onto her plate.
“Greens?” he asked.
Mutely, Willow nodded. He stacked some dandelion greens next to the trout.
“How about mountain onions and Indian celery?”
“Please,” she said faintly.
The fish tasted even better than it smelled. Willow and Caleb ate quickly, before the descending night could steal warmth from the food. Despite her haste and head start, he finished before she did. He watched her delicate greed and smiled with the knowledge that he had given her an unexpected pleasure.
“Honey?” he asked when she set aside her plate.
“What?”
“Do you want honey on your bread?” he asked, grinning at her dazed look.
“I thought we ate it all.”
“I found a honey tree. The bees had already bedded down for the night, so they didn’t mind too much when I stole a bit of honeycomb.”
“Did you get stung?” Willow asked instantly, searching Caleb’s face.
“Once or twice.”
With a small sound, she came to her knees beside Caleb. “Where?”
“Here and there,” he said, shrugging.
Caleb felt Willow’s fingers searching lightly over his bearded cheeks, his forehead, his neck, checking that he was all right. The concern in her expression made his breath stick in his throat. It had been a long, long time since anyone had worried about the small wounds that daily life left on his tough hide.
“Where?” she insisted.
“Neck and hand,” he said huskily, watching her lips.
“Let me see.”
Obediently, Caleb held out his left hand. Willow caught it between her own and leaned closer to the fire. There was a slight swelling among the crisp black hairs on the back of his hand.
“Show me the other sting,” she said.
Without a word, Caleb unbuttoned his wool shirt and flipped the left side open. On the side of his neck, where the heavy line of his beard merged with the curling black hair of his chest, there was another small swelling.
“Lean down closer to the fire,” Willow said. “You’re so tall I can’t see if the stinger is still in.”
Caleb leaned closer. When he felt Willow’s warm breath move across his skin, he was very tempted to grab her and show her the part of his body that was presently suffering a lot more discomfort than his neck.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
His mouth crooked, but he shook his head slowly.
“I can’t see a stinger.” Willow looked up, rather startled to realize how close she was to Caleb. His eyes were only inches away and they reflected the golden leap of flames.
“Are you going to offer to kiss it and make it better ?” he asked, watching her with an intensity that was just short of demand.
Willow’s cheeks reddened. “You’re a little old for that, aren’t you?”
“The day I’m too old for a woman’s kiss, I hope they’re reading scripture over my grave.”
For an instant Caleb held Willow with the force of his eyes alone. She watched him in return, her eyes wide with what could have been desire or fear. Caleb waited for the space of a long breath before he released her by turning away. He had offered the sensual lure. She had refused it. As far as he was concerned, that ended the matter. Fancy lady or not, she had a right to choose her men.
“Go to bed, Willow.”
Caleb’s voice was as cool as the mountain wind. She blinked, surprised by the change from husky warmth to impersonal chill.
“Baking soda,” she said.
“What?”
“Baking soda would help to ease the stings.”
“I’d rather have your warm little tongue licking my wounds.”
Willow’s breath came in audibly.
“Go to bed, southern lady. Go now.”
A trick of firelight made Caleb’s eyes burn with a gold that was clearer and hotter than flames. Willow took one look and couldn’t decide whether to run away from Caleb or toward him. The desire to step into his arms was so unnerving that she came to her feet and went the long way around the fire to the shelter, avoiding Caleb entirely.
But even when Willow was stretched out on the fragrant bed, she couldn’t fall asleep. She kept hearing Caleb’s words, kept seeing the passion burning in his eyes, kept feeling an answering passion burning deep within her own body. Lying quietly, listening to the night wind breathing freshness over the land, Willow wondered what would have happened if she had answered the sensual challenge in Caleb’s eyes.
Just as Willow was sliding into sleep, the first soft, haunting notes of the harmonica shivered up toward the moon. She recognized the song instantly, a lament to a young man lost in war. The notes wept softly, grief transformed into music and played with piercing sweetness. Tears stung at the back of her eyes as she remembered summers past, a time when the Moran family house had rung with male laughter and her
mother’s happiness at being surrounded by her husband, her five tall sons, and a daughter with hair so gold as to make an angel weep with envy.
Other ballads followed “Danny Boy,” old songs brought to America by Caleb’s ancestors more than a century before, ballads and laments from England and Ireland, Scotland and Wales. Caleb knew them all. He breathed them into the night with a skill that held Willow motionless, enthralled. She could see him through the opening in the green canopy, his face lit from beneath by fire, shadows defining and enlarging him with each movement of his body.
As sleep slowly claimed Willow, Caleb became unearthly in her vision, powerful, an archangel whose harmonic voice was as pure as his body was compelling; but most compelling of all was the passionate promise burning within him, a dark fire reaching out to her, promising her heaven and Hell combined, two bodies burning in a single bright flame.
THE smell of rain and forest permeated everything. Water drummed down and ran off the tarpaulin Caleb had lashed over the evergreen boughs. There was enough room to sit up beneath the green canopy, but Caleb’s head brushed the lowest boughs. Occasional gusts of wind made the forest moan and shook the limber roof of the shelter. So far it had held. Rivulets of rain crawled down several pine branches and dripped into the strategically placed tin cup, plate, and coffeepot. While neither Caleb nor Willow was wet, neither was particularly dry.
“Three of a kind,” Caleb said, fanning his cards over his saddle, which was doing double duty as a table.
Willow frowned at her own cards. A black queen, a red jack, and three motley numbered cards frowned back at her.
“Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m missing something about this game.”
Caleb glanced at Willow from beneath black eyelashes as he gathered up the damp cards and shuffled with quick, deft motions.
“All you’re missing is decent cards,” he said, dealing rapidly. “I know you won’t believe me, but usually beginners have all the luck.”
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