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
Caleb 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 softnicker, 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.»