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.»