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 thenecessity: Don’tlet 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.

«Lift up your arms,» Caleb said curtly.

She did, and felt the wet weight of his poncho being peeled from her body. That puzzled her, for at first she didn’t remember putting on the poncho. She forgot her puzzlement when she realized that Caleb was unbuttoning the bodice of her wet riding habit. Automatically she pushed at his hands. It was futile. She might as well have pushed at the invisible mountains.

«What d-do you think you’re d-doing?» she demanded through chattering teeth.

«Keeping you from a dose of lung fever,» he said grimly, yanking off the riding habit without regard for laces or buttons. «My poncho can’t keep you warm in this kind of storm, not when you start out with wet clothes that are too thick and too heavy to get dry from the heat of your body alone. You’re such a little thing.»

Willow looked at thefirelit face of the man who was peeling off her clothes as impersonally as he would have peeled bark from a log. His face was wet, dark with beard stubble, and set in grim lines. His wool shirt and leather vest were black with rain.

«You m-must be f-freezing, too,» she said.

Caleb’s only answer was a grunt of disgust. He drew his belt knife and did what he had been wanting to do since he had first seen Willow dressed in the unwieldy clothes. Steel sliced through stubborn cloth as he stripped folds of wet wool and useless petticoats away from her long legs. When the tip of the knife flicked against metal, Caleb paused long enough to examine the contents of the special leather pocket sewn into Willow’s skirt.

The twin-barrelledderringer looked tiny in his hand. He hefted the gun, saw that it was fully loaded, and set it within Willow’s reach on the cottonwood log. Then he resumed wielding the long-bladed knife with a casual skill that would have been breathtaking under other circumstances, but neither he nor she had breath to spare at the moment — Willow was too busy shivering and Caleb was too busy trying not to notice the transparency that wetness brought to her fine cottonpantelets.

But Caleb would have to have been blind and more saint than man not to notice the elegant lines of Willow’s legs and the lush golden nest at the apex of her thighs. The fine lawn of her camisole was even more transparent, revealing the fullness of her breasts and the rosy peaks tightly drawn against the cold. The temptation to take off his own wet clothes and warm Willow from the inside out was so great that it shook Caleb. He set his jaw and wrapped Willow tightly in the softest of his heavy wool blankets.

«Stay here while I take care of the horses,» he ordered.

Willow wouldn’t have argued even if she could have. The heat from the fire burned against her face almost painfully, but it was the warming of cold skin that hurt, not the flame itself. Even in winter when she and her mother had hidden in the root cellar from soldiers, Willow had never been this chilled. Huddled so close to the fire that her hair and the wool muffler steamed, she was grateful for every golden whip of flame.

By the time Caleb returned from picketing the horses, Willow had quit shivering. She had managed to suspend his heavy poncho from a dead branch near the fire. Steam rose from the wool in silver wisps. She had unwrapped the wet muffler from her head and draped the wool over the cottonwood log as well. The remains of her riding habit were also drying.

Caleb gave Willow a sharp glance but said nothing as he dropped an armload of wood near the fire.

«They’re wet, so feed the branches in one at a time,» he said.

He began rummaging in the canvas sack that held frying pan and food, trying not to notice the silken gleam of Willow’s naked arm as she reached toward the pile of broken branches. When the blanket slipped off her arm, he also tried not to notice the graceful curve of her neck and shoulder. When the blanket slipped even more, he tried not to look at the soft rise of her breasts and the transparent veil of lace that enhanced rather than concealed Willow’s alluring femininity.