Elizabeth Lowell: Only His

Instinctively, Willow’s hands went to Caleb’s upper arms as she braced herself against his strength.

«You — you surprised me, that’s all,» she whispered. «When you moved.»

Caleb stared down into Willow’s face. It was no more than a pale blur in the darkness. He was grateful. If he couldn’t see her eyes, she couldn’t see the hunger in his. She smelled of lavender and sunshine. Her slender waist felt good in his hands. Too good. It was all he could do not to knead her tender flesh while he drew her hips against his thighs, easing and teasing the hunger that lay rigidly against the dark cloth of his pants.

Abruptly Caleb released Willow, grabbed her carpetbag, and turned his back on her. There was a pause before he felt a small hand settle lightly on his shoulder once more. The heat of her touch went all the way to his heels. Silently, savagely, he cursed his unbridled response to Reno’s fancy lady. Caleb knew he would be suffering the torments of the damned before he pried the secret of Reno’s hideout from Willow.

But pry it out he would. There was no other way to bring down justice on the man who had abandoned Rebecca to a lonely death days after she had given birth to her lover’s child, a child that died within hours of its mother’s death.

In the months since Rebecca had died, Caleb had redoubled his efforts to run Reno to ground. Nothing had helped. When Caleb came to isolated settlements or campfires and asked for information, he was always too late or too early or Reno had never been there at all. Bribery hadn’t worked. The Mexicans and Indians, settlers and prospectors simply stopped talking when Caleb brought up Reno’s name. Reno might have been a heel when it came to seducing virgins, but he had always given a hand or a dollar along the trail whenever either was needed. Anyone who hunted Reno was on his own.

Caleb had hunted Reno relentlessly. The search was made more difficult by the fact that Reno didn’t keep to well-travelledways or make predictable rounds of the lonely settlements. Reno was after Spanish treasure — gold. He had a lone wolf’s taste for high country and forgotten Indian trails leading through a maze of stone canyons and icy granite peaks. Caleb thought gold hunters were fools, but shared Reno’s taste for the untouched high country. In fact, if it weren’t for the cold-hearted seduction and abandonment of his sister Rebecca, Caleb suspected he would have liked Reno. But Rebecca was dead and Reno would die for it.

Life for life.

«Stairs,» Caleb said, his voice low and cold.

Willow felt Caleb’s shoulder dip, then dip again, telling her that he was descending stairs. Carefully, she tested the way ahead with the toe of her riding boot, trying to find where the floor ended and the stairs began. The hard sole of her boot defeated her. Caleb went down another stair, pulling her fingers free of his shoulder.

«Wait,» she whispered, «I can’t tell where the stairs begin.»

She sensed him turning toward her with his unnerving swiftness.

«Hold this,» he said.

The carpetbag was thrust into Willow’s hands. An instant later she was snatched from her feet.

«What are you doing?» she gasped.

«Quiet.»

The savage whisper silenced Willow. The world shifted and spun around her. She hadn’t been picked up and carried since she was a child. The feeling of helplessness was startling, particularly in the dark. She turned her face against Caleb’s muscular chest and hung onto the bag until her fingers ached, wishing she could hang onto him instead. After a few steps, Willow’s fear of falling diminished. Caleb went down the badly made stairs with the absolute certainty of a cat. Sighing deeply, she let out herpentup breath and loosened her grip on the carpetbag.

The warmth of Willow’s sigh was like a brand on Caleb’s chest. He clenched his teeth against the temptation to stop and find her mouth with his own, testing the depths of her sweet feminine heat. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he set Willow on her feet abruptly, took the carpetbag, and turned away from her without a word.

Willow let out another long, shaky breath and tried not to remember how it had felt to have Caleb’s powerful arms around her back and beneath her knees, holding her. She also tried not to remember how good he had smelled, a masculine compound of wool and leather and the storm wind sweeping down from the mountains. With hands that wanted to tremble, she smoothed her riding habit and wondered what had happened to her customary calm. She had faced down armed soldiers with less trembling than she was experiencing now.

The side door of the hotel opened and closed behind Willow with only a few creaks. The alley smelled of garbage and slops. The wind smelled ofwoodsmoke and cold rain. She gathered her long wool skirt as best she could and stepped forward. A barrage of rain raked across her face. She wished she had something more useful to keep off the cold water than the tiny green hat that went with her riding habit.

Caleb used the back door into the livery stable, ushering Willow inside with open impatience. He had no great hope that their departure would go unnoticed for long, but they would need all the head start they could get if they eventually were going to lose any followers. No matter how staunchly Willow had defended her Arabians’ endurance, Caleb doubted that the fine-boned, elegant animals he had glimpsed behind stall doors would be able to keep up with the big Montana horses he owned.

Jed Slater and outlaws like him also owned tough, long-boned horses that were grain-fed and ready to run the legs off any ordinary horses ridden by town posses or angry cowhands. Since Caleb had little hope of outrunning the outlaws, or hiding the tracks of his own two horses and Willow’s five all the way to the SanJuans, somehow he would have to outsmart — or outshoot — the men who would inevitably follow.

And there would be many such men, renegades drawn like flies to honey by the prize of expensive horseflesh and a woman with hair the color of the sun.

The fragrance of lavender drifted over Caleb as Willow moved past him into the stable. He tried not to notice. He failed. With a muttered curse he reached for the matches on the ledge by the door. When the lantern was lit, he crumbled the burned match between his fingers before letting it fall to the dirt floor.

Horses nickered and stretched their heads over stall doors, scenting the familiar presence of humans. Withmurmurous greetings, Willow went to her Arabians, touching them reassuringly. Caleb watched the horses with their delicate heads, sharply pricked ears, and unusually large, widely spaced eyes. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the animals were beautiful. Well-trained, too. As Willow began leading them from the stalls, they followed her without hesitation or shying at the flickering shadows cast by the lantern.

Even the stallion was gentle, though spirit visibly ran through him like lightning through a storm. His sorrel coat flashed red-gold fire at every motion of his body. A clean white blaze went from forehead to muzzle. A single white stocking marked his right front leg. When he moved, it was as though on springs, energy rippling with restrained power, coiled strength waiting for release. Centuries of intense, careful breeding ran through the stallion, apparent in each well-defined muscle and clean line of bone.

«That’s one hell of a stud horse,» Caleb said finally. «It will be worth your life to ride him out of Denver.»

«Ishmael is as gentle as he is strong.»

Caleb grunted. «It wasn’t his manners I was talking about. That stud is enough to tempt a saint into mortal sin, much less the kind of men we’ll see on the way to the SanJuans. Every outlaw and renegade Indian in the territory will take one look at your stallion and start seeing himself in the saddle.»