For several miles Caleb kept the pace at a hard gallop, taking advantage of what cover the land provided and keeping a watch on the gently rolling parkland to the right. They splashed through several small and three large streams. At the fourth big stream he reined in, checked the compass, and turned west to follow the stream back to its source in the towering mountains.

Despite the new direction, for a time the land itself remained unchanged. There were still grassy, gently rolling rises, occasional pine and aspen groves, and snow-shrouded peaks in the distance. Gradually, it became clear that the stream Caleb had chosen to follow cut deeply into the mountain range. Forested mountains began to close in on both sides. In some places the width of the park shrank to less than a mile. At times the forest swept down in long ragged fringes that almost met, choking the meadow grasses.

Caleb slowed to a fast canter, a pace he held even after sweat darkened the horses’ coats and lather began to appear in thin white streaks on shoulder and flank. The Montana horses were breathing deeply but easily. The Arabians found the pace harder to maintain. Dove began breathing audibly, great gulps of air that flared her nostrils as big as fists. Yet she kept running her heart out, spurred on by nothing more than Willow’s voice talking softly in her ear, praising her.

After what seemed an eternity to Willow, Caleb allowed the horses to drop back to a walk. It wasn’t kindness that forced the change, but necessity. The mountains were closing in once more and the land was rising so steeply beneath the horses’ feet that anything more than a walk would be foolish unless the alternative was immediate death. It hadn’t come to that yet, but he was betting it would.

«Get off,» Caleb said, dismounting as he spoke. «We’ll swap horses. Take a walk in the bushes if you need to. You won’t get another chance until full dark.»

Willow was more concerned with her tired mare than with herself. No sooner were Willow’s feet on the ground than she yanked at the cinch and stripped off the saddle so that Dove could breathe more easily.

Caleb looked up, saw that Willow had taken care of Dove, and went to Deuce.

«Put your saddle on Ishmael,» he said when she headed toward Penny, lugging the heavy saddle. «We’ve got a harder ride ahead of us than behind us.»

Willow stopped and stared at Caleb in disbelief. «Don’t you think we lost them?»

«No. I chose the closest pass out of that basin I know, but they’re sure to know about it, too. I can’t guarantee we’ll get over the divide before they catch up. So all we can do is run and keep running. But your horses still aren’t used to the altitude. TheComanchero horses are.»

«We’ve been heading south, haven’t we?»

Caleb nodded.

«TheComancheros rode south,» she said.

«They sure did.»

«What if we run into them before we even turn off for the pass?»

«Then we’ll be flat out of luck.»

Willow bit her lip. «But if we beat them to the pass trail, we’ll be all right?»

«Unless they get there first.»

«But how would they know we took a particular trail unless they came all the way back here and tracked us?»

«It’s the only decent pass for sixty miles in any direction,» Caleb said. «Even a drunkenComanchero can figure out where we’re going to be. Up this creek about ten miles there’s a place where another route comes in from the south and joins with the pass trail. We’ve got to beat them to that fork.»

For an instant Willow closed hereyes. Tenmiles. Her horses couldn’t run for ten more miles. The Arabians were doing worse than Caleb’s mounts even though they weren’t carrying as much weight.

Caleb jerked the pack saddle off Deuce and put on the riding saddle, talking while he worked. «Problem is, if we run much more, we’ll start losing the mares. Ishmael is stronger, so you’ll ride him. If the mares can’t keep up, they’re on their own.» Caleb looked at Willow, pinning her with the intensity of his golden eyes. «Tell me now, Willow. If there’s no other way, which would you rather be — dead or with theComancheros?»

Willow remembered Nine Fingers’ pale blue eyes watching her. Bile rose in her throat.

«Dead,» she said without hesitation.

For a long moment Caleb looked at her. She returned the look unflinchingly.

«So be it,» Caleb said in a low voice. «You would be dead pretty quick anyway. White women don’t last more than a few months withComancheros, especially blondes. Too many men lust after yellow hair. But the choice had to be yours.»

Willow turned away, saying nothing. There was really nothing she could say.

When she came back from the forest, the horses were saddled. Dove was still breathing hard, but the sweat was drying on her body. Caleb was standing by Ishmael, waiting to help Willow mount.

«That’s not necessary anymore,» she said. «I can get on by myself.»

«I know.»

Caleb held out his hands, forming a stirrup for her. She stepped into it and was lifted into the saddle. For just a moment she felt his palm caress her calf gently, but the touch was so brief, and he turned away so quickly, she wondered if she had imagined it. His face had looked so grim.

«Caleb?»

He turned back toward her.

«No matter what happens,» Willow said in a rush, «don’t blame yourself. You warned me in Denver that my Arabians couldn’t take the pace. You were right.»

One long step brought Caleb back to Willow’s side. «Come here,» he said huskily.

When she bent down, his long fingers caught her face, held her for the space of a breath, and then he took her mouth in a swift, fierce kiss that ended before she could respond.

«Your horses have done just fine. In fact, they’ve been one hell of a surprise,» Caleb said against Willow’s lips. «And so have you. Stay right behind me, honey. Those are grand mares, but they aren’t worth dying for.»

Before Willow could say anything, Caleb released her and swung into the saddle. He lifted the reins and the big animal leaped into a canter. To Caleb’s surprise, even without Ishmael’s prodding, the mares clung like burrs to the stallion’s flanks, running free as mustangs. If they lagged, Willow spoke to them and was answered by a flick of ears and a faster pace.

Many times in the next ten miles Caleb heard Willow calling to her Arabians and saw the mares respond, working harder to keep the punishing pace. As the miles raced by, he found himself praying that the mares wouldn’t falter, for he finally understood why Willow had refused to leave them behind. There was a bond between Willow and the Arabians that couldn’t be described. They would run themselves to death for her, with never a whip or a spur laid against their silky hides.

«Almost there,» Caleb said, turning in the saddle until he could look at Willow. «See those trees? All we have to do is —»

Caleb’s words ended abruptly as rifle fire shattered the mountain silence. Deuce stumbled and went down. Caleb grabbed his rifle and kicked free of the stirrups. Three more shots came in rapid succession, then it was quiet again but for the thunder of hooves as the Arabians swept by. Caleb dove behind a fallen tree as a fourth shot rang out.

Willow hauled hard on the reins, spinning Ishmael around so tightly that great chunks of earth flew from beneath his hooves. There was no time for thought, no time for planning, nothing but the knowledge that Caleb was afoot in a place where to be afoot was to die. She bent low over Ishmael’s lathered neck and sent him back down the trail to Caleb, asking the stallion for everything he had. As the Arabian swept past the log, Willow called out to Caleb.

«Get on behind me!»

Rifle in his right hand, Caleb came up off the ground like a mountain cat. As Ishmael surged past, Caleb grabbed the saddle horn with his free hand and leaped on behind Willow. Despite the much greater burden, the stallion hit his full pace within three long strides.