Willow threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The pursuers were falling off the pace. One of the horses had given up entirely. They had been faster than the stallion over the first mile, had held their own for a second mile, but they had lacked the Arabian’s stamina for the long, grinding miles after that.

Relief washed over Willow in a wave that was almost dizzying. She turned back and leaned lower along the stallion’s straining neck. Her voice praised him, telling him how he was running the other horses right into the ground. Ishmael’s ears flickered back and forth, listening to his rider’s words. Though the Arabian was breathing hard, his stride was still even. He hadn’t come to the end of his strength yet, but he would soon. She could only hope that the other horses would be far behind by the time Ishmael could run no more.

As the fourth mile whipped by, a volley of shots came from behind Willow. She looked over her shoulder. All but one of the horses had given up. It had the long, racy look of a Thoroughbred. If it were indeed a racehorse, it wasn’t used to races that went on for miles. It, too, was falling off the pace, but slowly.

And it took the gully like the Irish hunter it was.

Talking over the thunder of Ishmael’s hooves, Willow asked for more of the stallion’s strength. His ears flicked and his neck stretched out a bit more. Willow flattened out with him, crying from more than the wind. She knew she was running her horse far too hard, too fast, too long. She also knew that she had no choice but to ask Ishmael for his last ounce of strength.

By the time the fifth mile went by, the stallion’s breath was sawing in and out of his mouth and lather covered much of his red body, but his stride was still hard and rhythmic. Fearful of what she would see, Willow waited as long as she could before she wiped her eyes on her forearm and looked over her shoulder.

The other horse was falling away rapidly, no longer able to run.

Willow wept with relief and pulled Ishmael back to a slower gallop, easing the strain on his heart and lungs. The long meadow swept past on either side, then bent around a tongue of stone thrusting down from the mountain. No one followed her into the sweeping curve. She pulled lightly on the reins again, slowing Ishmael even more.

And then she pulled back so hard that the stallion reared up and slid on his hocks.

In the first clear light of day, five horsemen were spread across the meadow in front of Willow, closing in on her at a run. Turning around and running from them was futile. Even if Ishmael could take another long race, it would only carry them back to the enemies he had just outrun. Escape to either side wasn’t possible, for the meadow was being pinched between the high, steep walls as the stream descended, eating through the mountain.

Willow did the only thing she could. She yanked out the shotgun and urged Ishmael into a hard gallop once more. Hair streaming out behind her like a golden flag, she raced the stallion toward the men who were dosing in on her.

CALEB saw the flattened grass where Willow’s bedroll had been, counted horses in the gray light, and felt adrenaline rush through his veins.

She couldn’t have run off. We’d have heard her.

Just as he turned away, he saw the pale flash of paper tied to a bush. He stripped off the note, read it, and felt as though he had been dropped in ice-water.

Willow had gone alone into the night rather than face a dawn that held Caleb Black.

«Find her?» Reno asked as he watched Caleb stalk toward him.

«She took Ishmael and rode out last night,» Caleb said flatly.

«We’d have heard her,» Reno said immediately. «She must be hiding in the trees.»

«Her stud’s gone and so is she. She wrapped her horse’s hooves in cloth,» Caleb said. He knelt, wrapped up his bedroll, and tied it behind the saddle he had used as a pillow.

«She left a note dividing up her mares.»

«But why?» Reno asked.

«She loves those mares like a mother loves her kids, but she hates me more. She’d ride through Hell itself to get away from me.»

«Willy’s not a fool,» Reno said. «Where does she think she’s going? She doesn’t know these mountains.»

«She took my shotgun and my journal.» As Caleb talked, he pulled two boxes of ammunition from a saddlebag and shoved them into the pockets of hisshearling coat. «Getting lost will be the least of her problems.»

«Slater,» Reno said, shocked. «She knows he’s out there somewhere. My God. What the hell did you do to Willow last night?»

«I wasagentleman,» Caleb said savagely. «She told me she wanted to sleep alone. I let her. But don’t worry, Reno. I’ll never be that stupid again.»

As sunlight brushed the highest peak, Caleb’s whistle shredded the dawn silence. Two dark horses trotted toward him. He grabbed a bridle, saddle, and saddlebags and headed for Trey as Reno turned and ran back to his own camp. He reappeared a moment later with a bridle in one hand and a saddle thrown over his shoulder.

A short time later, Caleb and Reno emerged from the thicket that protected the entrance to the little valley. Reno didn’t bother to tie the branches together behind them. He simply vaulted into the saddle and began looking for signs. Caleb was ahead of him. He made a sharp gesture, then turned and trotted downstream, making no effort to hide his tracks in the water.

Reno didn’t object. Concealing the location of his valley was the least of their problems at the moment. Finding Willow before Slater did was all that mattered. Their best hope was that Willow had been traveling by moonlight and trying to be quiet. Caleb and Reno were traveling in better light and didn’t give a damn who knew about it. They should overtake her quickly.

Suddenly Caleb reined in and held up his hand in a signal for silence. Both men stood in the stirrups, turning their heads slowly, trying to decide if they really had heard rifle shots, and if so, from which direction.

The sound of a ragged volley came from down below, followed by the boom of a double-barrelledshotgun.

Ruthlessly Caleb spurred Trey, sending the big horse hurtling down the trail at a breakneck pace. Reno was right on his heels. Both men had their rifles out and little hope of getting anywhere in time to use them. The shots had come from downhill and miles away. By the time Caleb and Reno got there, nothing would be left but tracks and spent shells.

WolfeLonetree was waiting for them just where the big meadow began. His horse blocked the tracks made by Ishmael while Willow had looked over the grass for the signs of man.

«Slater’s bunch has the girl and the red stud about five miles down the trail,» he said to Caleb and Reno. «She’s not hurt and not likely to be hurt for a bit. Slater is trying to get her to tell where you are, but if we come charging up, he’ll cut her throat just to spite you. You know his reputation.»

«Yes,» Caleb said in a dipped voice. «I know it. Can you get us close to where he’s holding Willow?»

Wolfe nodded and reined his horse into the meadow. The mare was an odd blue-gray with black mane and tail, a color found in mustangs that were throwbacks to their Spanish ancestors. Three abreast, the horses cantered across the grassland on a long diagonal that finally brought them to a fringe of forest. Once there, they reined in to a walk, resting the horses for whatever might come. Without making a fuss about it, Wolfe made certain his horse was between Reno and Caleb. Speculatively, Wolfe’s indigo eyes went from one man to the other, trying to figure out if Caleb knew who Willow’s husband really was.

After a moment, Wolfe said dryly to Reno, «You must be Matthew Moran.»

«Most people call him Reno,» Caleb said, but his eyes never stopped searching the land ahead.

Wolfe smiled slightly and relaxed. «I always have. Didn’t know you were married, Reno.»