Dreamcatcher an Excerpt from Barbara Baldwin

Dreamcatcher By Barbara Baldwin

EXCERPT

 

Prologue

 San Francisco, 1878

 

The unease gnawing at George Schaeffer's gut lessened as his hired men reported. They had followed the stage deep into Montana Territory before they ambushed it.

He listened with cold detachment as they told him how many had died. The numbers were of no consequence. It only mattered that she was dead, and no one would know he had anything to do with it.

He allowed himself one last thought of her as he dressed for the evening -- Sidney Kathryn Victoria Brandenburg, his stepsister. Her older brother had died in a shipwreck, and Alexander, the youngest Brandenburg, hadn't been heard from in years. When her father met with a timely accident, she had become heiress to the famed 'Sidney's Dream' gold mine.

The old man had made her sole beneficiary -- his fortune and the gold mine to be held in trust until she married, or until her twenty-fifth birthday. Well, that had changed, too. George's hands shook with anger as he tugged on his coat. He had taken handouts all his life; he would not be cheated now. He'd be damned if he'd let a fortune in gold slip through his fingers.

George snorted, recalling what a naive chit Sidney had been. It had been so easy to convince her that a visit to her aunt's would help relieve her anguish over her father's death. While she had packed, he had planned her demise.

She didn't even realize how much she was worth. George knew, but he dared not take a chance on her becoming suspicious by asking for power of attorney. Instead of requesting she sign the papers, he simply forged them. O'Neil, the family attorney, wouldn't return for two weeks, which gave him more than enough time to filter all the funds he needed into the proper channels.

Besides, once the authorities discovered her dead, O'Neil would have no choice but to name him head of the Brandenburg fortunes. He thought of the power and prestige that money would buy. Already George had the opportunity to invest in a railroad that promised to lay track into San Francisco through the Montana Territory. His contact didn't care how he got the money. He only stressed that the opportunity to invest was immediate.

George smiled at his image in the mirror. He would soon have it all -- money, reputation, power. He would be in control and nobody would dare defy him. The mirror reflected the evil light in his eyes as he jerked open the door, the foggy night swallowing him as he hurried towards his assignation.

 

Chapter 1

 Montana Territory -- 1878

 

"It has been too long since last you sat by my fire," Thunder Bow spoke the ancient dialect of the Blackfoot.

It was a test; one Garrison York had little trouble passing. He answered with a combination of hand signs and guttural sounds. "Time has kept us both very busy, Brother."

Garrison could see the anger in his friend's eyes as he spoke. "For two years, the Indian nations have struggled to stay alive. The white man's army invaded our land and pushed our people from their hunting grounds. The one known as Custer is dead, but the Cheyenne and Sioux were also destroyed. Now the Blackfoot are following in their footsteps." The brave pushed his shoulders back, sitting even straighter. "I will not sacrifice my people in war."

Thunder Bow was next in line to become chief of the Blackfoot. His high brow spoke of intelligence. Straight black hair and dark eyes told of his blood; his bearing, even though he sat, was that of a leader. But Garrison knew even though he was first son of the old chief, he would never be a leader in the true sense of the word. His people were confined to the reservation, and except for a few renegade braves, they seemed resigned to the life they had to live.

Thunder Bow confirmed Garrison's thoughts as his hands gestured harshly, his voice growing hard with emotion. "My father used to tell great hunting stories about his youth, when the ground rumbled with thundering buffalo herds and the woods fluttered with wild birds. I thought how it would be to become a great warrior and lead my people on hunts as my father had done. But the world changes, and my visions tell me I must change with it, or my people will die."

"What you say is true," remarked Garrison, continuing in the Indian's native tongue. Thunder Bow spoke English, but Garrison knew the Indian wanted to see how well he remembered his lessons. It wasn't easy for him to translate his thoughts to the Blackfoot dialect, but he wouldn't insult him by refusing to speak the language of the lodge. "I see the changes in other ways -- towns beginning, ranchers wanting to fence the land and dam up the rivers. As you have done, so have I had to change with the times. But, is that why you summoned me to your village; to discuss how we are both growing old?"

"Ha! Speak for yourself, Running Bear. I will never grow old." Thunder Bow thumped his broad chest as he threw back his head and laughed.

Garrison joined in the laughter as the smoke curled from the fire to create a hazy glow within the lodge. Thunder Bow's hands, bronzed by the sun, held a pipe with a gentleness belied by the bunched muscles of his upper arms. Long, tapered fingers of one hand curled about the stem as the other fingers tamped down the tobacco in the pipestone bowl. Ornate carvings on the bowl and stem of the pipe indicated its value -- used only for high ceremonials and at times of honored guests.

Garrison observed these actions from a position directly across the fire. Thunder Bow had always liked deliberate action and theatrics, even as a young warrior. It would do Garrison little good to try and hurry his friend, even if he had wanted, which he didn't. It had been too long since he had seen his blood brother, and the peacefulness of the lodge brought back fond memories of an earlier time in Garrison's life.

Thunder Bow passed the pipe to Garrison, who reverently brought the stem to his mouth, puffed, and returned it to his host. Thunder Bow repeated the process, then set the pipe aside.

A petite Indian woman entered the lodge bringing food. Garrison smiled in recognition. Morning Dew had been his adopted sister all those years he had wintered with the Indians. She broke into a wide smile as she spied Garrison.

"Eat, for we have important matters to discuss." Thunder Bow said, taking the bowl of food and, using two fingers of his right hand as a spoon, he began to eat. Garrison followed suit, savoring the rich taste of venison as the meat warmed his stomach.

When they were finished, Thunder Bow nodded to Morning Dew, who collected the empty bowls and retreated from the lodge. Stretching out on his side upon the furs, Thunder Bow gestured for his friend to do the same. Leaning up on an elbow, his face became serious as he stared into the fire.

“You know the years have not been good for my people. I have a problem, and I have called on you for help."

Garrison immediately became alert. "You know I would do anything within my power for you, Morning Dew and the Blackfoot people. But remember, times have changed, and the soldiers at Fort Browning watch you carefully. I can do nothing to break their laws, or that would harm the Blackfoot."

Thunder Bow angrily glared at him. "I do not ask you to go to war for us. There will be no more wars, even if Two Eagles thinks different."

"Your younger brother has not yet resigned himself to a life without great battles? Where is Two Eagles now?"

"He and some of the younger braves have set off on their own. They will not listen to the elders, not even to my father, when we say fighting will do no good. We cannot defeat the white man -- there are too many."

Garrison noted the sadness in his friend's voice. He had been able to forge a place for himself in this vast frontier. He had grown and become rich. However, his mighty friend had been stripped of his power, his pride, and his heritage. He had become, in essence, a prisoner on the very land that he had ruled once before.

"Tell me," Garrison said. "Perhaps there is a way I can help."

"It is a woman. A wh…"

"A woman? You have betrayed Morning Dew for another woman?" Since they still spoke Blackfoot, Garrison thought he might have misunderstood.

Thunder Bow held up his hand for silence. "Let me have my say, brother, before you challenge me for my own wife's honor." Smiling, he continued, "It is a white woman. Some months ago, several braves hunted, but not within the reservation lands. They heard shots and were curious. They came across a stagecoach that had been attacked by robbers. The driver and passengers had been shot. The stage horses were still harnessed, and seeing no one, the braves took the horses."

"The people, were they dead?" Garrison interrupted, his stomach in a painful knot at the grisly image conjured in his mind.

"Two Eagles heard a moan. It was a woman. A shot had scarred her forehead, but she lived. He brought her back to camp, along with the horses. Since he has no woman, he asked Morning Dew to nurse the white."

"And now? Has the woman recovered? Why not just take her to Fort Browning?"

His friend laughed harshly. "You know the soldiers' feelings for my people. If we go to them with a white woman, they will think we have attacked the settlements. They will come to the reservation. What if they see the branded horses, knowing an Indian pony is not marked so? Besides, Two Eagles does not want to give her up. I have given her my protection but cannot do so forever."

Garrison sighed, knowing full well the truth behind Thunder Bow's words. "What is it you wish of me?"

"Take the white woman. Help her find her family." As Thunder Bow spoke, the flap to the lodge opened and Morning Dew entered. Close behind her came another form, head bowed. Both women passed Garrison to sit beside Thunder Bow.

Garrison observed the woman in silence. She was beautiful. Her skin was pale when compared to the bronze tones of the Indians. The small scar caused by the bullet was high on her temple. Though pink in color, and no doubt still tender, it did not detract from her beauty. Incredibly long hair formed two braids that touched the ground when she folded her legs gracefully under her.

Although she sat in the obedient style of an Indian maiden, Garrison knew she didn't belong here. As her gaze darted across his face, he could see the fire reflected in the lightness of her eyes. Her cheeks flushed slightly at his perusal. He sensed her vulnerability, but also saw a flash of defiance. She straightened her spine and brought her eyes back to stare at him.

He contemplated the distance to the nearest town; the wilderness they would have to traverse. His gaze again traveled over her small frame. Perhaps she would be better off staying here.

"I would like to help, but I cannot do this thing you ask."

Thunder Bow spoke. "I do not know the thoughts in my friend's head. I do know the woman is not safe here within the reservation lands." He looked him straight in the eye and chose the one thing Garrison would not deny. "Let us not talk of honor, brother of my blood. We shall not speak of the time a young Indian warrior shot a crazed grizzly to save the worthless hide of a white man who thought he was a hunter. It would be unmanly for me to mention such things, is that not true, Running Bear?"

Garrison realized what Thunder Bow did. He called on the unwritten code of honor that said, ‘a life for a life.' And indeed, Garrison did owe Thunder Bow his life. His friend had taught him many of the Indian ways, and Garrison was thankful. Now, he knew he could not deny the favor his friend asked.

Willow had sat quietly as the men spoke because she could not understand the language. Now, she felt a sudden fright, for she innately knew Thunder Bow meant to give her to this stranger. She had lived with the Indians long enough to know it was not her place to question. But, considering she was not of Indian blood, it would not seem strange for her to speak up.

Turning to Thunder Bow, she whispered, "Please, you and Morning Dew have been very kind, but do not ask this of me. Do not give me to this stranger." The single glance she had given the man had caused strange feelings inside her. Her heartbeat quickened and a hot feeling coiled in the center of her. These feelings frightened her for she didn't understand them.

"What choice do you have?" questioned Thunder Bow, speaking English so she could understand. "Would you rather stay here and become Two Eagles' woman?"

Willow gasped, the Indian's name instantly straightening her spine. She clutched her hands into fists in her lap as she bit down hard on her lips, trying not to speak evil of Thunder Bow's brother. The few times Two Eagles had found her alone and tried to force himself on her, she had felt nothing but revulsion. Her skin crawled in memory of his fierce looks and savage kisses. If not for the intervention of Thunder Bow, she would certainly have belonged to the cruel Two Eagles by now.

The whispered exchange brought Garrison back to the present. He looked again at the woman, her eyes now hard, her lips turned down in a frown at Thunder Bow's words. She was striking to look at, and Garrison found himself responding to her beauty. Perhaps more than the outside dangers, he felt reluctant to take her with him because of the strange feelings she evoked. His gaze traveled from hers to Thunder Bow's, who seemed anxious to remove the girl.

"If the Indian Agent from Fort Browning comes to our village, what will happen? We cannot live in peace with a white woman among us." He must have known Garrison was teetering on the brink of acceptance, for he continued, speaking English this time so the woman understood.

"She cannot stay, or she will become Two Eagles' woman. I can do nothing. I will not fight my own brother. Two Eagles has changed; he is not good, in his heart, for he hates the whites above all else."

Garrison's eyes never left the woman's face as Thunder Bow spoke. Her expression, more than the words he spoke, reached inside his heart. For whatever reason, Two Eagle's name prompted fierce reactions -- anger and disgust, perhaps fear. He couldn't tell if her emotions were due to what she had endured, or what was to come. She lowered her eyes before he could read more.

His gaze wandered over the rest of her. Her doeskin dress clung to her curves. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, causing his breath to falter. Garrison wondered how Thunder Bow had managed to keep her under his protection for as long as he had.

He could well understand why Two Eagles was anxious to make her his bride. Garrison's chest tightened at the thought. He knew, at that moment, he could never allow Two Eagles possession of the graceful, alluring figure he saw before him. Silently nodding at Thunder Bow, he sealed her fate.

Thunder Bow turned to the woman beside him. "Pack your belongings to leave at dawn. You must be gone before Two Eagles returns."

Garrison watched as her frightened eyes searched the Indian's face, perhaps hoping to find another answer. Her shoulders slumped as she realized there was none. Gracefully, she rose, nodded to Thunder Bow, and moved to the entrance of the lodge.

"What is your name?" Garrison asked.

She stopped and turned. Her brown eyes were large in her pale face.

"Willow." The single word came out a breathy whisper.

At the sound of her musical voice, a dull ache began low in his gut. He had to clear his throat before he spoke again. "Your real name."

"I don't know." Tears came to her eyes, and she quickly bent low and exited the lodge.

Startled, Garrison turned back to his friends.

Thunder Bow shrugged. "She was unconscious for many days after they brought her to our village. When she grew well, she could remember nothing of how she came to be here. Morning Dew calls her Willow, for she sways with the grace of the willow tree. I would have named her Screeches-in-the-Night."

Garrison watched as Morning Dew poked an elbow in her husband’s ribs. Her indignant look told him she was not pleased with his teasing. He looked from one to the other, wondering what he had gotten into. "I know I'll probably regret this but tell me why you would choose a name like that for one so beautiful."

Morning Dew answered. "Since she came to us, many times she wakes up screaming in the night. Some terrible night vision holds her soul, but she can never recall what makes her cry out." Morning Dew turned moisture filled eyes to him. "Perhaps when she is back among her own people, she will remember what has happened, and her heart can be happy again."

Before Garrison could answer, Thunder Bow rose. "The night grows late, and you must leave early if you do not want to challenge Two Eagles. It is time to sleep."

Garrison also rose, leaving the lodge of his friends. He chose to sleep outside, not wanting to intrude on their privacy. Walking to the back of the lodge, Garrison found his bedroll and blankets already spread out on a bed of ferns and leaves. There was an extra fur for cover, and he smiled at Morning Dew's thoughtfulness. As he situated himself for the night, he mulled over what he had learned.

The stars above winked at him with hidden humor, and he couldn't help but wonder what logic had possessed him to agree to take the woman. Hell, logic played no part in his decision, but he refused to consider what emotions had caused his protective attitude. What could he do with a girl who didn't even remember her name; who screamed in the night from nightmares; but who had the face and body of an angel?

Though he would have preferred dreaming of sad, doe eyes and long, glorious brown hair, he soon tossed and turned, caught up in a replay of that fateful day when Thunder Bow had saved his life.

A green youth of seventeen, he had thought himself a man, ready to face the challenges of the world. He had left his studies in the east, kissed his parents good-bye, and gone west to make his fortune. In '62, gold had been discovered at Grasshopper Creek and Garrison wanted to be part of it. He’d never been able to stake a claim that was worthwhile, so he turned to trapping.

The wildness of the mountains and valleys of Montana held him, and he was content to wander. A grizzly bear had different plans and that chilly day Garrison thought would be his last.

He had been checking his traps at the edge of the river when he heard something crash through the brush behind him. He spied the grizzly just as it stood on its hind feet, stretching a full ten feet high, mouth foaming. As the bear began to charge, Garrison reached for his rifle, only to realize he had left it with his packhorse.

Knowing he had only one chance, he raced downstream, the grizzly in pursuit. He could feel heated breath behind him but dared not look back.

Suddenly there was a shot. Garrison stumbled over a tree stump and fell flat, holding his breath for the pain he felt certain would occur when the grizzly reached him. Pain, and death.

Several seconds passed in silence, except for the sound of his harsh breathing. Rising on his elbows, he looked back down the path he had come. Beside the downed grizzly stood a young Indian brave, clothed in no more than a loin cloth, his jet-black hair straight down his back, the two feathers tied into it blowing in the breeze.

Garrison stood, deciding the Indian was not dangerous if he shot the bear instead of letting it tear him to shreds. He dusted himself off as he walked toward them.

“I watch you many days,” the Indian said. “I begin to think maybe you can survive on our land. It is good I changed my mind.”

The Indian spoke choppy English, but Garrison understood enough to know he had been insulted. His face flamed hotly as he declared, “I’ve been out here a long time. I can survive.”

The Indian looked from Garrison to the dead grizzly and back. Shaking his head, he began to laugh. Garrison, realizing his survival that day had been because of the Indian, knew he had much to learn about living in the wilderness. As their laughter rang through the quiet woods, a friendship was born which now survived despite hostilities among others of their races.

 

* * *

 

Willow didn't sleep that night. Thoughts of the stranger kept intruding. Remembering his deep blue eyes and broad shoulders, she snuggled deeper into the furs that made her bed, trying to elude her thoughts. By morning, she rose exhausted. She splashed her face with cool water, but it did little to revive her spirits. Pulling on her dress and lacing up her moccasins, she left the lodge.

She knew in her heart she didn't belong with the Indians, but their way of life was all she could remember for the moment. For that reason, tears accompanied her good-bye to her friend, Morning Dew. Thunder Bow helped her mount an Indian pony, then tied her parfleche bag behind the saddle.

The sun on her back felt good that morning, but as the hours wore on, she grew increasingly uncomfortable. Her muscles ached from riding and her legs had become chapped from rubbing against the saddle. Although she had often ridden, never had she spent so many hours on a horse at one time.

When the sun was directly overhead, they paused beside a stream to water the horses. Willow groaned as she slid to the ground but was determined not to let this man think her weak. She sat beside the stream and dipped water with her hand, splashing her face and neck, letting it run down her arms in little rivulets. Gratefully, she accepted a strip of dried jerky but did not speak.

Garrison watched in silence as the woman called Willow took the jerky from his hand. They hadn't spoken much all morning, but from what he had observed, the lovely woman dressed in Indian deerskin was a lady. Innately bred manners hadn't disappeared with her memory. The way she carried herself and the tilt of her head all reminded him of the belles of Philadelphia. He had attended enough parties in his parents’ home to recognize a gently raised woman.

Knowing she was a lady didn't prevent him from recalling the way she sat astride the pony, the fullness of her skirt not quite covering her legs -- long, slender legs encased in knee high, beaded moccasins. He sighed, knowing the ride back to Timber Ridge was going to be very long, indeed.

"Hello. Is anybody in there?" Her voice pulled him from his daydream. Forcing his mind off pleasant, but improbable thoughts, he pushed away from the tree on which he had been leaning to stare down at her slight form.

"What?"

"I asked if we were going to travel much further today, Running Bear?" Although her voice did not plead, her eyes seemed to beg for a reprieve from the long hours in the saddle. He softened his voice in response.

"My name is Garrison York, and yes, we have to ride more miles today. Traveling straight west, we'll bypass Fort Browning, but it's still a good fifty miles to Columbia Falls."

Willow shrugged, then graced him with a smile. "I would suggest then, Mr. Garrison York, that we get started. That is, if you are done daydreaming." Her formal use of his name made Garrison recall his thoughts about her being a lady.

"Just Garrison will do, Miss Willow. And you're right, we should ride."

The sun had already faded behind the mountains when Garrison found a spot to camp for the night. Swinging down from his horse, he turned to Willow. Riding in front of her for hours on the trail, he hadn't realized just how hard he had pushed. Shoulders slumped, she sat with her eyes barely open. Sighing, he moved to help her dismount.

"Take your things to that tree stump and rest. I'll take care of the horses." He reached up to circle her waist. She didn't resist as he pulled her from the pony, but when her feet touched the ground, her legs immediately buckled under her.

Crying out, she grabbed his arms. His skin burned where she touched. Feeling her sway against him, he tightened his hold to keep her from falling.

Willow turned her face towards his. Frightened by the fierce look she saw in his eyes, she pushed against his chest. "I'm…I'm all right, now, thank you," she hesitated. Having experienced Two Eagles' bold caresses and crass kisses, she was afraid all men were the same. Her stomach knotted and her heart beat rapidly, and while the sensations were not unpleasant with Garrison, she knew she needed to put some space between herself and the darkly handsome stranger.

She turned away from his intense blue gaze, focusing on a tree beyond his shoulder. She could feel his hesitation, as though he were reluctant to release her. But then his hands were gone, and she suddenly had her bag pushed into her arms.

"Over there -- now -- if you know what's good for you." His voice had the ring of anger, again, but before Willow could reply, he took her pony's reins and led it away with his horse to the edge of the clearing.

Clutching her parfleche bag close to her chest, she shuffled over to the log Garrison indicated. Her legs stung, but that feeling seemed mild compared to the heat tingling her skin where Garrison had held her. Her heartbeat refused to return to normal. She sank onto the stump and sighed.

Her gaze sought him out. He had tethered the horses in a small grove of trees to her right. She noticed how gentle he was; talking softly all the time he unsaddled and fed them. Too bad that gentleness didn't extend to people, she thought, because he seemed continually angry with her. Willow's thoughts turned selfish when he poured water for the horses. How wonderful a bath would feel right now.

Knowing that was impossible, she did the next best thing. Taking a scrap of cloth from her bag, she poured a small amount of water from her canteen. Scooting around so her back was to Garrison, she lifted her skirt above her knees and began gently bathing the tender insides of her thighs. Sighing as the cool water eased the sting, Willow thought how great it would be to have some of Morning Dew's curing herbs.

"What the hell?" The exclamation made Willow jump. A flush rose rapidly to her cheeks as she hastily pulled her skirt down over her knees. Embarrassed that Garrison should have seen her legs, she couldn't face him.

"Why didn't you say something, for God's sake?" Garrison yelled, wondering at her stubbornness in keeping quiet when she must have been in agony.

"Don't yell." She replied to his anger with softness, and that made him even madder.

"Don't…? I'll yell if I want." He continued to shout, slamming his fists on his hips, bracing his legs as he stood above her. "I asked you a question."

Her head snapped up, and he could see her eyes flashing with fire. "Would it have made any difference? You've made it clear that you don't wish my company. It's not like I want to be here either."

Dropping his arms to his side, Garrison realized she was right. She didn't know where she belonged, and he didn't know what to do with her. Her defense against the unknown was silent stubbornness and his was anger. He shook his head and sighed, then dug through his saddlebag for a tin of salve he used on the horses.

"Here, put some of this salve on your legs. It should help." Garrison turned his back, squatting to clear a spot for a fire. But while he went through the motions, all he could think about was her putting that salve on, smoothing it over her tender skin, up the long curve of her leg. If he wasn't careful, his thoughts alone would start a blaze.

Conversation -- that should do the trick. If he could keep her angry, she would maintain her defenses, which she would need since his mind kept wondering how it would feel if he kissed her. Right now, Garrison felt certain Willow would prefer an argument to a kiss.

His back to her, he casually asked, "Do you cook?"

"Of course, I can cook. Why?"

"Well, usually when I'm out on the range, all I get is Whiskey's."

"Well, you can't live on that," came the bristled reply. Willow immediately moved from her refuge on the stump to the fire. She grabbed the skillet from Garrison's hand and looked around for the food.

Garrison laughed, releasing the tension that had held his body so rigid. For all the time she had spent with the Indians, her doeskin dress and straggly braids, there was definitely a lady lurking in there somewhere. But as her eyes flashed dangerously, he realized she now held a weapon in her hand. He put up his hands in defense.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it. See, Whiskey is one of my ranch hands. He usually does the cooking when we're out on the trail."

"Oh." The reply whooshed out as she plopped down on the ground beside him.

Retrieving the skillet, he added, "I'll cook tonight. Before we get back to Timber Ridge, you'll get your chance. That is, if you really can cook."

"I told you I could. Why do you doubt me?"

"For one thing, you don't seem to remember much about yourself. How do you know you can cook?"

"I didn't know how to cook…or ride…or anything. Morning Dew taught me." The reply was so soft, Garrison looked up. Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes. She swiped at them with the heel of her hand, smudging the dirt on her cheeks. Even so, it couldn't detract from her beauty.

So much for unemotional conversation, Garrison swore silently. His arms ached to draw her close and comfort her. Looking as though she might cry again, Garrison wasn't surprised when she changed the subject.

"You said we were going to Timber Ridge. Is that a town?"

"No, it's my ranch. Sits at the foot of the mountains, west of here." Garrison realized she didn't want to talk about herself, so he obliged her by expounding on the merits of his ranch. As he talked, he cut slabs of venison and sliced potatoes into the skillet. Morning Dew had seen them well provisioned before they left the Indian camp.

"About eight years ago, I decided to settle down and build a cattle herd. I filed a land claim, hired some men, and set about rounding up all the strays I could find. 

“The first couple of years were tough. The snows are bad in this territory --whole herds have been lost. We've been luckier than most. My ranch sits in a protected valley where we have plenty of water and rangeland. The forests offer protection and a supplement to the income from the herd."

"I don't understand," Willow prompted when Garrison lapsed into silence.

"I have a lumber mill up north of the ranch, towards Eureka."

Willow looked at him with wide eyes. "You cut down trees? You destroy the beauty nature has placed here for us to enjoy?" Her voice quivered; its volume rose steadily until she almost shouted. "How could you? It's all destroyed; it'll never be the same again."

Stunned by her verbal attack, Garrison became defensive. "How can you sit there and judge something you know nothing about? You've never even seen it."

Her eyes took on a faraway look and she seemed to stare right through him. "I have seen it. I grew up with it. Every day it got worse -- the smoke filling the air, the people tearing apart the mountains in search of…" Her voice faded and her eyes slowly lost their glassy look.

"In search of what, Willow? What were they looking for?" Her voice conjured up visions of ghosts, and a shiver ran down Garrison's spine, for he realized she had seen a glimpse of her past. Wanting to press her, but afraid if he did it could be dangerous to her state of mind, he felt helpless.

"I don't know." She turned to search his face. "Will my memory ever return? Will I always wonder who I am?"

Turning back to his cooking, Garrison had no answer. "I know about land and cattle; I don't know people very well. Here, eat up. Then it's time you got a good night's sleep."

Silently, he ached for her, knowing the importance of a sense of self. That had been his reason for leaving Philadelphia and why he had spent years in the wilds of Montana. He had been trying to find the man he wanted to become. He looked at Willow, lost in a world she didn't understand because she had no sense of who she was. All his protective instincts surfaced as Garrison swore to help her discover her identity.

Garrison set his plate aside and took a cheroot from his shirt pocket. Lifting a smoldering twig from the fire, he lit it and inhaled deeply. Closing his eyes and resting his back against a rock, he tried to shut his mind to the frustrations he felt. While he should concentrate only on the trail that lay ahead of them, his mind refused to obey, drifting instead to a more pleasant vision of soft curves and gentle brown eyes.

Hellfire. He was out in the middle of nowhere with a beautiful woman, and his sense of obligation made him refuse to acknowledge the needs of his body. Curse Thunder Bow for putting him in this predicament. Tossing the half-smoked cheroot into the smoldering logs, he added a few pieces of wood to see them through the night.

The wood smoke swirled up from the fire, but instead of causing a separation, it seemed to create a shelter, enclosing the two in its protective embrace. As Willow stared into the fire, she tried to shake off the images of scarred mountainsides and dirty streams that had flashed across her mind when Garrison mentioned his lumber mill. She knew it wasn't Garrison's forests she saw, but a forgotten image from her life. Not being able to distinguish between the two at the time, she had lashed out at him.

She turned her head to study him while trying to work up the nerve to apologize for her earlier outburst. Having ridden behind him all day, she had his broad shoulders, narrow hips and long muscular thighs memorized. She concentrated now on his face.

Black hair framed a ruggedly handsome face. Bronzed skin showed a man who enjoyed living outside, defying the elements as he made a place for himself in this untamed land. If it weren't for the curly hair at the nape of his neck and his sky-blue eyes, he could be mistaken for an Indian. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. A small scar cut across his right cheek, but it didn't deter from his good looks.

Willow's stomach tightened as she continued her observations. She liked his firm jaw and alert eyes. Although he appeared relaxed, squatting by the fire, she had the impression he could spring into action with the agility and quickness of a mountain cat.

"You'd better get some sleep. We have a long day again tomorrow." The gruff voice cut through Willow's daydreams. She blushed, realizing she had been staring. Trying to act unconcerned, she followed Garrison's example and rolled up in her blankets, then pulled the extra fur on top to ward off the chill. When she closed her eyes to sleep, visions of dark brows arching over piercing blue eyes floated into view. She sighed. It seemed no matter how hard she tried she couldn't keep Mister Garrison York from invading her thoughts.

 

Chapter 2

To Willow, the next three days on the trail were the same as the first. Hour after hour, they traveled through lush valleys, cut across sparkling streams, and followed a trail that only Garrison seemed to see. He appeared constantly alert to the sounds of animals or tracks near the water's edge. Once in a while, he would point out soaring hawks, or identify the tall cedar and fir trees they passed. For the most part, they rode in silence, each absorbed in private thoughts.

Thankfully, Willow now had protection for her legs. Upon seeing her dressed in the same clothes the second morning, Garrison had given her an exasperated look and dug through his saddlebags. The pants and shirt she now wore were his, faded from many washings, but soft against her skin. The pants, much too big, were tied with a piece of rope around her waist. The soft blue shirt didn't button high enough, and her skin was tan down to the slope of her breasts. Instead of tucking the shirt into her pants, she had knotted the tails together at her waist, and rolled the cuffs to just below her elbows.

Wearily, she wondered if they would ever see civilization again. Surely, there were towns around here somewhere. Determined to find out, she nudged her pony in the side, pulling up beside Garrison. She tried to ignore his stare even though her cheeks warmed under his look. After three days, she thought he would be used to seeing her in pants.

"I'm sure you know this land like the back of your hand, Mr. York, but surely, there's civilization somewhere.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “We've been riding for days. I'm tired of sleeping on the ground, washing out of a canteen, and eating wild animals. How much longer is it to continue?"

For three days, Garrison had ridden beside her, eaten next to her, and slept in close proximity to her for safety. Now, she thought she had been pushed to the limit. He ground his teeth together to keep from cursing. After all, he had been brought up a gentleman, even if he hadn't had cause to practice his manners in some time. And Willow was a lady.

Even so, as he glanced over at her now, he wondered at his fortitude. She looked like a pixie in his clothes; the top button of his shirt didn't hinder his view of the curve of her breasts. Garrison heaved a sigh as he found himself wishing he could change places with his clothes.

While he appreciated her womanliness, her tone piqued his anger. "Well, Miss Willow," he drawled, "seeing as how you've been living with the Blackfoot for several months, what are a few more days on the trail, one way or the other?"

He heard her suck in her breath and realized she had misunderstood his comments.

"I did what I had to in order to survive." She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.

From her tart response and stiffened posture, Garrison wondered if Thunder Bow had been able to protect her as he had said. Even as he thought it, he knew he had no right to judge her. She may have secrets, but so did he.

For one, he had decided to bypass Columbia Falls to avoid answering questions. He had deliberately led her to believe there were no towns around. As things stood now, he wouldn't stop at Kalispell, either.

They had enough provisions to make it back to the ranch, but seeing her forlorn expression, he realized she was at the end of her endurance. Having a ranch the size of Timber Ridge, he didn't give much thought to being on the trail for a week or more at a time. Camping under the stars and bathing in a creek were a way of life for him.

Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders as he remembered Willow really wasn't used to this way of life, even if she had spent time in an Indian village. To ease his conscience, he told her, "We'll make camp early tonight. There's a place not far from here that will give us the protection we need and there's a stream where you can bathe."

"A bath?" Willow's face broke into a brilliant smile -- a smile that was his undoing.

As soon as they stopped, Willow grabbed a bar of soap and towel and raced down to the stream. Garrison concentrated on the horses and fire, trying not to think about her -- naked in the crystal clear water, her sun-streaked hair floating about her.

"Hell." Garrison threw the skillet to the ground. It was useless to resist the emotional and physical pull she exerted on him. He grabbed some clothes and stomped off toward the stream, determined to put his body to rest, damn the consequences.

A twig snapped beneath his boot as he came up behind her. He watched her spin around; her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream before she realized it was him.

"You frightened me." She looked as if she might collapse on the spot. "Couldn't you have let me know you were coming?"

Seeing her done with her bath and fully dressed, Garrison's frustration mounted. "The idea was not to let you know I was coming," he muttered, throwing his clothes on the ground and proceeding to unbuckle his gun belt.

Angry at her for already being out of the water; himself for delaying, and the world in general for not being on his side, Garrison yanked at his clothes. He was tired of being a gentleman.

"What's your hurry?" he asked. "I would have been happy to wash your back." He jerked off his shirt and flung it to the ground as he grinned in Willow's direction.

He watched her hastily gather her dirty clothes, then back away, searching for an escape. Seeing her look of panic, he shrugged. "Well, if I'm too late to wash your back, you could do mine." His lazy grin was all it took -- she turned on her heel and ran.

Garrison gave a sigh of regret, wanting to pursue her, but suddenly too weary to accomplish even that. Instead, he hollered over his shoulder as he stripped the rest of his clothes from his body. "Tonight you get to prove yourself. It’s your turn to cook." With a laugh, he made a shallow dive into the water, enjoying the last of the sunlight as he swam to the middle of the stream.

"Damn that man," fumed Willow as she beat a hasty retreat to the welcoming campfire. He made her feel things she didn't understand. When she looked at him, her insides stirred and shook like being caught in the middle of a thunderstorm.

As she started supper, she recalled his broad expanse of chest that her fingers had itched to touch. Bronzed skin stretched taut over straight shoulders and bunched muscles. Black whorls of hair covered his chest and tapered to a vee at the waistband of his pants. But when his large, strong hands had reached down to unbutton those same pants, Willow had panicked, gathering her clothes and running like a scared rabbit.

Shaking herself free of the mental image, Willow was appalled at what she had done. Potatoes, chunks of salt pork, a wild onion -- she had chopped a huge mound of food into the skillet over the fire. Sighing, she decided to make some biscuits, hoping Garrison would savor those and not notice the wasteful, though unintentional, use of their provisions.

Willow almost dropped the coffee pot when Garrison emerged from the woods. Tight buckskin pants outlined the muscles of his legs; his shirt hung open in the front. He had slicked back his hair after washing it, but a wayward curl already fell over his forehead. A shadow of a beard covered his chin, giving him a fierce look.

"It should be a crime for anyone to look that good after days on the trail," Willow muttered, her heart doing a funny little flip-flop as he sauntered towards the fire.

"Supper smells good, but I hope you're hungry," he drawled as he approached. "I can't eat all this myself." Hunkering down next to the fire, he helped himself to a huge plate of fried potatoes and salt pork.

"Mind pouring me some coffee?" He threw the question over his shoulder as he added a half dozen biscuits to the mound of food on his plate.

Willow's eyes widened with each spoonful Garrison heaped on the tin plate. How could a body eat all that? Was he mad at her for fixing so much and deliberately baiting her to get her to apologize? As she opened her mouth to question him, he turned towards her.

"Oh, excuse me. Ladies first." With a grin, he handed her the heaping plate of food. Then he fixed another, just as full, for himself.

Willow stammered, "I really can't eat all this, and you may want more."

"Well, if you insist," Garrison replied. He reached over and retrieved two of the biscuits from her plate. "There. You should be able to handle the rest." Pouring himself that cup of coffee she had neglected, he ignored her as he wolfed down his meal.

Willow doubted she could eat a bite, much less the mound of food she had in her lap. She felt a flush burn her cheeks as she recalled her thoughts while she prepared the meal. It certainly hadn't been how much food to fix.

Garrison probably believed she overcooked on purpose, and she wasn't about to tell him the truth, so she bravely took a bite. When she had eaten as much as she could without bursting her seams, she knew she'd have to apologize. Looking up from her plate, she opened her mouth then promptly snapped it shut.

Garrison sat on the other side of the fire, his empty plate beside him. On his face was the widest grin Willow had ever seen. She knew it wasn't from a full stomach, either. Infuriated with him for making fun of her, she debated whether to dump the rest of her supper on him, or in the fire. Just as she bent over to accomplish her purpose, a strong hand grabbed her wrist.

"Don't do it," he said, releasing her arm. "I really should make you eat every last bite. But I think you've learned your lesson. Save it for breakfast."

Anger replaced relief. A lesson to be learned? Frustration made her hands shake as she scraped the remains of her supper back into the skillet before gathering the plates to clean them.

"You can't wander down to the creek in the dark, so you might as well leave them, too."

She turned at the sound of his voice and watched as he casually lit a cheroot. It amazed her that he could appear so relaxed when she felt wound tighter than a spring. Conflicting emotions had been building inside her for days and they created turmoil she couldn’t ever recall having experienced.

The problem was she felt safe around him, not threatened, though they were in the middle of the wilderness. He had taken away her loneliness, along with her fear of the unknown. Was there something in her background that made her this trusting of strange men? Willow drew a silent breath. Just being around him caused her to feel desire. Her stomach flip-flopped to think she might be a loose woman.

She glanced around for something to occupy her time -- anything to keep from thinking about feelings she probably shouldn't have. Brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, she brightened. She had wanted to have supper cooked just to show him she could, so hadn't taken time to comb her hair before it dried.

She reached inside her bag for the bone comb Morning Dew had given her, wondering how long it would take to get the tangles out of her long hair. Crossing her ankles and dropping to the ground, she loosened it from its tie.

Garrison hadn't felt so content in a long time. Even though they were still a long way from the ranch, and all sorts of dangers lay out there in the wild territory, he felt strangely at peace. Glancing across the campfire, he was mesmerized by the sight of Willow combing that abundant length of golden-brown hair. He wondered if she realized what a fetching sight she made, head bent and tilted to the side, eyes closed.

Each time she lifted her arms her shirt tightened across generous breasts. His fingers tingled when he thought of running them through her hair. He ached, and he cursed himself for finding a simple task like combing hair to be so sensual. Just as he swung his gaze to the dark night surrounding their campfire, his eyes caught the glint of gold.

"Why haven't I noticed that ring on your finger?" He rose from his place by the fire, coming to squat before her. Gently taking her right hand, he examined the gold filigree ring she wore on her index finger. Was it hers, he wondered, made to wear on that particular finger, or was it a man's and she wore it there because it was too big for any other finger on her slender hands?

"It's always been my ring." The instant panic in her voice as she curled her hand into a fist assured Garrison she spoke the truth. Yet he knew if he asked, she wouldn't be able to tell him how she was so certain the ring belonged to her.

“I know,” he said to reassure her. Turning her hand over, he studied the ring more carefully. The workmanship was superb, thin strands of gold weaving in and out of each other to make a pattern around two initials in the middle.

"S.D. What does that stand for?" He raised his gaze to capture hers.

"I'm sure it's a link to my past,” she said as she shrugged her delicate shoulders.

Garrison looked at the dejection on her pretty face. He swore a silent oath to protect her until they found her family. He thought of his own family, across the span of the continent in Pennsylvania. His baby sister, Mollie, would be a young woman now -- much like the one who sat before him. What he felt for Willow would definitely not be considered brotherly love, but he did feel his protective instincts rising.

Placing a hand under her chin, he gently raised her head, smiling into her misty eyes. "Turn around and I'll help you with your hair."

Willow looked at him in surprise but did as he asked. Giving him her back, she said over her shoulder, "I hate tangles. Maybe I'll just cut it all off."

Taking the comb she offered, Garrison laughed. As he began, he spoke softly, almost to himself. "You have beautiful hair; like silk. Don't even think of cutting it." The comb glided through her long brown hair, and Willow seemed to relax, gradually leaning back against Garrison's legs.

Garrison was glad Willow could relax around him, but it did nothing for his own state of mind. Feeling her back against the inside of his thighs as she draped her arms over his upper legs, his body was in a state of chaos. He reminded himself to keep some distance between them, but as each day passed, he was finding it more difficult. He cleared his throat to keep from betraying emotions he didn't understand, then he began to reminisce.

"When I was ten, my baby sister, Mollie, was born. She was the cheeriest baby, never causing Mother any trouble, until she learned to walk. For some reason, she picked me to shadow. I couldn't have my lessons or go to the barn but what she was under my feet. Looking back, I guess I liked the way she thought of me as some kind of hero. Mother thought otherwise, though, when Mollie began riding horses when she was only three."

Willow closed her eyes and listened to the soothing sound of Garrison's voice. Deep and husky, it lulled her in the same way the wind whispering through the pines assures the forest animals that all is well. She sat content until his hands stopped combing and settled on her shoulders, softly caressing. Garrison's unconscious movements sent her from contentment to a state of shock.

Her heart pounded almost painfully against her chest, and she was sure if it weren't for the crackle of the fire, he would hear. Her palms began to sweat. Moving her arms from his thighs, she rubbed her hands against her skirt before wrapping her arms around her knees, pulling them tight against her chest.

A cauldron of breathless anticipation and trepidation, she waited for his next move. She didn’t understand the disappointment she felt when he began combing her hair once again. He continued his story, unaware of his effect on her.

“Mollie hated having her hair combed. She would scream every time Nanny got close to her with a brush.” He chuckled. “Hollering at the top of her lungs, she would run to me. I would sit her on my lap and tell her a story to calm her down as I brushed her hair and braided it for her.” As he talked, he had unconsciously parted Willow’s hair, braiding it into one long plait down her back.

“Don’t you miss your family?” Willow asked softly, not wanting to break the mood.

“Most times, I’m too busy with the ranch, but, yes, there are times I miss them. Mother writes often enough, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a letter writer in return.” Garrison handed Willow her comb and stood behind her.

He spoke gruffly. “Time to call it a day. We should make Timber Ridge by the end of the week if we keep up a good pace.” Not bothering to say goodnight, he stoked the fire, shucked off his boots and rolled up in his blankets.

Willow didn’t know what to make of Garrison’s behavior. One minute he acted kind and gentle, the next gruff and withdrawn. Although it was easier keeping the gruff stranger at arm’s length, she liked the gentle man much better. Stifling a yawn, she moved beyond the fire’s light to some bushes to attend to nature’s needs, then curled up in her own bed of blankets.

* * *

Years in the wilderness and pure instinct made Garrison roll to a squat, grabbing his pistol from under his blanket as he went. Staring into the darkness surrounding their camp, he wondered what had awakened him.

A scream pierced the night air, spinning him around to where the low flame from their fire flickered across his vision. He started to question Willow for waking him but paused. She sat completely still, her legs tucked close to her body. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls around a ghostly white face. One hand clutched her throat while the other trembled at her mouth to stifle another scream.

Her haunted eyes stared right at him. Thinking there must be something behind him that had terrified her, Garrison again surveyed the area around the camp. The horses whinnied softly from the grove of trees; the fire crackled and popped. Garrison heard no sound louder than the frantic beating of his own heart.

When he turned back to Willow, she sat like a statue carved of stone. He realized whatever had scared her was in her dream; she wasn't even awake. Cautiously, not wanting to frighten her more, he crouched down beside her.

Before he could act, Willow let out a sob and launched herself at him, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Arms clutched tightly around his neck, she sobbed hysterically against his shoulder as he tried to right himself. Laying his pistol aside, he cradled her shaking body against him.

He stroked her hair and whispered soft assurances against her temple as he caressed it with his lips. Her sobbing subsided, and Garrison felt her relax against his chest. He tilted his head back to see her face. Half hidden behind a mass of hair, Willow's eyes glittered in the firelight.

"Can you talk about it?"

She nodded, pushing against his chest. Reluctantly, Garrison loosened his hold, but refused to release her altogether.

"My brother's dead -- killed in a shipwreck." Another sob, and Garrison could feel a shiver race through her body.

"Your brother? Do you remember his name?" Garrison mentally cataloged another little piece of information about this nameless waif. Perhaps with enough pieces, he could figure out the puzzle that was Willow.

"Robert. His name is Robert. Another man was there, too. He looked like Robert, but older. He seemed so very sad. I think I was trying to comfort him." She turned a tear-streaked face up to his. "Why can't I remember? There are vivid flashes, and terrible dreams, but sometimes they don't even make sense." Her gaze flickered across his face, hoping for answers he didn't have.

"Willow, did the older man have a name? Do you remember anything else?" As he spoke, Garrison moved his hand to cup the side of her face, his thumb tenderly wiping away the traces of tears from her cheeks.

She seemed unable to speak as his gaze held her captive. She shook her head, causing her flyaway hair to once again fall in her face. Garrison's hand gently brushed it away and he knew he could no longer avoid the danger. No matter that he didn't know much about her, he had to taste her lips. As he gazed from her gold-flecked eyes to her rose-tinted lips, he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Ever so slowly he pulled her toward him, until her lips were only a breath away. He might have stopped, but at that moment, Willow let out a breathless little sigh, and it was his undoing. He moved his head the last fraction, capturing her lips first with tenderness, then with increasing pressure, as he tasted the innocence of her kiss.

Shock waves ripped through Garrison's body at Willow's shy response. He had wanted to kiss her, thinking himself strong enough to control his desires and let her retain her innocence. Now he wondered at his own foolishness. One kiss led to another, each deeper and more lasting than those previous. Wrapping his arms around her, Garrison lowered her to the ground, pulling her lithe form closer against his body.

When she trembled, he moved his mouth from hers, trailing kisses to her ear as he whispered. "I'll keep you warm, Willow-in-the-wind. You have set fire to my blood, and there is warmth enough for both of us." His mouth came back to hers, kissing the corners and tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue. His hands caressed her sides, traveling upward to the underside of her breasts.

Willow had opened her mouth to stop him from kissing her, but her mind refused to let her speak. She could only sigh, and then it was too late. Firm, generous lips covered hers, immediately sending her into a sensual spiral. Her insides tightened, her ears rang, and she felt lightheaded enough to faint. Assaulted with wave after wave of pleasurable sensations as Garrison's tongue swept the inside of her teeth and teased her own tongue into a reluctant response, Willow couldn’t breathe, and it didn't seem to matter.

His touch was like the breeze on a spring morning, his kisses hard and demanding, but not cruel. Floating in a dreamlike state, she was unaware of anything except Garrison -- his kisses, his touch, the blue fire of his eyes as she gazed at his chiseled features.

When Garrison shifted his body to cover hers, she jerked beneath him, crying out in agony. Wiggling around in his embrace, she stared at the twig that had gouged her in the back. The sharp pain between her shoulders was like a splash of cold water and made her acutely aware of her position beneath him. Bucking against his lower body, Willow felt suddenly trapped.

"Get off me.” Her cry rent the stillness as she frantically struggled against him. She pushed with all her strength, freeing her legs to scoot a respectable distance away. Her cheeks burned as she stared at him.

Placing a trembling hand on her kiss-swollen lips, she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Dear Lord, what have I done?” Confusion and chagrin swept away any more pleasant feelings.

If they did not reach civilization soon, she was sure she would go crazy. She could not remain in such close proximity to the cause of so much distress. One minute she was floating on clouds, the next plunging down a great, dark well.

Willow’s obvious distress brought Garrison to his senses. He took a deep breath to calm himself as he ran his fingers through his hair, cursing for not maintaining some control over the situation. “Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said in a voice hoarse with emotion.

Her trembling lips made him want to kiss her all over again. He bounded to his feet. Aware of how clearly he could see her, he glanced around to discover dawn had turned the eastern sky a dusty pink. He felt weary beyond his years, but he addressed her in what he hoped was a civilized voice.

“Since we’ve wasted the remainder of the night, we might as well be on our way. If you would make coffee, I’ll get the horses ready.” Turning on his heel, he grabbed his boots and headed for the stream.

* * *

"How much farther before we reach Timber Ridge?" Willow asked. "We've been on the trail a week, and I would think we've crossed the whole territory of Montana."

Garrison realized endless hours on horseback day after day had dampened her spirits, and he didn't begrudge her slight complaint.

"This is Timber Ridge."

"What? I don't understand. Where are the houses, the cattle, the people?" He watched her glance from side to side.

He supposed it would take some time for her to see it the way he did. He recognized the wide meadows of lush summer grass and tall stands of trees in a hundred shades of green. The stream that meandered in a northerly direction would eventually lead them home. Crystal clear water raced over rocks and pooled in shallow coves as it cut a path through the green land.

"To answer your questions, we've been on Timber Ridge land for two days now. The cattle are all on the north range and the ranch hands are with them, or out at the line shacks. There are towns close by, but you'll see some people when we get to the ranch house."

Frowning somewhat at the look of excitement on Willow's face, Garrison wondered what kind of social butterfly she had been before she lost her memory. Not knowing her background, perhaps he should have been more hesitant about taking her to the ranch even if it was only for awhile. Would she be happy stuck out in the middle of nowhere, though Timber Ridge was the most beautiful place around? Or would she crave the social swirl of the cities as his sisters did?

Right now, since she didn't remember her past, most things were new and exciting to her. What would happen once she recovered? What would happen if she didn't? Somehow, he must find the key to unlock the puzzle surrounding her mysterious appearance. Hopefully he could also find answers for the desires that had begun to plague him almost daily.

Garrison called a halt to their travel, even though they could make the ranch tonight. Guilt nagged at his conscience, but he didn't like the idea of sharing her time with anyone. He rationalized that a good night's sleep would do them both good.

Willow dismounted, handing Garrison the reins to her pony as he handed her the grub sack. A routine had developed between them, so by the time he had the horses watered and fed for the night, she had made a fire and cut the last of the salt pork into the skillet.

"I do hope we reach your home soon. I would hate to be reduced to picking berries for our meals." Her smile, though tired, seemed to brighten the entire area. Garrison stared at her hands wielding his hunting knife so expertly. Hands that should be pampered and soft as rose petals were callused and brown from the sun. He had pushed her hard and she had rarely complained. He marveled at her willingness to take things as they came. He wondered again at the logic that made him keep her out in the wilderness. He could easily have left her in Columbia Falls or Kalispell. The sheriff in either town could have sent out telegrams and talked to the stage line.

Covertly, he watched from beneath lowered lashes as she brushed her sun-streaked hair away from her face. Remember to buy her a wide-brimmed hat, he silently told himself. And the idea of keeping her around long enough to buy her that hat didn't surprise him in the least.

Garrison tried to picture what Willow would look like dressed as a lady. His tired brain could not imagine her in a frilly dress with lots of petticoats, dainty slippers on her feet. He chuckled as he tried to envision her fainting at the sight of blood or swooning in the heat as the belles of Philadelphia had done.

"What's so funny, Mr. York?" Willow questioned. She never knew how to take him, but so help him, if he were making fun of her -- "If you're laughing at my attempts at the culinary arts, you may be the one picking berries for your supper." She flashed him a dangerous look, waving the knife in an arch above her head.

Both hands up, palms outward as though to ward off her attack, Garrison burst out laughing, a deep throaty laugh that sent shivers up and down Willow's spine.

Vibrant. Everything about the man was so alive. After a week on the trail, he looked great. He even managed to shave, she noted, his strong, smooth jaw now convulsed in laughter. Looking down at her lap, tears of frustration blurred her vision as she looked at her chipped nails and the dry skin on her hands.

She felt a strong tie to Garrison York, and realized she wanted him to like her. Like her? Fat chance. She looked like something the coyotes had dragged home.

"Hey. Why the tears? I wasn't laughing at you."

Looking up at honest blue eyes, Willow was ridiculously pleased he hadn't been making fun of her. "I know. I was just thinking how great it would be to have clean clothes and hair, and some cream for my hands." A nervous laugh ended her remark.

He didn't shame her for her simple desire, but instead touched her cheek, his eyes soft with understanding. "We'll be there tomorrow, I promise." The smile he gave her made her heart beat faster.

Willow felt torn between her desire to reach civilization and her longing to spend more time with Garrison. She wasn't at all sure she wanted him to take her to town after arriving at Timber Ridge. She was beginning to think she wanted time to explore the feelings that had quietly invaded her heart and mind during their time on the trail.  

Dusk found both Willow and Garrison ready to call it a day. Garrison was lying on top of his bedroll when Willow emerged from the trees after a quick bath in the stream. She wished him a quiet good night as she curled up in her blankets.

* * *

On the edge of consciousness, Garrison heard the rustling, his senses instantly alert. As he listened, the horses began shifting nervously, causing more commotion in the nearby trees. His immediate thought was to protect Willow. In one fluid motion, he rolled to a crouch and jumped across the glowing coals of the fire to where she lay sleeping.

Without a sound, he covered her with his body, pressing his hand to her mouth to keep her from screaming. Her eyes snapped open and she stiffened, but almost immediately relaxed when she recognized him.

"Sh, I don't know what's out there." He whispered the command close to her ear. When she nodded her understanding, he released her mouth, his hand sliding to the side to gently cup her neck.

Garrison continued to scan the area, searching for any movement to alert him to the source of the noise. Seeing and hearing nothing out of the ordinary, his senses became tuned to the body beneath him. Deciding it was too good an opportunity to pass up, he lowered his head, bypassing quivering lips to seek out her ear.

"We have to remain very quiet, otherwise it might come back."

"What might?"

"Hush." Garrison nibbled her neck directly beneath her ear. Her smooth skin felt cool beneath his lips. He tasted the delicate shell of her ear, then began kissing his way back to her lips. Eyebrows, eyes, the tip of her nose -- each was the recipient of a butterfly light kiss. As his lips descended to hers, he smiled a secret smile, wondering why he hadn't thought of this plan earlier in the trip.

Willow didn't know what wild animal circled their camp, but it couldn't be any more dangerous than the man who covered her like a blanket. Wiggling beneath his firm body, she tried to voice her doubts. "I really don't see…"

Her words were cut off when his lips covered hers in a soul-shattering kiss. She couldn't ignore the sensations he created with his caresses. The glowing coals of the fire were cold ashes when compared to the heat that burst within her at his touch.

Her ears rang, and if a herd of wild horses stampeded through camp at that moment, she doubted she would hear them. Passion flared as Willow brought her arms up to curl possessively around Garrison's broad shoulders.

An ache such as she had never known began at the core of her womanhood and spread outward, melting her bones and turning her inside out. Not content to be the recipient of such intense heat, her hands began to caress muscle bound arms. She pushed against strong shoulders and Garrison moved enough for her to slide her hands downward in exploration. Crisp, curling hair tickled the palms of her hands as she caressed the broad plane of his chest.

As his lips trailed a fiery path down her throat, she tilted her head back. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she felt his hot lips move closer to her breasts. Mindless of the danger that might still lie beyond the circle of their camp, she cried out as each place his lips touched throbbed for more. She softly whimpered for him not to stop.

Stopping was the last thing on Garrison's mind. He kissed the pulse point at her throat; he nipped her satiny skin. Never in all his thirty-three years had his body betrayed him like it did with Willow. The more he was with her, the more he craved her in a way that was deeper than anything he had ever felt. He knew once would never be enough. Each time he kissed her, he wanted more. Feelings so intense they shook him to the core made him wonder if perhaps she wasn't a witch, able to cast some mystical spell over him.

His hands caressed her sides, sliding over her ribs to her breasts. Without taking his mouth from hers, he lifted himself just enough to get a hand between them. His heart beat heavily; his fingers trembled as he unbuttoned her shirt.

A sigh escaped when his callused fingers found the soft mounds revealed to his touch. His lips left hers and trailed down her throat. Garrison sucked in his breath as her untutored fingers fluttered across his chest leaving him with little doubt she felt as he did.

He moaned as he grabbed both her wrists and pulled her hands away, pinning them with one hand above her head. If she kept that up, his control would snap.

Wanting to possess her completely, Garrison sensuously trailed his fingers down her arm and across her flat midriff. Her stomach quivered beneath his touch. Sliding his index finger into the waistband of her skirt, he slid his hand back and forth, rubbing her stomach.

Willow gasped. "Mercy! Put an end to this fire burning within me."

"I intend to do just that, for both of us, my Willow-in-the-wind," he replied hoarsely.

Willow's eyes flew open, staring at the gentle lips that could cause such turmoil within her. She hadn't realized she had spoken out loud. Oh, what he must think of her. Trying to gain control, she jerked her hands out of his grasp, and planting the heels of both palms against hard shoulders, pushed against the strength she could not hope to match.

It took only a second for Garrison to recapture her wrists. He kissed her eyelids shut, his breath warm against her damp skin. "Don't fight it. There's a fire that burns within me, too, and only you can extinguish the flames. Tell me you want it as bad as I do." Not giving her time to response, Garrison crushed her lips in a savage kiss.

Suddenly frightened by his intensity, Willow struggled to get free. The heat was just as hot, the urge to surrender just as strong, yet she panicked. Biting his lip in an effort to be released, she cried out as he jerked away, swearing.

"Oh, dear. I…I didn't mean to hurt you." Her fingers shook as she reached up to smooth away the hurt she had caused. Tears formed as she gazed into his fiery blue eyes. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed, wanting desperately for him to hold and comfort her, yet knowing it was impossible for them to touch without passion igniting.

Garrison surprised her. Ever so gently, he came down beside her, cradling her in his arms. "Don't cry. I didn't mean to frighten you." Smoothing her tangled hair away from her face, he softly kissed her forehead, his tobacco scented breath bringing forth a memory of her father comforting her as a child. But she wasn't a child, and she knew she had to deal with this situation before it got out of hand.

Wiggling around to face him, her voice quivered as she spoke. "Please. You have to understand…Good Heavens, what is that smell?" Open-eyed astonishment ended what should have been a soul-searching speech.

Holding his breath in anticipation of what she was about to say, it took Garrison several seconds to realize what she had said. His nostrils flared once he did take a breath, and he groaned aloud, realizing that nature had once more intervened and changed the course he had been set to follow.

"Skunk." The single word sounded like an oath in the still night air. Jumping to his feet, anger replaced the compassion he had felt just moments before.

"Damn it to hell, woman. You must have a guardian angel -- no, several guardian angels looking after you. Why in the hell do I have to get stuck with a woman who travels with angels?"

Realizing that his remarks bordered on the insane, Garrison stomped to the fire and began kicking dirt over the remaining coals. One whiff told him the skunk was close -- too close. Unless they wanted to arrive back at the ranch smelling like they had bedded the entire skunk population, they would have to ride. So much for any romantic notions he had this night.

Willow had sat in silence during his tirade, but now convulsed into giggles. He turned and scowled, but she only laughed harder, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What the hell's so funny?"

"It's just the picture you paint -- guardian angels dressed in black, with white stripes…" Gasping laughter prevented her from finishing the sentence.

Garrison didn't find her humor amusing. "Well, if it isn't skunks, it's the damn cold water, or sticks poking you in the back or something else. Hell, you drive me crazy. It's not easy traveling with a beautiful, desirable woman, and trying to remain a gentleman."

His remarks instantly sobered her. Her gaze searched his face, and he realized he had revealed too much. He turned away.

"Do you really find me desirable?" Her innocent question stopped him.

Desirable? Hell, yes, thought Garrison. Along with incredibly beautiful, innocent, stubborn, a witch, and as constant as the mountain weather in early March. Before he could voice his observations, the breeze told him time had run out.

"This delightful conversation will have to take place another time. We have about five minutes to clear camp and ride, unless you would rather see what a skunk looks like close up." While delivering his sermon, Garrison hastily threw their utensils into the grub sack. Leaving Willow to roll up the blankets, he went to fetch the horses. Coming upon a skunk trying to defend itself was something that had happened to Garrison before, and he wasn't about to let it ruin a good horse. He depended on Pegasus almost as much as he depended on his own senses to tell him when danger was near, and one of a horse's primary senses was that of smell. A strong dose of skunk scent could ruin that sense forever.

Garrison hadn't needed to tell Willow what to do and was pleased to see the urgency with which she worked. She gave him a quick smile as she handed him the bundled bedrolls. Without further question, she mounted her pony and followed him into the inky night.

He had promised Thunder Bow he would help Willow find her family. A gentleman would do anything he could to help and protect her. Garrison knew he would protect her with his life if need be, yet he wondered how he was to ignore the feelings springing up between them with rapidity akin to the wildflowers scattering the trail.

Chapter 3

The full moon had begun its descent in the western sky as Willow followed Garrison to the crest of a hill.

"Welcome to Timber Ridge." Garrison paused, his soft voice carrying on the night air, his posture that of a man proud of his accomplishments.

Willow glimpsed the shadowy outlines of a number of buildings. Even without sufficient light to actually see the ranch, she realized it was very large -- several buildings stood more than a storey high. The moon reflected off whitewashed walls and fence slats. A strange feeling of contentment stole over her, and she let out a little sigh.

"I'm sorry it's not the city you've been longing for, but it will have to do for now." His voice took on an irritated edge, and he jerked his stallion's reins. Nudging his horse in the side, he started down the trail, leaving Willow to follow in exasperation.

Silence had been their constant companion since breaking camp, and Willow knew she hadn't said anything to start an argument. Why, then, was he so hostile? Following close behind so as not to get lost in the waning moonlight, Willow decided there was no making sense of a man -- particularly this man.

Garrison's horse, knowing oats and fresh water awaited him, trotted around the corner of the main building. Soft whinnies could be heard from the barn and Pegasus answered in kind.

Leather creaked as Garrison swung down from the saddle and opened the barn door. The squeak of hinges sounded excessively loud in the still night, but there didn't seem to be anyone around to mind. As though reading her mind, Garrison spoke as he struck a match.

"There's no reason to expect trouble, so no guard is posted. The men are either out on the range or in the bunkhouse. It would take a stampede to wake them." The soft yellow glow of the lantern as he turned to hang it on a peg accentuated his features.

Willow suddenly realized how tired he must be. Dark shadows circled his eyes and his shoulders slumped. Why shouldn't he be tired, she thought. She had given him nothing but trouble since the day he first saw her. Though unknowingly, she had tested his mental and physical limits.

Quickly she got off the pony, not wanting Garrison to take care of both horses. If she wanted to stay at Timber Ridge instead of being taken to town, she would have to stay in the background. She certainly didn't want to be dropped in a strange town with more strangers. She kept hoping her memory would return and she could go back to where she belonged. In the meantime, she'd work to earn her keep, just as she had with the Indians and hopefully Garrison would allow her to stay. Perhaps she would even have the opportunity to get to know him better

Garrison watched her out of the corner of his eye. He noted the sluggishness of her movements as she entered the barn. Perhaps it had not been disappointment he heard when they crested the ridge; perhaps she was just as weary as he. He watched her follow his lead in caring for her pony.

For just an instant the moonlight shone through a crack in the door and created a halo around Willow. He recalled thinking that she had guardian angels and wondered if they weren’t sitting on the railing outside, just waiting for him to try something.

After graining the horses, Garrison turned, carrying the lantern with him. He extinguished the light, hung it back on its peg and headed towards the back of the house with long, anxious strides. His thoughts had turned to a good night's sleep in a regular bed, and it wasn't until Willow murmured something about cat eyes seeing in the dark that he slowed his pace. He realized too late he shouldn't have stopped so short.

"Oomph!" He heard the air whoosh out of her lungs as she slammed into his back. He turned quickly as she recoiled from his hard body, seeing her arms flail in the air in an attempt to balance herself.

Taking a step forward to grab her, Garrison was rewarded with a box to the ears as her arms waved in circles above her head. Deciding that even a gentleman didn't have to tolerate that kind of treatment, he pulled his arm back and waited to see if she could catch her balance.

She couldn't. With a plop, she hit the ground, skirts hiked up around her knees, legs and arms askew. Indignation sparked her eyes as she glared up at him. He knew she was waiting for him to apologize and help her up.

He didn't. He just stood there, mouth tight trying to smother a laugh.

"Don't you dare laugh. This is your fault. Why did you stop like that? Why didn't you wait for me? Are you going to help me up?"

"Do you always prattle when you get mad?" Garrison was in no hurry to help since he had a perfectly fine view of shapely legs poking out from beneath her skirts.

"We are not discussing my conversational skills, thank you very much. We are discussing your very boorish behavior." Willow made quick work of pulling her skirts down.

The show over, Garrison sighed and held out his hand. "I'm really not in the mood to stand out here in the middle of the night and discuss anything with you. Now, do you think you can follow me into the house without crawling up my backside, or would you prefer I carry you?"

Even in his exhausted state, Garrison couldn't help the accelerated beat of his heart when her breasts had pressed into his back, or when he caught sight of her curvy legs beneath her skirts. One of these days, he thought, her guardian angels weren't going to be around, he wasn't going to be so damned tired, and she would be totally cooperative.

Shaking his head in resignation, Garrison opened the door and preceded her into the kitchen. Knowing she'd never find her way in the dark, he struck a match and lit the kitchen table lamp. Checking to make sure she followed, but at a safe distance, he walked through the workroom and dining room toward the stairs.

The yellow lantern light didn't erase the shadows from the corners of the rooms they passed, but Garrison wasn't in the mood to give her a grand tour. She would just have to explore in the morning. His boots echoed eerily on the hard wood of the stairs, then the sound disappeared as he walked across a braided rug in the upstairs parlor. The light played off the furniture and walls, but created only shadowy, hard to define shapes.

"Little Fists can show you around in the morning. For now, you can sleep in this room. A privacy room is here; there's a door to it from your room." As he talked, Garrison pointed first to a door on his right, then one in the middle.

"Take the lamp. Just don't bump into anything else and start a fire. I don't think I have the strength to fight it tonight."

Willow scrambled to rearrange her bag then clasped the lamp tight, giving him a forlorn glance. Garrison hadn't meant to speak so gruffly, but fatigue had replaced manners. Besides, if she continued to stand there with that look of innocence, he just might be tempted to kiss her again.

He growled good night, then turned and moved toward his own room, mumbling under his breath about how guardian angels should be made to sleep in the barn.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Garrison York. You're a very special man." Her soft whisper floated across the distance before she quietly closed the door behind her.

She probably hadn't intended for him to hear, but he had. Long after she lay asleep, her hair spread across the pillow like a veil, Garrison stood in the doorway of her room, watching. Rubbing a hand over tired eyes, he contemplated the circumstances that had brought them together.

A slow smile broke the stern lines of his bristled face as he thought of the temper, inconsistency and innocence lying there on the bed, concealed within a female form. He wondered if the real lady lost in her memories was as unique a creature as he had discovered in Willow. Giving her one last glance, he turned away, going to his own lonely bed.

* * *

Sunshine warmed her face and danced across Willow's closed eyes. Not wanting to leave the comfort of the huge feather bed, she contemplated sleeping the day away. Then she remembered where she was, and the promise she had made the night before. Opening her eyes and taking in her surroundings, she realized how far she had come from the Indian lodge she had called home for months on end.

Pale yellow walls reflected the sunlight streaming in through open windows. A gentle breeze fluttered the curtains that matched the floral pattern of the counterpane. Next to her bed was a small washstand holding a delicate porcelain pitcher and bowl. Allowing her gaze to roam around the room, she noted that its spaciousness was adequately decorated with a straight back chair by the fireplace, a writing table and winged armchair, and a large wardrobe. Climbing out of bed, she moved to the window seat, placing one knee on the soft cushion as she stretched, lifting her arms high overhead. The sun warmed her skin and she smiled, deciding today would be the beginning of a new adventure.

Remembering what Garrison had said about the privacy room, Willow turned from the window and searched for her bag. Taking out her crumpled and trail worn clothes, she wrinkled her nose at the thought of putting them back on. Well, they would have to do until she could get something better.

Reaching deep into the buffalo skin bag, she retrieved her only two possessions, both of which had been given to her by Morning Dew. Laying aside the bone comb, she reverently picked up the other item, a small willow hoop that Morning Dew had called a Dreamcatcher. She smoothed the thin leather strips hanging from the sides and bottom. As she fingered the bright glass beads caught in a spider web of sinew in the middle, she recalled the story Morning Dew had told her about the Dreamcatcher.

 "Hang this where you sleep and the dreams coming down from the heavens will pass through. But the nightmares and bad dreams are greedy and will be attracted to the beads. They will get tangled in the middle, like flies in a spider's web. The good dreams will slide down the fringe to you. When the sun comes, it will dry out the web; and like dew trapped in the morning, the bad dreams will be gone."

When Willow had doubted her, Morning Dew answered as she did so many of Willow's questions.

"If you believe, then it will be so."

Willow had tried hard to believe in the legend, and for a while, the nightmares had not haunted her sleep. She now carefully hung the Dreamcatcher above her bed, hoping its magic would work in a house as well as an Indian lodge.

Moving to the privacy room, her mouth dropped open. Not only did it contain a large, brass bathing tub, but also a tall screen, behind which sat a commode. A dressing table and mirror, and a small, pot-bellied stove stood on the other side of the room. Already, two large kettles of water steamed atop the stove.

Willow couldn't wait to try out this unique bathing arrangement. Never could she recall seeing a bathing room quite like this, even if her memory was faulty. She had bathed in the creek at the Indian reservation, more often than they thought necessary. She blushed as she recalled the times in the past week with Garrison when a lack of privacy forced her to take only sponge baths.

Giving a few pumps to the handle, clear, cold water soon gushed forth. Seeing some bottles on the vanity, Willow chose one that smelled of lemons and poured a few drops into the water. Shutting off the pump, she hurriedly added the kettles of steaming water, and with the anticipation of a child in a candy store, stripped off the shirt she had worn to bed and climbed into the tub.

Heat caressed her skin and she nearly wept with the joy of submerging in a full tub of warm water. "How silly it is to cry over something like a bath," she murmured. "If ever I get my memory back, I'll never again take such things for granted."

Taking a sliver of soap from the edge of the tub, she washed herself twice over, then lathered her hair and scrubbed until it squeaked. Relaxing against the end of the tub, she closed her eyes and reflected on her surroundings.

Unbidden images fluttered across her mind, and she knew she was used to luxury, not the bare existence the Indians endured. Knowing that did not make her happier, for she sincerely wished she could do something for Thunder Bow, Morning Dew and their people.

Hearing a noise from the other side of the door, she jerked upright in the tub, crossing her arms over bare breasts. Thinking of the times Garrison had interrupted her baths on the trail, Willow hurried from the tub and wrapped a towel around her dripping hair. Cocking her head to one side, she listened intently as she took another large towel and began to dry. Her heartbeat returned to normal when no further sound came from the room. She wrapped the man-sized towel around herself and tucked the ends above her breasts.

It suddenly dawned on her that she was in a difficult situation -- alone with a man, who she really didn't know, even if he had taken care of her for the past week. The feminine bedroom in which she slept reflected a good example of how little she understood. Was Garrison York married? If so, how was he going to explain her to his wife?

And worse, how could he explain his actions when they had been alone? What right did he have to inflame her emotions if he already had a wife?

Good heavens -- what if she were married? She shook her head in denial. Willow was positive her heart would not play her false. If she belonged to another, she wouldn't betray him. That revelation didn't help explain how she was to fight Garrison’s strong appeal. An even more frightening thought crossed her mind. Did she want to?

Her contemplation had taken her from the bathroom back into the bedroom, which she found empty. Someone had been there, though, for on the bed lay a yellow gingham dress and matching slippers, along with a pair of white cotton pantalets. Hoping it had not been Garrison laying out clothes for her, especially underclothes, Willow found more questions cluttering her brain.

She decided the best way to get answers was to dress and remove herself from the room. She dropped the towel to the floor and stepped into the pantalets, then the dress. Surprised at the close fit, Willow buttoned up the front and tied the sash around her slim waist. Sliding her feet into the slippers, she moved to the vanity where she had left her comb. Beside it there was now a brush and a yellow hair ribbon.

Sitting in front of the mirror, Willow studied her suntanned reflection as she brushed the tangles from her hair. Freckles now dotted the bridge of her nose and her eyelashes and eyebrows were lightened from the sun. Her neck and tops of her shoulders were brown, too, and were set off by the yellow of the dress. Short, puffed sleeves capped her arms; the scooped neck accentuated the rise of her breasts.

Gathering the sides of her hair to the top, she tied it with the ribbon and let it flow free down her back. Now feeling much better, she turned from the mirror and set out to explore the house and gain some answers.

She got no further than the parlor outside her own door when breakfast smells wafted upstairs to remind her how hungry she was, and how long it had been since she had eaten a decent meal. Remembering the general direction they had taken the night before, she soon found herself in the kitchen. A wizen-faced Indian woman, wrapped in an apron twice her size, stood beside the cook stove.

"Good morning, Willow. I see you found the clothes Running Bear asked me to give you. Sit, and I will get you breakfast. Since I have known Running Bear many seasons, I know you did not eat much good food while you traveled here." Not waiting for a reply, the tiny woman turned back to the stove, spooning a large helping of eggs and bacon from the skillet onto a plate.

Willow did as she was told, for the smell of food had made her lightheaded. Eating swiftly, she washed down the delicious meal with a mug of hot coffee placed before her. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the Indian woman watching her, dark eyes seeming to look right into her mind.

"Excuse me. I didn't mean to eat without you. But it smelled so good, and I was hungry." Smiling, Willow extended a hand to an empty chair, indicating for the woman to sit with her.

Bringing the coffee pot to refill Willow's cup, the woman shook her head as she replied. "I have already eaten. Running Bear tell me to let you sleep, all day if you want."

Willow blushed at the thought that Garrison talked about her with this woman. She started to apologize for sleeping the morning away while everyone else worked.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. I see you've met Little Fists." His voice startled her, and she spun around as Garrison stepped through the doorway, filling the room with his presence. "It's not often I take time to show off my spread, but if you'd like, I'll introduce you to all those people you were asking about." His comment reminded Willow he had been absent from his ranch for two weeks. If not for her, he would have been here to supervise the work, but his lazy grin took the sting out of his words. She smiled shyly as he held the door wide and she stepped into the bright Montana sunshine.

"Why does Little Fists also call you Running Bear?" Willow took in Garrison's appearance. Though he had managed to shave on the trail, his appearance now portrayed a gentleman rancher rather than the rough cowhand. Even so, there was an aura of recklessness, perhaps danger, about him. The way he walked -- almost strutting -- let her know this was his domain. Snug black trousers clung to his thighs and slid down over the tops of black boots. A cambric shirt covering his broad shoulders was open at the throat, revealing a bright red bandanna around his neck. The wide brimmed hat shading his face didn't quite hide his sparkling blue eyes as he looked down at her.

"Ah, today the history of Timber Ridge. Tomorrow the legend of Running Bear…maybe." He flashed a heart-melting smile then took her by the elbow and gave her a tour of Timber Ridge. He pointed out the smokehouse, ice cellar and work area, which included barns, corrals and bunkhouse.

As they neared the corrals, Willow could see a cluster of men, some leaning against the rough board slats, some inside working the horses. Garrison's hand tightened slightly on her elbow as he led her towards the group, and Willow eyed them warily.

For all her talk of towns and people, she suddenly felt shy about meeting anyone. Her time on the trail with Garrison had left her feeling insecure. Since most of their conversations ended in arguments, she didn't know how to act towards the men who worked for him.

She needn't have worried. Living out on the ranch with only occasional trips to town, the men fell all over themselves trying to impress her. While Garrison scowled, she laughed in delight at their antics and the stories they told of life at Timber Ridge.

"Richard James Tyler, ma'am, RJ to my friends," the first man informed her as he tipped his hat. Of medium height and slim build, RJ's green eyes and straight blond hair gave him a boyish look. Garrison towered over him, but his frown didn't discourage RJ from talking.

As ranch foreman and boss in Garrison's absence, he wielded some power. However, as Willow listened to him talk, she sensed he would never abuse that power, or betray Garrison. There was respect in both his tone of voice and manner.

She stepped closer to Garrison when he introduced Luke. The man's dark, brooding eyes seemed to undress her as they traveled up and down her frame. A curt nod was his only outward show of acknowledgment before swinging his stocky body easily over the corral fence.

"Don't mind Luke, Miss Willow. He ain't one for socializing." Another man, older than the rest, spoke up in the silence. "Now me, on the other hand, take great pleasure in passing the time of day with the likes of a beautiful woman such as yerself."

Willow giggled as the speaker gallantly took her offered hand and raised it to his lips. He grinned wickedly as he began a discourse on how long he had known Garrison and all the trouble they had caused. His weathered face and kind, twinkling eyes told Willow here was a friend she could rely on.

Garrison interrupted. "That's enough, Whiskey. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed the quiet on the trail until I had to listen to your jabber-jawing again."

Willow turned to defend Whiskey against Garrison's rude remarks when she saw him grin as wide as the older man. She could see she would have to get used to their sense of humor.

"Aw, I wouldn't of made it for as many years as I have if'n I listened to you, young fella." Whiskey slapped his solid potbelly with both palms to emphasize his point. "Welcome to Timber Ridge, Miss Willow."

"Thank you for the welcome. After a week on the trail, it's marvelous to have the comfort of a real bed beneath me again." Willow smiled while both RJ and Whiskey just stared at her.

"A week? You mean y'all didn't stop at Columbia Falls, or even Kalispell? Why ever not?" Whiskey directed his question to Garrison, who looked somewhat uncomfortable.

Willow glanced from Garrison to Whiskey and back again. "Columbia Falls? Kalispell?" Her voice rose with each word. "You mean there were towns out there and you didn't stop?" She clutched her hands at her sides. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let any of them see her cry.

Before she realized it, she spoke out in anger, repeating a phrase she had heard on the reservation. "I should stake you out and let the coyotes eat you for supper." When RJ chuckled and Whiskey laughed aloud at her outburst, Willow clamped a hand over her mouth. Horrified at what she had said, she spun around and ran for the house. 

"Damn it, Whiskey. Anyone ever tell you, you have a big mouth?" Garrison turned angrily to his friend.

"Me? What'd I say?" Whiskey continued to chuckle. "Why was you hiding from the towns, anyway?"

Garrison realized Whiskey didn't know the circumstances and couldn't understand why he got so riled. Before he could explain, Whiskey continued to bait him.

"All morning you've been in a huff, like some old lady with her petticoats out of kilter. She running from the law?"

"I don't know what she's running from, and neither does she. Just mind your own damn business and stay out of mine."

Garrison knew the anger directed at his friend should be pointed inward. The night before had found him pacing the verandah long after he should have been in bed. Visions of long, silky hair blowing in the wind and generous curves molded to his hard planes had wrecked any thoughts of sleep.

Why hadn't he stopped at one of the towns? He could have sent out telegrams and talked to the sheriff. For some reason, he wasn't ready to share Willow. He wanted to be the one to discover her secret. He wanted to help her find herself and protect her from trouble. He wanted to kiss those lips and make love…

"Boss, you must have your reasons, that's for sure. I just hope you know what you're doing." This last comment came from RJ. Garrison figured RJ knew there was more to this than he would admit, but also knew his friend would keep silent unless Garrison asked his opinion. He nodded as RJ slapped him on the shoulder before he headed for the cookhouse with Whiskey.

Garrison stood alone in the yard trying to sort out his thoughts. One thing was clear. Willow had every right to be angry, and he'd better get things straightened out if they were to remain under the same roof.

He came into the house through the kitchen where he found Little Fists fixing a tray. He raised a brow in question.

Little Fists turned squarely to face him, hands on hips. Her black eyes snapped at him. In the space of a single morning, it appeared Willow had captured the loyalty of his ranch hands and Little Fists.

"Willow very mad. She went to the parlor. I will bring her tea."

Garrison had the grace to blush. Realizing this might be harder than he thought, he set his coffee on the tray then took it from Little Fists, who seemed reluctant to release it.

"I want to help her," he said. "Don't worry; I will take care of her."

Willow had stormed through the house and ended up in the front parlor, standing near large windows that looked out to the mountains. She had embarrassed herself and Garrison in front of his men, and for that she felt remorse. Regardless of the fact he was a beast, she shouldn't have yelled. To clear her mind of unpleasant thoughts, she tried to absorb the beauty that surrounded her.

A huge expanse of green grass swept out from the house. Tall pines and cedars framed the most breath-taking view of the mountains, their peaks rising to touch the clouds. Shimmering blue cut through the various shades of green, and Willow realized there was a lake practically at the doorstep. Not a pond, but a whole lake. Feeling the house close in on her, she reached for the handle of the door to step outside when a voice stopped her.

"Running away, again? Perhaps Thunder Bow should have named you Running Doe."

Sparks flew as Willow rounded on him. "Is that how you got the name, Running Bear, because you ran away from something?" Willow clamped a hand across her mouth, not liking what she had said, especially since Garrison had been kind enough to bring her into his home. But it just seemed he brought out the worst in her. To keep from saying something else she might regret, she turned to stare out the window, hoping he would go away.

Garrison guessed he deserved that. He realized he had used the wrong approach. No matter how good his intentions, this woman brought out the worst in him. Trying again, he smiled as he set the tray on the table.

"Look, I know you don't understand why I bypassed the towns. Until we have some idea of your identity, you don't even know if you're in trouble. Can't you at least give me the benefit of the doubt and think that I may have been trying to protect you?"

Sad, brown eyes held a hint of moisture as she turned to answer him. "You're probably right. There's so much I don't understand. Sometimes I feel I should be the elegant lady and have the best manners, and other times I feel more comfortable in your trousers and shirt." A blush stole over her cheeks, and she turned back to the window.

Garrison had thought there were definite advantages when Willow had worn his pants, but seeing her in the yellow gingham, he wasn't so sure. The thin material clung to her breasts and narrow waist, gently falling in soft folds over her hips. Her hair hung in curls down her back past her waist, and his fingers itched to tangle in it.

"Oh, I don't know. You look quite at home in Mollie's dress."

"Mollie's?" Surprise registered on her face.

"Mollie was supposed to visit this summer, but plans changed. Knowing the belles of Philadelphia, I figured she'd bring trunks of satins and velvets and such. Out here, the ladies don't dress as fancy, so I bought that for her at Kila."

"Kila? Is that another one of those towns that weren't?"

Grinning sheepishly, Garrison strolled over and offered her his hand. "I apologize for my boorish behavior. Can we call a truce? I saw you eyeing the water -- would you like to take a walk?"

Willow's face lit with delight. She took his hand, allowing him to escort her from the house and down the trail. The water beckoned, and it didn't take long before her yellow slippers laid beside a log and she splashed along the shore, gathering her skirts up and unknowingly giving Garrison a show of shapely calves.

Garrison sat in the grass, elbows on upraised knees, marveling at her carefree spirit. He found her laughter contagious, and chuckled as she splashed him with water and beckoned him to wade with her.

A delightful smile played on her face and the wind blew her loose hair over one shoulder. She was a sight to behold, silhouetted against the lake. Yellow was her color, he decided. Bright as the sun, like her face when she smiled. He made a note to buy her more yellow dresses -- and that hat he had promised.

Deciding to join her, he had one boot off and was tugging on the other when her words stopped him cold. He didn't dare breathe for fear of interrupting her dialogue, so he sat with one foot crossed uncomfortably over the other knee.

"This is marvelous," giggled Willow. "We don't have lakes like this at home, you know. There aren't even any ponds to speak of, unless you count the one in City Park." Dropping her skirts, she fanned out her arms to slowly spin in a circle, the hem of her dress skimming the shallow water. "It's so wide open and beautiful here. Back home houses are close together, and so many of the trees have been cut to make way for more houses." Spinning to a stop, her smile faded. "Whatever is wrong?"

Garrison's foot dropped to the ground with a thud as he bolted upright and rushed to the edge of the water where she stood, now looking at him with a frightened expression. When he grabbed her arms in his excitement, she recoiled and gasped. He gentled his hold but couldn't keep the impatience from his voice as he spoke.

"Do you realize what you just said?"

"Well, of course I do. I was talking about my…home." The last word came out in a whisper as her face paled and her eyes widened.

"How do you know you live in a city?" He shook her slightly in his exuberance.

Delicate shoulders shrugged within his grasp. "Sometimes things just pop into my head, but I know they're true. It just happens."

"Is there anything else -- a particular building, perhaps?"

Garrison watched as Willow concentrated, but then she shook her head, unable to recall anything more about her former existence.

"It doesn't matter," Garrison told her as he held her in a gentle embrace. “It will all come back to you in good time.” Silently, he tucked away another bit of information to think on later.

* * *

Willow struggled against the oppressive black that held her prisoner. She cried out, but no one heard; no one came to save her. The blackness suffocated her; she gasped for air, frantically clawing against some unknown force that seemed to weight her down.

Large shadows stood all around her. She searched the darkness but couldn't see their faces. Eerie voices floated across her, the same phrase repeated over and over -- "you must get rid of her."

"N…O…O!"

One word, screamed in the night, echoed in Garrison's brain as he frantically pulled on a pair of trousers and crashed through doors to Willow's room. Without stopping to light the lamp, he lunged for the wildcat thrashing on the bed. He groaned as a knee struck close to his manhood. Sharp nails tried to tear at his arms.

Knowing his superior strength could hurt her, he allowed her more leeway than he would anyone else with whom he was in a life or death struggle. Her eyes were open wide but unfocused. Her head whipped from side to side, her hair flying in all directions. Tangled strands caught in his fingers as he tried to subdue her.

He could feel her fear as though it was a tangible substance, and it gave her uncommon strength. Using his weight for leverage, he stretched out atop her, finally capturing her hands with his. One leg locked around both of hers as he looped a foot behind his other knee and applied enough pressure to stop her kicking.

He muffled her next scream with his mouth. His lips descended on hers; not in passion, but in a desperate attempt to bring her to her senses. As she slowly ceased her struggles, his kiss changed to a gentle touch, his tongue flicking out to tease the corners of her mouth.

When Garrison felt her tension ease, he relaxed the pressure on her legs and wrists. As he slid to her side, he slowly released her mouth. He lifted his head to survey her face, visible in the dark only because he was so close. Clearly awake now, her dark fringed eyes gave no indication as to whether she was angry with him about the kiss. He could see a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow and knew she still hovered near the black abyss of her nightmare.

He continued to hold her, his lips caressing her forehead with light kisses. Once she relaxed against him, he spoke.

"The next fight I'm in, I want you on my side." His remark was meant to calm and reassure her, but she tensed beside him.

"No, you don't. I couldn't get away. Something held me down, and I couldn't move. The shadows were there, and I couldn't do anything." As she spoke, tears welled up, and sobs shook her body. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the tears running freely down her face and into her hair. She kept her hands clutched tight at her sides, her body rigid.

"I can't remember," she cried, "but I know I didn't act very brave."

Garrison cradled her close. She was so cold. He rubbed her arms and back, trying to get the blood flowing again. He sucked in his breath, feeling as though he had also experienced her terror at the unknown assailants.

He had never been so in tune with another's feelings, and he wasn't at all sure he liked it. He realized he was scared -- scared that he couldn't protect her from the demons that came at her in the night.

He lay beside her, soothing with soft strokes to her back and a gentle touch to her cheek. Although he was physically aroused, he felt an even stronger urge. He wanted more than anything to comfort her; to protect her as though she were his.

Yes, his. He didn't know how it was going to happen. He had long ago given up predicting the future, but the Blackfoot had a strong belief in destiny, and in that, Garrison agreed. There was a reason Thunder Bow had called on Garrison to help Willow, and while that reason might be unknown to the two of them at present, their lives were already entwined. The problem now -- how could he help her when he knew so little about her?

She turned and curled closer to him. His hand slid down to capture hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. They would think of something. If she could just remember specifics -- a name or place. His index finger, idly rubbing against hers, scraped against her ring and he had his answer.

He would wire a friend in San Francisco with a description of Willow and the ring. He knew she had to have come by way of San Francisco since the only stage traveling through these parts originated in that city.

Willow curled cozily in the crook of Garrison’s arm. Cozy, maybe, but she was not content. That strange warmth again coiled in the center of her. Hot liquid seemed to flow outward until her entire body tingled. It frightened yet excited her, and Willow wished she had the courage to explore the feelings further.

She already felt safe with Garrison, feeling the strength in his broad shoulders and long arms. As much as he tried to be tough, she knew he had a gentle nature. He seemed especially gentle and protective with her when the terrifying nightmares came. She liked the feeling of having his protection, even if she didn't care for his domineering and argumentative manner.

She had no right to care for him, though. After all, what did she have to offer? She might be some criminal trying to escape punishment. As she inhaled his scent of tobacco and whiskey, she sighed, wishing time stood still and they could remain here forever.

She glanced at the Dreamcatcher hanging above her bed. The beads reflected moonlight, winking at her as if they held great secrets.

"Please, oh, please," she silently pleaded. "If you have any power at all, catch my dream and allow me to find happiness."

 

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