After a brief, reassessing silence, Caleb lifted a black eyebrow and offered Willow his arm. She ignored the mockery implicit in his polite gesture, for she was certain Caleb was not a man whose actions were ruled by politeness. Despite that, she placed her fingertips on his sleeve in a graceful gesture that had been drilled into her in the years before the war had ended all need for gracious manners.

«Thank you, Mr. Black,» Willow murmured.

The slight drawl and contralto huskiness of her voice brushed over Caleb’s nerves like a caress. The warm, gentle weight of her fingers sent heat rippling through his body. He hardened with a violent rush that shocked him, for he had never allowed himself to be at the mercy of his own lust. It angered him that his body responded with such primitive eagerness to Willow’s haunting voice and alluring curves.

With too much interest for his own comfort, Caleb wondered if Willow would come to a man with honest passion or if Reno’s «wife» was simply a cold, pretty whore who would open her legs for any man who had a piece of silver in one hand and his hunger in the other. Caleb had no use for whores, including the traditional one.

Across the lobby a short, stocky man stood up slowly and gestured toward them. Hissuitcoat was of a dull broadcloth, his shirt was boiled, and like many men in the West, his pants had formerly been part of a military uniform.

«There’s Mr. Edwards,» Willow said.

«You sound relieved,» Caleb observed.

«Mr. Edwards spoke very highly of you.»

«And you think he was lying.»

Willow stopped walking. Automatically Caleb stopped as well, missing the gentle pressure of her fingertips on his forearm.

«Mr. Black,» Willow began, then faltered when his bleak, whiskey-colored eyes focused on her. She took a breath and began again. «I have apologized for offending you. I truly meant no insult. Your appearance surprised me, that’s all. I was expecting a man twice your age, a scholar of military campaigns, a silver-haired, old-fashioned —»