By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

  An acquiescing moan followed. Abruptly, he straightened her and when his pressure lifted from her lips, Emaline’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyelids shuttered open and through a shimmering veil, she watched his mouth shift sideways into a smirk. The sight slammed hard against her ragged nerves. The fragile flame of desire, so precious and new, sputtered and then flickered out.

  Unable to force words past her tingling lips, she simply stared up at him. Deep inside, however, she found her fury. Like a soothing balm, she smeared it across her heart, praying all the while for God’s flaming hand to strike him dead on the very spot he stood. With their gazes still locked, he reached sideways and retrieved his hat from the desk, then settled it upon his head.

  A heartbeat later, both he and her leather-bound ledger were gone.

  Click here to purchase NO GREATER GLORY for your Kindle:

  With Open Arms

  A war-weary ex-soldier. An untamable woman. Love doesn’t stand a chance in hell…

  The Cutteridge Series, Book Two

  Hardened in childhood by the death of her parents, then left to run the family’s southwestern territory ranch when her brother rode off to fight for the Union years before, Callie Cutteridge hides her heartbreak behind a mask of self-sufficiency. Breaking horses for the army proves she’s neither delicate nor helpless. When a former cavalry officer shows up claiming to own her brother’s half of the Arizona ranch, she steels herself to resist the handsome stranger’s intention to govern even one single aspect of her life. After all, loving means losing…to her it always has.

  For months, Jackson Neale has looked forward to putting the bloodstained battlefields back east behind him. Callie isn’t the agreeable angel her brother led him to believe, but he’s damned well not the useless rake this foul-mouthed hellion thinks he is, either. His quest for calm stability contradicts sharply with her need for control, yet still their heartstrings tangle. But how can these angry, mistrusting partners transform their fiery passion into happily-ever-after when all Callie knows how to do is fight... and all Jackson wants is peace?

  Click here to purchase WITH OPEN ARMS for your Kindle:

  Enjoy the following excerpt from With Open Arms:

  The warmth of day vanished with remarkable speed, shrouding the desert under a bonechilling twilight. Murky shadows crept across the Rincons’ rocky ridgeline as Jackson Neale slipped into the concealing darkness. Seasoned by four years of war, his body tensed with a caution that defined survival. His fingers folded around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Colt. He could count on one hand the people he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia, and knew with absolute certainty the person riding into camp tonight wasn’t one of them. Only a fool would enter without hailing first, yet this stranger displayed a boldness that amazed him.

  In stony silence, the uninvited guest guided a horse toward the saddlebags by the fire. Small, flickering flames inside the ring of fieldstones washed a glow across the bay’s ruddy flank.

  His gaze moved upward.

  Mexican spurs strapped around the heels of silver-tipped boots caught the fire’s glint. Leather batwing chaps encased long legs. And despite the chill, a jacket hung open to reveal a .44-caliber Remington strapped around denim-covered hips. A flat-brimmed hat, its crown encircled with a concha band of hammered silver, hid the face of the evening caller.

  The visitor dropped to the ground, the rowels on the spurs chinking when they hit the sand. He glanced around, then crouched on a knee beside the saddlebags.

  Jackson tightened his lips as all caution evaporated. He knew full well how to deal with bandits, having met a few already on his ride westward. He bolted from the shadows and slammed full-force into the unsuspecting thief. Momentum drove them both to the ground. In an instant, he pinned the fool against the sand. His right hand rose in a tight fist, his left shifting across the cotton plaid shirtfront to seek a firmer grip. In an instant, all the fight, all the pent-up energy, everything inside him dissolved. He’d never be too cold or too tired to forget the lushness of a female breast.

  His eyes widened as his arm dropped to his side.

  On a sharp breath, he rasped, “You’re…you’re a woman. I thought you were—”

  “Get off me, you stupid son of a…”

  The profanity spilled from her mouth with such ease that Jackson swallowed a lungful of air. Indigo eyes blazed up at him like shards of broken glass, and wild wisps of sunstained hair danced against the curve of her cheek. Swathed beneath layers of trail dust, the hellion’s hard edge and tone of voice contrasted sharply with what his eyes told him about the rest of her. His heart responded with an engaging hitch, but he blamed the rush of heat that flushed his face on the nearby campfire, not the comical fact that this frosty little tart had taken him by complete surprise.

  He gained control of his emotions. “Why are you riflin’ through my gear?”

  Leather-gloved hands rose to thump against his chest. “I said get off me. I…can’t breathe.”

  He shifted sideways, pushing against the ground to stand. With a muffled oath, Jackson staggered back another step as she bolted to her feet. She bent to retrieve her hat and slapped it against her thigh. As she did, his gaze raked down the noteworthy curves of her body. Her masculine outfit provided a disguise, yet closer inspection did little to hide her figure. The fringe on her leather chaps rode both shapely legs, and the sight reminded him of the pleasures a woman could offer—sultry, sexy and full of endless possibilities. In this particular woman, however, all softness appeared to end with the supple leather.

  Anger sealed her mouth, and the scowl that creased her features indicated not a shred of sweetness filled her body, either.

  An involuntary clench seized his jaw. “Good God, woman, I could’ve killed you.”

  She issued an impatient huff. “I live with danger every day, so your words barely register.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she twisted her hair into a knot atop her head, then jammed her hat back over the tarnished curls.

  Jackson had never expected to see such a raw woman, and the enmity in her bright eyes held all the subtlety of baying hounds. She cursed cruder than a camp-following whore, but she’d die young if she needed to steal from a passerby to survive. He peered into the darkness but heard no other threatening sounds. She obviously rode alone. His attention drifted back. “Since you’re so nicely groomed now, start explaining what you’re doing in my camp.”

  “Your camp?” Her razor-sharp laugh bit straight through him. “You might think this is your camp, but you’re standing on Cutteridge land and I own every damn acre.” The heat in her eyes branded him where he stood. “And, I sure don’t recall giving you permission to trespass here or anywhere else.”

  Her statement brought Jackson up short. He’d ridden more than twenty-five miles today, but hadn’t figured on reaching Cutteridge property until sometime tomorrow morning. The image on a faded daguerreotype, tucked beside the worn map in his saddlebag, flashed across his mind. The woman’s likeness, given to him months ago by his colonel, had been branded into memory. There was barely a whisper of resemblance between the serene beauty reflected in his picture and the foul-mouthed hellion who stood before him now. Somehow, Jackson kept the blistering bile of disappointment from reaching his voice. “Cutteridge land, is it?”

  “You heard me clear enough.” Her expression hardened as she pressed closer. She brought her point closer still. “All Cutteridge. And all mine.”

  From somewhere beyond the campfire’s light, the forlorn howl of a coyote underscored her words. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils. Jackson’s nerves constricted as the woman’s words slipped around him like a noose. And tightened. He tipped back his head and stared at the wide expanse of stars inundating the ebony canvas above him. “Oh God,” he mumbled, the lump in his throat refusing to move. “Please don’t let this shrew be Colleen Cutteridge.”

  * * * *

  A bolt of raw adrenaline shot through Callie when th
e sound of her given name spilled from the tall, hard-angled man. Her pulse hammered in her chest. She squared her shoulders, her chin jutting higher as his gaze reconnected with hers.

  “We’ve never met,” she snapped. “I’d have remembered you.” Obviously, he wasn’t some cowpoke looking to encroach on her land. Not this one. A red flag rippled inside her, and

  she pointed to the campfire in an attempt to hide her unease. “I spotted this a half mile away, you imbecile. A fire this bright’s a blatant invitation for Apache lookin’ to lift a scalp.”

  Stupid oaf.

  A smug smile lifted the man’s lips and a slash of white appeared. “I appreciate the warning.”

  From his chiseled jaw carved straight from granite, to his cool, collected calmness, the man possessed an ease of manner that unnerved Callie, and she didn’t appreciate the feeling one damn bit. A stubborn spirit, her companion and strength these past five years, spiked through her. She rubbed her midriff where his thighs had bruised her ribs. And for one disturbing moment, she couldn’t help but admire his impressive strength. Granted, he’d bruised her ego more than her body, but—

  Callie caught her thoughts and jerked them back into control, exactly where she liked things best. She took a full step backward, the silver rowel on her boot heel chinking across the tension. “Look, mister, I don’t give a squat if the Apache scalp you this night or the next. I just don’t want the bloody deed done on my ranch.” Her fingers curled around the grip of her revolver as her gaze scanned his belongings, then moved on to the durable horse waiting in the shadows. “I could shoot you myself for trespassing and spare the Apache the trouble of killin’ you. Or…” her gaze drifted back to lock with his, “…you can gather your gear, saddle that fine Morgan you’ve got line-tied over there, and get the hell off my land.”

  Seconds passed like hours before the dark-haired man bent to retrieve his hat.

  He straightened, pulling the brim of a sweat-stained Stetson low upon his head. Through dark, cold eyes, he stared at her.

  With each thump of her heart, the stranger’s unnerving quiet further frayed her

  nerves. A log from the campfire shifted deeper into the flames, sending a shower of sparks heavenward. The pungent aroma of burning mesquite filled her nostrils and fused with a raw, unspoken awareness that sizzled from the man.

  He leaned forward, the brim of his hat bumping against hers. The thinnest hint of amusement lifted his lips. “It appears I won’t be riding from your life quite so soon.” His words were too soft, too controlling. “And this land isn’t just your land any longer.” Without removing his gaze, he reached into his frock coat. With the speed of a striking diamondback, an envelope appeared in his leather-gloved hand, then rose between them until level with her eyes. “The name’s Jackson Neale and this makes me your new partner.”

  Click here to purchase WITH OPEN ARMS for your Kindle:

  An Unlikely Hero

  He’s a hard-as-stone scout with a broken past...and she’s a reminder of all he’s lost...

  The Cutteridge Series, Book Three

  Rugged army scout Dillon Reed has met his match in spoiled Boston debutante Alma Talmadge, but an unwanted assignment escorting the beauty across the wilds of America soon evolves into a journey of monumental change for them both. With killers hot on their trail, the odds of staying alive are stacked against them…and yet, falling in love was nowhere in their plans for survival.

  Click here to purchase AN UNLIKELY HERO for your Kindle:

  Enjoy the following excerpt for An Unlikely Hero:

  Washington D.C.,

  May 1873

  Who in the hell came up with this asinine plan?

  Dillon Reed grimaced at the stench of burning coal as he jammed the colonel’s telegram into his coat pocket. He cut his gaze across the station platform to the nearby locomotive. In a deluge of color, passengers descended the railcar’s iron steps; he kept his attention riveted on the opening.

  An exasperated sigh escaped from between clenched teeth. He’d delivered the governor’s territorial reports to Washington in just under three weeks, a remarkable time, and he looked forward to a swift, unencumbered return home. But, when he’d checked the telegraph office for messages before heading out, this newest malarkey of an assignment waited. He’d also been instructed to shave and freshen-up prior to meeting this train from Boston, but Hell’s chambers would freeze solid before Dillon would make the effort.

  I’m an army scout, for Christ’s sake, not some damn nanny.

  A grating responsibility rolled into focus when a peach-colored parasol, the signal he’d been awaiting, popped open to fill the train’s doorway. Dillon shoved from the depot’s wall and straightened, the crown of his slouch hat bumping a sign that read Washington, District of Columbia – The Capitol of Your Country. The plank swung back and forth on squeaky hinges.

  Heat fused with anger when his contact’s traveling boot glided to the first iron step. Good God, her entire foot could fit in his right hand.

  His gaze climbed a dark-green dress rigged with a ridiculous bustled contraption, raked over a fur encircling slender shoulders like a buffalo mane, then finally came to a stop on golden curls swirling upward into a tarnished knot. Atop the silken mass, a scrap of hat perched at a cockeyed angle. A dozen blue and green ribbons fluttered in the afternoon breeze with all the spectacle of a peahen.

  Dillon’s throat tightened as the woman descended to the platform, radiant among the other travelers. Her ability to stand out in a crowd added another sting to the onerous assignment. For a full minute, he waited while she scanned the throng, anxiousness shadowing her face. Narrow of waist, she stood barely five feet tall…a good stiff wind would blow her over.

  Another curse welled inside him as the urge to walk away warred against every ounce of military commitment he possessed. What did he do to the colonel to deserve such wretched torment? Dillon straightened, then stepped from the shadows of the depot to collect his damnable…assignment.

  Boots thumped against weathered wood as each stride echoed his resentment. How could this slip of lace endure the miles they’d have to travel, or the harsh sun of the desert? Christ Almighty, she’d end up sick or dead and slung over his saddle in no time. As his shadow darkened the woman’s diminutive form, he retrieved the telegram from his coat pocket, then tightened his jaw.

  “Alma Talmadge?” he snapped.

  She swung to face him, her eyes widening.

  Dillon thrust the telegram forward, his words cleaving the air. “Per these instructions from your uncle, I’ve been assigned as your escort on the trip westward to Fort Lowell.”

  A well-shaped brow arched with suspicion. Her mouth tightened as she abruptly scanned the words, her golden-tipped eyelashes raising and lowering with each haughty sweep. A moment later, her gaze lanced back to his. “I was told to expect a proper attendant.”

  “Proper?” he snorted. “I’m as proper as you’re gonna get.”

  Her attention riveted on his sweat-stained Stetson, then slid all the way down him to his scuffed-up cavalry boots. When their gazes reconnected, disgust dulled the spark in her indigo eyes. “But … you’re no gentleman.”

  “Where we’re going, lady the last thing you’ll need is one of those dupes who can’t find his ass with both hands.”

  Repulsion cascaded scarlet across her face. She pressed a dainty, lace-edged hankie to the column of her throat. “I cannot possibly travel with the unkempt likes of you. Y-You’re not even clean.”

  The insistent urge to walk away blistered deeper. “The job is to deliver you safely to the fort…which I intend to do. Cleanliness does not increase my skill.”

  Her gloved hand clenched the ivory handle of her parasol.

  And a streak of hope shot straight through Dillon.

  With God’s own luck, maybe she’d turn tail and scurry back aboard the train.

  Instead, her chin rose. Along with his disgruntlement.

  “When I lef
t Boston, Father assured me I would be comfortable with the arrangements.” If she’d carved her words into a block of ice and handed them over, her obvious loathing

  of him could not have been colder.

  Dillon scanned her smooth forehead, the silken hollows beneath her cheekbones, her pale and polished skin. He leaned down, his body dwarfing hers. “Did he also mention we’re not going on some afternoon jaunt here? And there’s no changing your mind once you start missing the lavish amenities of home.”

  He bumped the brim of his hat against the parasol’s silk ruching. “And once we’re past Fort Hays, there’s no more trains. No embroidered cushions. No luxuries of any kind. In fact, it’ll just be me and you and an unforgiving trail back to Tucson.” He narrowed his gaze. “We’ll be moving fast -- by stagecoach, if we’re lucky, by horseback, or on foot, if we’re not. And the last quarter of the trip will be through desert, where the heat can kill even able-bodied men.”

  Confident he’d made his point, Dillon eased back. In fact, he’d surrender a full month’s pay without a moment’s hesitation to decline this idiotic assignment. “Now I’m not sugarcoatin’ this one damn bit so you still have time to reconsider.”

  He crumpled the colonel’s telegram into a tight wad, then jammed the paper into his coat pocket.

  The woman merely jutted her chin. “Lord Green assured me it would be an easy journ--”

  “Lord Green should’ve told you the damn truth,” he cut in. Whoever the bastard was, he needed his ass kicked clean into next week. Dillon grimaced. He just couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. “And to spare any woman from realism is neither admirable nor honest. I’ll be sure to remind the sonofabitch of this fact should we ever meet.”