AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  A horse and rider cantered passed.

  With a curse, Dillon stepped back. Dust settled around him in a fine haze as the colonel’s telegram burned a hole in his pocket. I should’ve been warned about this before I even laid eyes on the woman.

  Across the way, the Rale House Hotel door opened. A man sauntered out. Lean. With wavy, light-colored hair.

  Their gazes locked.

  Eyes narrowing, the stranger left the boardwalk and strode straight toward him. “Bet you’re looking for someone, aren’t you?” he asked, stopping directly in front of him.

  Dillon studied the man from the top of a neatly-groomed head, where cinnamon-infused pomade controlled the golden locks, over his dark, well-cut frock coat and trousers, and down to immaculate boots. This foppish bastard knows something about her? “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  The man halted in front of him. “And I bet she’s beautiful, too…isn’t she?”

  Dillon nudged back the side of his jacket, then rested his right palm against the warm butt of his Colt. “Some might think so. And unless you want to ruin your fancy coat with a bullet in your gut, I better start hearin’ who you are and where the hell she is.”

  The stranger raised his hands in mock surrender as a smile touched his lips. “Now settle down, Mister Reed.” He chuckled. “There’s no need to get all riled up. I’m just joshin’ you.”

  He knows me? Alma’s life could be in danger, he didn’t have time to waste playing games. “I’m also not in a joshing mood, so you’ve got less than one second to start talkin’.”

  The popinjay extended a hand. “Name’s George Custer. And your lovely Miss Talmadge is over yonder in the Rale House enjoying petit fours and tea with my wife, Libby. Seems they’re old acquaintances.”

  Relief swamped Dillon. On a rough sigh, he tugged his duster back over his sidearm. “Well, I’m damn glad to hear this.” His pulse eased back another notch as the man’s name finally registered. “Custer, you said?”

  “That’s correct. George Custer, at your service.”

  Dillon slid his palm into the still-outstretched hand. “As in General George Armstrong Custer?”

  A shadow crossed the man’s features, then just as quickly disappeared. “War’s over, Reed. I’m a Colonel with the Regulars now, with the 7th Cavalry.” He pumped their hands twice before letting go.

  A rush of blood warmed Dillon’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, sir. Didn’t realize you were military.” This infamous man had developed quite a reputation during the late rebellion. On several occasions even Colonel Talmadge had regaled his comrades with the exploits, both good and bad, of the fast-rising legend who many also called Ringlets. Dillon fought to contain a smile.

  “Duly noted. Besides, I wouldn’t expect you to know, since I’m on leave and out of uniform.” Custer sidestepped, and then gestured over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve been sent out to fetch you to the ladies.”

  Dillon nodded, stepped around the officer, and then crossed the dusty street with Custer.

  They entered the cool interior of the Rale House Hotel. Now that Alma Talmadge was safe, Dillon itched to wring her damn neck. His fingers flexed. No. He longed to sweep her into his arms and thank God she was safe.

  What the hell’s wrong with me? She’s my job. Nothing more.

  The mouth-watering aroma of coffee and roasted meat enveloped him as he crossed the threshold of a well-appointed entry hall. Of the many times he’d been through Fort Riley, he’d never entered this building.

  Above his head a fancy gasolier, similar to the one he’d seen in St. Louis, shone light down the corridor that served as a divider between two dining rooms. A red-and-black plaid rug hugged the floor.

  To his left a hotel clerk worked behind the high front counter, and near him, a bannister, polished to a fine sheen, complimented the stairway to the hotel’s second-floor. Snugged against the back of each riser, thin brass rods held a woolen runner in place. Reflected light from the lamps glinted off each shiny dowel.

  Nodding to the hotel concierge, Dillon headed down the corridor, his footfalls muffled in the plush wool. The sound of clanking dishes and muted conversations emanated from the room on his right.

  Pausing at the arched entry, the colonel at his side, Dillon squinted against sunlight pouring through the glass panes on a far wall. Colorful curtains, the same design as beneath his feet, dressed the bank of windows. He scanned the patrons and stopped. With her customary apt deportment, Miss Talmadge listened to a woman sitting opposite her.

  And then she laughed, humor brightening the incredible blue of her eyes.

  Tightness radiated across his chest, forcing the already damnable lump in his throat to swell. Christ Almighty, the colonel was right. Even in her travel-worn state, Miss Alma Talmadge was indeed a most beautiful woman.

  ***

  A movement near the doorway drew Alma’s gaze. Her breath caught as Dillon’s masculine frame filled the opening. The gasoliers in the hallway tossed shadows across his broad shoulders. Embraced by such elegant trappings, he looked flustered and out-of-place. Despite his disheveled appearance, he carried himself with such…purpose. A bewildering glint brightened his dark eyes, sparking an intensity more unsettling than the brooding glances he’d bestowed upon her since first they’d met.

  A flutter inside her heart swept her lips upward into a smile.

  Stop it. She doused her response. He deserves no cheer. If not for Libby’s miraculous appearance, I’d still be sitting out on the bench. Alma glanced at her friend’s husband. Dillon Reed could learn a thing or two about manners from George Armstrong Custer. And yet…Alma’s attention drifted back to the scout. The anomalous glint she’d noticed in his eyes had disappeared.

  Disappointment festered inside.

  Alma skimmed her focus to her dining companion who waved the two men over to join

  them. Libby leaned toward her. “Oh my, I had no idea your escort was quite so…virile.”

  Heat spread across Alma’s cheeks as the men approached. She stole a glance at Dillon as she clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Virile? Well, yes. I suppose if he were clean...

  The soothing tones of Colonel Custer’s words leveled the disorder inside her. “Ladies, I have found our missing attendant.” He clapped his arm around Dillon’s shoulders. “Although I must confess, for a moment there I feared for my life.”

  Libby’s eyebrow arched. “Your life, Autie? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Yes,” the colonel continued as he and Dillon settled at the table. “My new friend here threatened to shoot me if I didn’t share the whereabouts of…” His gaze slid to Alma. “…you. Seems he was in a most worrisome state over your safety.”

  Alma forced a smile. “Well, I do believe worry is one of his job responsibilities.” Heat, nonetheless, continued its sweep down her neck. She avoided Dillon’s glare. His exasperated sigh, however, reached over to re-jumble her nerves.

  “Perhaps so,” Dillon said, a tight smile thinning his lips. “But to save us both further discord, I suggest you advising me of any plan changes before they occur.”

  Libby placed her hand upon Dillon’s arm and patted. “I fear this is all my fault, Mister Reed.”

  Alma didn’t miss her extra squeeze.

  “And I apologize for her disappearance.” Her old friend gave him a charming smile. “I didn’t realize she was waiting for you until after the fact, and I was so surprised to see her sitting there that I practically dragged her inside with me.”

  Dillon’s gaze shifted to the colonel’s wife, and his countenance softened. “Of course I understand, Mrs. Custer, and I accept your apology.”

  “Good heavens!” She swatted his arm. “I insist you call me Libby. Otherwise, I’ll think you’re addressing Autie’s mother.” The dimple in her chin deepened.

  Several patrons vacated a nearby table, drawing Alma’s attention. As soon as they turned the corner, a waiter appeared. He whisked away the dishes, and with a flick of his wr
ist settled a new cloth into place. A cool breeze brushed her flushed cheeks.

  Dillon leaned back in his chair, his action reclaiming Alma’s stare. “So tell me, Libby, how are you and Miss Talmadge acquainted?” His markedly charming demeanor irritated Alma. The entire time they’d been traveling, he’d yet to address her in such fawning tones, not when a grunt or clipped nod would suffice. Alma focused on her cut-crystal water glass. She refused the ludicrous urge to gulp the remainder to squelch the dryness in her throat.

  “Well, I attended finishing school with her cousin, Pamela,” Libby explained, “and spent several seasons at the Talmadges’ summer retreat in Rhode Island. Of course, our Alma, here, was but a youngster back then, all ribbons and curls and so full of curiosity.”

  Libby’s accounting nudged sweet memories from Alma’s youth. She smiled. “Yes. And I felt so grown-up spending time with you both. Why, I even begged to tag along to every soiree and social occasion. My nanny, however, kept me safely ensconced at home.” She glanced at Dillon. “You see, every summer for years, Father sent us to Newport. ‘Twas away from the scalawags of Boston.”

  Libby sighed. “Oh how I loved those parties in the parlor.”

  Though Alma had been too young to participate in the revelry, she well-remembered watching from the upstairs landing as the events unfolded below. She, too, sighed. “But then, Father sold the estate, and soon thereafter our country became embroiled in the horrid unpleasantness of war.”

  “Horrid is a fitting word,” George added, a fleeting sadness darkening his eyes. “Those years changed many things. Some good. Others not so good.”

  Dillon nodded. “War’s insanity reached all the way out west. There was even a fight with the Rebs in the Picacho Mountains near Tucson. But, now we’re just fighting Apache.”

  Alma edged aside her empty luncheon plate. Sunlight bounced off the gold-limed fleur-de-lis gracing the border of the Limoges china. She focused on the pattern. If only the symbolic lilies could aid her in her emotions regarding the scout as fully as they had Joan of Arc when the flower emblem graced the banner she’d held as she led her troops into battle.

  “Goodness gracious, enough about war and fighting,” Libby said, breaking through Alma’s solemn musings. “I’d much rather converse about the pleasantries of parties.” She glanced at Alma and then Dillon. “So, please allow me to extend an invitation to you both to attend one this very evening.”

  Alma leaned forward. “A…party?”

  “Yes. One of George’s former commanders is hosting a soiree in honor of our visit. We would love for you to join us.”

  Alma could barely contain her glee. “Why, that would almost be like old times.” Her gaze leveled on Dillon. “And I am checking in with you, Mister Reed...to keep the harmony, I mean. Oh, we must attend.”

  She knew she had struck a disagreeable chord when his jaw retightened. “Unfortunately, Miss Talmadge, our train leaves in a few hours.”

  “Schedules can be adjusted, Reed,” Custer cut in. “In fact, a westbound train leaves daily from the fort.” He reached for his wife’s hand and smiled. “One thing I’ve learned with marriage: Keeping a lady happy makes a man’s life more peaceful.”

  Libby smiled and squeezed his hand, then her gaze shifted to Dillon’s. “That’s exactly right, Mister Reed. Plus, a break from travelling will do wonders for Alma’s wellbeing. We ladies do not do well when we are ruffled.”

  The scout remained silent. With deliberate slowness, he bent his elbows and settled them on the arms of his chair. Staring at Alma, he clasped his hands before him and steepled his fingers. She tried to swallow, tried to look away, tried to calm her pounding pulse. But, that odd glimmer she’d seen in his eyes had returned.

  How she longed for a battle banner to wave in front of him now.

  Instead, she settled for the next best thing and tossed out her own challenging gauntlet. “I would dearly love to attend, Libby, but I’m afraid I have nothing to wear. You see, Mister Reed freighted all my gowns and accessories westward. I’ve only this traveling outfit, which, of course, is inappropriate for evening wear.”

  Alma narrowed her eyes.

  Dillon smiled.

  Libby dropped her napkin beside the plate. “Not a problem at all, my darling. I’ve a dozen dresses with me. And with a tuck or two, we’ll find the right one to fit your slender frame.” She patted Alma’s hand. “In fact, let’s spend the remainder of the afternoon preparing in my hotel room upstairs. Mister Reed can rejoin us at the party.”

  The thrill of socializing again, of dancing, of the gaiety and the excitement of conversing with others sparked through Alma. “I would absolutely love that. How very kind of you to offer.”

  On a discontented sigh, Dillon released her from the heat of his stare. He straightened in his chair.

  “Might as well agree, Reed,” Custer said with a chuckle. “It’ll be a long trip to Fort Hays if you don’t.”

  A full ten seconds passed, the ire in Dillon’s eyes fading into frustration. “Fine. We’ll stay for the evening. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Excellent,” Libby said. “The affair begins promptly at seven at the post commander’s residence on Officers Row.”

  With a victorious smile, Alma reached for her water glass. As she sipped, she pretended she waved a battle banner.

  ***

  Two hours later, Dillon strode from the mercantile with a brand new shirt, frockcoat and trousers folded inside his saddlebags. He refused to consider his reasons for the impulsive purchase of a small, cobalt-blue glass bottle filled with rose oil which now nestled in the bottom of his bag. All he knew was the fragrance had been riding his awareness ever since he’d picked up the damned socialite back in Washington.

  He stepped into the street, then glanced down. The square-toed cavalry boots had seen better days. At the top of one, the thin, mule-ear pull-on hung lopsided and flapped as he walked. Damnit! There wasn’t time to get his footwear mended. He sighed, knowing he’d have to buy a new pair of boots, too. A damn waste of money as far as he was concerned, but at least he could wear the outfit for marryings and buryings when he got back home.

  The only good thing about all this godforsaken falderal was that maybe now that uppity prude would quit making her sarcastic comments about his appearance. He’d bathe and shave, but he’d nix the Macassar oil. He wasn’t a damn bit interested in slicking back his hair with that greasy, coconut-smelling shit. Besides, he wasn’t doing this for her anyway. He knew it wouldn’t do to rub elbows smelling like a cow paddy around the officers at the party.

  An image of Alma’s eyes as flashing blue as the bonnie blue flag rippled through him. Comparing his spoiled charge to the flag of the traitorous Confederacy was an odd parallel.

  Regardless, he began humming a snappy melody he’d heard the soldiers back at Fort Lowell singing.

  Long-legged strides kept beat with the tune.

  Halfway to the station house, he stopped when he realized the pep in his what-should’ve-been irritated step. With a muffled groan, he shoved away the perplexing imprint of Alma’s eyes and stalked in silence the remainder of the way to the depot.

  The hissing of a nearby locomotive intensified as Dillon approached. He moved into line for service in front of the caged window. Three women, two soldiers, and an old miner stood before him.

  While he waited for them to make their ticket purchases, Dillon closed his hand around the two Rale House Hotel keys in his pocket. Getting a room directly across from Miss La-di-da had required an extra Seated Liberty, but the half-dollar was a necessary expenditure in order to keep a closer vigilance on his charge.

  “Next,” the man bellowed from behind the iron bars.

  Dillon pushed his tickets across the counter. “I’ll need to exchange these for tomorrow’s train to Fort Hays.”

  The clerk flipped through the cross-country packets, then reached for a nearby ledger, scanning the docket. “Not a problem, sir,” he stated.
“There’s still plenty of seats available.” A scribbled notation was followed by a quick thump from his rubber stamp. The worker slid the adjusted receipts back through the opening.

  Dillon shoved the tickets into his jacket. “Same time, right?”

  “Yes, sir. The train headin’ west pulls out at four. Same time every day.” The clerk looked over Dillon’s shoulder. “Next.”

  Dillon stepped around the woman with her crying infant in line behind him. He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

  She nodded, then moved before the iron bars as he headed toward the street.

  Dillon stopped short when the three men he’d noticed on the trip westward pushed through the crowd. On edge, he slipped behind a post, out of their view. With large bundles slung over their backs, the three ruffians rushed toward the train, bumping into a passenger or two on their way. Without apologies, they pushed to the front of the line and boarded the railcar.

  The train’s bell clanged several times, announcing the westbound’s immediate departure. Moments later, smoke from engine’s bonneted stack billowed into the air, then steel scraped as the wheels began to turn. With a shudder the locomotive lunged forward, then settled into a steady rhythm.

  Dillon scowled as he watched the train depart. He’d bet a month’s wages those sonsofbitches were up to no good. With the unexpected delay, at least the ruffians were no longer following them, if they ever had been. Still, his gut assured him he was better off with those men gone. Regardless, Alma might well be in danger. Until he delivered her to her destination, he’d have to keep her under close guard.

  He retrieved his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, and glanced at the time. Perfect. He’d have a solid half-hour to snag a supportive glass or two of whiskey before visiting that smoke-filled bastion known as the Gentleman’s Grooming Emporium.

  Anything to get me through this night.

  A half-block later, Dillon pushed through the saloon’s swinging doors and headed toward the bar, the notes of the snappy little tune once again slipping past his lips in a soft whistle.