AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  Alma closed her fingers around the closest jar of pickles. Raising it, she snarled, “If you take one step closer…I swear, I’ll…I’ll throw this at you.”

  The thunderstorm across his face whipped at her sanity. She glared at the sharp angle of his jaw. The straight slant of his nose. The full lips that had captured hers. But she’d seen his earlier vulnerability. It was there somewhere beneath his anger.

  She’d…felt it.

  He extended his hand over the tabletop. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Beyond the kitchen, the musicians struck up another tune. Laughter and jollity spun around them, the resonance a pulsing witness to her plight. And yet, she didn’t scream for help.

  Why?

  Inhaling deeply, Alma resettled the pickle jar upon the table. Exhaling, she straightened, now more in control of herself. Her gaze locked on his as she tamped back a shudder. “I am not some common trollop you can ravage and then drag through the streets.”

  His lips pulled thin as he flicked his fingers. “Come on.”

  He’s not even listening.

  With her heartbeat pounding in her ears, she lifted her chin. “I am most serious, Mister Reed. You will not treat me in such a loutish manner.”

  Seconds strained into ten as the rapid rise and fall of his chest matched hers. Finally, he released a deep sigh, and lowered his hand. By unbearably slow degrees, the irritation across his face receded. “I’m sorry if I was…rough with you.” That much-too-boyish grin reappeared, twisting away at her insides and turning her into knots. “I admit it. I’m a bad man.”

  Alma stared at him, her ire melting away. How quickly he could turn her righteous fury into a bemusing little burn.

  Pretending otherwise made no sense. She couldn’t help herself. She giggled. “Yes, you are.”

  That wicked spark in his eyes returned. Laugh lines deepened around his eyes, further heightening his appeal. Never had she been around anyone quite like Dillon Reed, whose raw virility terrified even as it thrilled.

  A servant rushed into the kitchen to refill an empty platter from the nearby spread of hors d'oeuvres.

  Alma nodded at her, then stepped aside.

  The young girl placed her tray on a sideboard, picked up the jar of pickles, then added more savories to the salver. “I-I didn’t mean to interrupt, ma’am.”

  “No. You didn’t,” Alma whispered, staring at Dillon. “We were just leaving.”

  Extending his hand, he shot her another breath-stealing grin. “Shall we?”

  She swept her gaze over him, then quivered – the warmth of the kitchen air, the lilting notes of the music, and the unshakable power of this man while they’d danced enveloped her in a chaotic whirlwind. But, more than those was the truth of his kiss and what she’d imagined of his…anatomy that now burned in Alma’s blood with all the driving force of Sherman through Georgia.

  Enough of this! She moved around the table and slipped her arm into the proffered crook of his. Tingles scurried up her spine as she struggled for control.

  Dillon leaned down, his breath brushing the curve of her ear. “And this time, I’ll try to be a gentleman.”

  Much to Alma’s vexation, a biting disappointment nipped at her heels all the way back through the crowd.

  Chapter Nine

  More than a million volunteer soldiers mustered out of the army after Appomattox. The ones who elected to remain were organized into a smaller, yet equally competent, fighting force. Many of these battle-seasoned veterans were ordered westward, and the routes they traveled became clogged with merchants and other civilians who serviced their non-military needs.

  Forts and outposts positioned en route also were strengthened to increase security for a rapidly expanding nation. Once tracks were laid, trains began replacing the stagecoaches crisscrossing the territories west of Saint Louis.

  Amid a flurry of activities, Alma boarded the four o’clock train to Fort Hays. She put on a brave face as she settled onto a bench across from Dillon. A breath later, she slid to the window and pressed her cheek against the cool glass pane. The railcar lurched forward. The clack of train wheels upon the tracks increased. The station house fell away, and she waved at Libby and George until they were mere specks upon the horizon.

  A sigh fell from her lips as she turned to face the scout. He’d already leaned against the bench cushions, his slouch hat pulled over his face. The message he sent was loud and clear.

  Don’t bother me.

  That suited her as well. A dance with him in the moonlight and his stolen kiss changed nothing. Liar! Fine. Not that he would ever know. She crossed her arms and slumped against her seat to settle in for the twenty-hour ride to Fort Hays.

  Late-afternoon the following day, with her parasol held aloft to block the blazing plains sun and muscles stiff from sitting too long, Alma followed Dillon as they transferred to the stage line. Onboard the rolling monstrosity, the stench of the two passengers travelling with them and the jostling of her body as the wheels bounced along the rutted road tested her endurance.

  Crushed against the corner of the small stagecoach, Alma wrapped her gloved hand around a leather strap dangling from the side of the window.

  Across from her, the scout scowled.

  Her fingers fumbled with her hankie, and she shifted her gaze. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how wretched her misery during this trip had become.

  Errant dust cast from the wagon’s wheels filled the stagecoach. Fighting back a cough, Alma shoved her hat into place with her free hand, then mumbled a hasty apology for elbowing the wild-haired ruffian crammed onto the seat beside her. In malodourous waves, the stench of his unwashed body drifted over her.

  Alma stifled another retch and focused on the withering clutter of knobby pines across the sunbaked land.

  As they travelled from one swing station to the next, a continuous and jagged purple scar on the western horizon dominated her view.

  The Rockies.

  She’d read about them, but words on paper were a poor substitute for the soaring mountain range in the far distance. No written descriptions could ever convey the majesty spanning before her. Clouds dared to scrape the rocky tops, while the deepest blue haunted the sky above in a sweeping azure crown.

  She felt so small beneath such magnificence.

  The roll of scarred plains dotted with thick grass collided with the rush of stone screaming heavenward. For years this land had lain untouched, inhabited only by Indians who’d lived a quiet existence…until the influx of the white man.

  Alma bit her lip to stop the tremble. Somewhere on the opposite side of the towering peaks in the deepest bowels of the Arizona Territory waited Fort Lowell.

  My destiny.

  ***

  As the afternoon sun scorched the land, the stagecoach descended a steep plateau, then forded a river three times the width of any she’d seen back east. Terrified, Alma peered from the window as water crept up the wheels, passed the hubs and lapped against the bottom of the coach. She shuddered at the bellowing curses of the driver and the coach guard sitting atop the lurching box. The whistling snap of the whip and the mules’ pitiful braying collided with Alma’s fear as the team plowed their way through the daunting current.

  A half-hour later, the Concord clambered up the opposite bank and continued its hellish run southward.

  Tears scalded Alma’s eyelids, and Libby’s words before their departure returned to haunt her mind.

  Be strong.

  She clung to her friend’s advice as the hours rolled past.

  Their stops, spaced about fifteen miles apart to change the mules —“‘tis the distance a team can travel before gettin’ tuckered out,” the old man beside her had mumbled—were much too brief. On one stop, the layover was in a dugout carved into the side of a river bank, the station operator a man whose thick German accent mangled his attempt at English.

  One day turned into two, and while the others slept inside a rickety wayside statio
n where they had stopped to change the team and allow the driver and guard to rest, Alma refused to leave the coach. Too overwhelmed and frightened even to sleep, she sat bolt upright in her corner, her hand wrapped around the leather strap.

  By the third night, this stop at a wayside station in a grassy valley, mind-wrenching exhaustion overwhelmed Alma. Hand trembling, she tugged out the hatpin and let the velvet fanchon tumble to the coach floor. The faint rattle of metal followed the half-bonnet as she dropped the ivory-capped hat pin. Alma stretched across the leather seat, the thick, motionless air a smothering silence unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  Every part of her battered body ached.

  She stared at Dillon Reed.

  On the bench across from her, he lay flat on his back, his slouch hat again hiding his face, his long legs out the window. Tonight, like the previous two nights, he’d remained with her inside the coach.

  Moonlight illuminated the design of his spurs and the dark leather that buckled them into place.

  Her gaze trailed over the impressive length of his body, pausing at the worn wooden handle of his gun. His holstered revolver, always at the ready, brought her comfort.

  He so perfectly personified this wild country. Vast. Raw. Untamed. Neither had talked again about his stolen kiss, nor of that destined dance in the moonlight. And yet, with him by her side she felt…safe.

  Alma closed her eyes and tried to forget the softness reflected in his dark gaze at the party. The demanding pressure of his lips against hers. Of the few times she’d been kissed, never had she been kissed with such…fervor. Only a week had passed since that brief exchange, and yet that evening seemed a lifetime ago. Never had she dreamed she’d be in the middle of nowhere, and never with a man who barely acknowledged her existence.

  A forceful ache burrowed into her heart.

  She tried to shove back the tears gathering behind her lashes, tried to concentrate on each breath, but the slow suffocation of the past week destroyed her last defense. Tears ran in a cool path over her cheek, the dampness blending with the sweat stains that had been scoured into the leather seat by so many who’d come before her.

  Alma pressed her lips together, so dry that the pain forced another rush of tears. She swallowed, but her throat closed up.

  And then…in all its ugly form, panic gripped her.

  Shallow breaths burned her lungs.

  Please God, don’t let me fall apart out here all alone

  Faster and faster, the tears fell. Her shoulders shook as wracking sobs dug in with teeth and claws. She clenched her eyes tight against the truth of her insufferable weakness.

  As another sob shook her, strong arms slid around her shoulders and pulled her against a solid chest.

  Dillon’s days-old beard scraped her cheek. “Hold on, Princess.”

  His words gruff, yet soft, against her tangled hair offered hope. He tightened his hold and Alma buried her face into the warm curve of his neck and wept. Her tears fell unheeded, yet he neither moved nor stopped her.

  Stolen kiss or not, she needed this man’s strength.

  And he gave it…whispering against her ear, “You’ve done well under these extremes, Alma.” A slight intake caught his breath as the huskiness of his voice deepened. “Don’t give up now.”

  He was offering her comfort…this scout who was built like a fortress and stole kisses in the moonlight. The emotional weight of his words, the compliment of her perseverance Dillon offered was nothing short of astonishing, and given at a time when she so desperately needed his acknowledgment.

  Courage stirred.

  Alma opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. She kept her head bent, her eyes closed. She’d found her safe haven, and latched on to his consoling words. Resonant. Encouraging. Her sobs lessened to sniffles. With her heart pounding, she conjured a weak smile, her lamentations evaporating into the Colorado night.

  And still Dillon Reed rocked her.

  By slow degrees, her rigidity unraveled against him. Easing the ache from her muscles, from her heart, she inhaled and smelled the wear of the trail on his shirt along with a lingering trace of soap. He’d had his clothes cleaned at Fort Riley. She pressed her lips together and tasted him again, then she imagined something more, that fragrance stirred up in the cool breeze while they’d danced.

  A seductive scent only he possessed.

  The rise and fall of his chest lulled Alma into quiet. A rattling, ragged sigh fell from her lips.

  Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she was grateful for the shield of darkness.

  Until now, this man had delivered mostly misery. She should push from his arms, deny herself the need for his comfort, be strong as Libby’s words had commanded of her days before. And yet, the scout’s gentle rocking cocooned her, easing back her desperation.

  I’ve obviously lost my mind.

  Alma stared at a button on his shirt. The threading that anchored the pewter disc to the cotton was frayed and worn.

  Like my nerves.

  Moonlight burrowed into the coach and fell across them. Beneath the V-shaped opening of his shirt, where the material met his skin, his chest bore a dusting of dark hair.

  She yearned to sweep her fingers across the coarse curls.

  Instead, the knuckle cracked as she clenched her hand. She snuggled deeper. He was a stranger. And yet…surprisingly, now her protector.

  For a moment longer, I’ll rest against him.

  Another broken sigh slipped past her lips.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  A heartbeat later, Alma surrendered to the realms of an exhausted slumber.

  ***

  Her soft breath against his neck assured Dillon that Alma had fallen asleep. Outside the coach, the soothing chirp of crickets accompanied her tender inhalations.

  Dillon leaned against the leather seat, loosening but not relinquishing his hold on her. Though he’d vowed never to touch her again, here he sat with Alma in his arms. His heavy sigh mingled with the night sounds cocooning him.

  What the hell was he supposed to do, ignore her?

  Duty demanded his attention. She’d been crying, for Christ’s sake. Any man worth his salt would behave likewise if put in the same situation. He shoved aside the uncomfortable rationalizing. Her moment of histrionics had prompted his toleration.

  Only a bastard ignored a weeping woman.

  In the past five years, he’d crossed this land a half-dozen times and had avoided all emotional entanglements. Once she’d pulled herself together, he’d step back. Nothing would have changed. She had her destination, and he had his. A few tears and a consoling embrace meant little in the bigger scheme of life.

  She stirred, then snuggled closer, sending his heartbeat into another disconcerting hitch. Cursing, Dillon stared into the night.

  This was his job, nothing more.

  Bullshit.

  No job required him to comfort a distraught debutante. And he’d never pulled a woman into his embrace like this – overwrought or not – in any task he’d undertaken. Well…except for a few drunken whores in Fort Lowell, but those didn’t count one damn bit.

  So what if she smells like every man’s dream?

  Mattered jack-squat to him. Besides, he didn’t need a wooden plank slammed over his head to tell him Alma Talmadge was an innocent soul. There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with him showing her a bit of kindness.

  Fine. Maybe she’s not so annoying, after all.

  The rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her waist, the weight of her body against him…there. Heat mounted. His body stiffened. Dillon set his jaw. All he had to do was get her back to Tucson and hand her over to her all-too-perfect fiancé.

  Done.

  Finished.

  Good blasted riddance.

  An empty ache slammed his gut as the taste of her lips returned. So damned soft against his. With a scowl, Dillon scanned the distant timberline, illuminated beneath a full moon’s silvery spill. Silhouettes of
colossal Ponderosa scraped across the ebony canvas of night.

  In the swath of open meadow, a large buck sporting an impressive rack of antlers grazed on Junegrass. Food must’ve been plentiful this past winter. During the upcoming rut, the beast would need all his strength to stake a claim for a doe.

  Stake a claim? Rut?

  Damnit.

  He should be home by now, not stealing kisses like a school boy or playing nursemaid to some other man’s woman. Dillon flexed his fingers once more against the brocade at her corseted waist.

  His body tightened. Again.

  Stop this shit.

  He prayed for the oblivion of sleep to remove him from his self-inflicted torment. This woman was nothing but trouble. And engaged for Christ’s sake. He pressed his eyes tighter. The sooner he rode away from her, the better.

  Sleep, however, eluded him, as did the reasons he still held Alma.

  Wind whispered through the towering pines in a taunting hiss. He lifted his eyelids in time to see the buck raise its head, then sprint into the shelter of the trees.

  Lucky bastard.

  The shelter of his own damned world couldn’t come soon enough. Besides, his best friends, Jackson and Callie Neale, were expected at Fort Lowell in a few months as they delivered another herd of horses to the military. He always enjoyed their company. They were the rare exception to the no-happiness-in-marriage rule…Well, their ranching neighbors, Roberto and Carlotta Eschevon also seemed quite happy. With both couples immense track of land, who wouldn’t be happy?

  Regardless, marriage sure as shit wasn’t for him. Look what that soul-sucking mess had done to his parents. He liked living alone, liked having the ability to up and go whenever he wanted, liked feeling the wind at his back and answering to no one.

  Except the colonel. Somehow, Colonel Talmadge kept him on the straight and narrow. Dillon gave a slow exhale. It was only natural he should comfort the man’s niece.