by Cindy Nord
Alma pressed her back against the cool rock wall and stared at the scout. Other than the rise and fall of his chest from each ragged breath, the man hadn’t moved a muscle. She shivered again, blaming the chill on the drafts.
Her eyes slipped closed.
And she waited. And waited.
And waited…
One day turned into two, the rain pounding the earth with a fury matched only by the loneliness hammering inside Alma. On the morning of the third day, she stood at the cave’s entrance and watched as the sun slowly rose above the treetops.
She inhaled, drawing cool mountain air into her lungs. Freshness and renewal wafted on the breeze. She peered upward at the wide expanse of blue.
Not a cloud in the periwinkle sky.
Her stomach growled, and she frowned. Breakfast today had consisted of canned peaches, and opening the tin had proved a daunting task. She flexed her hand, her palm sore from smashing a rock against the knife’s end to pierce the metal. Prying the blade around the edge took nearly an hour and also gave her with an annoying blister. Although the fruit was edible, it nowhere resembled her favorite peach dish from Boston’s Union Oyster House, the flavor of that butter-enriched pâte brisée tart was the finest peach dish she’d ever eaten.
A mocking laugh spilled into the rain-washed morning. “Alma Talmadge,” she whispered, “I’m afraid you are losing your mind.”
She upended the tin and swallowed the remaining peach juice, then tossed the empty container over the side. As metal rattled on rock, movement in the valley caught her eye. A horse grazed along the bottom near the creek. At dawn, he and the mule had wandered from the cave much to her distress. But, they had to have water and food, too. How would she ever get them back inside?
Frustrated at no immediate solution, she reentered the cave. Her newest challenge had been keeping the fire alive, and the stack of wood near their supplies was dwindling fast. She lifted the ax, weighing the implement in her hands.
I’ve no idea how to use this.
Her mind skimmed back to the myriad times the staff in Boston had brought kindling into her bedroom. Never had she known a cold morning as she’d completed her daily toilette. And yet, in all those years, not once had she thanked her maids. Irritation at her selfish ways pricked inside Alma. Never again would she be so thoughtless.
A soft groan met her ears.
She dropped the ax and whirled toward Dillon.
Firelight traced his flushed face and cascaded over his torso. The fresh bandages she’d added earlier were still as white as snow. No blood. Surely that’s good. Inch by inch, her gaze traveled down his body.
Ever so faint, his muscles flexed…but this time not in the throes of a fever. She pressed her lips together, waiting.
Did I imagine hearing you?
Another low moan filled the chamber.
Relief propelled hope through her veins. She dashed to his side, and dropped to her knees.
“Come on,” she urged. “Wake up now.” Scooting closer, Alma pulled the canteen by its strap. Slipping her arm beneath his head, she raised him, and angling the metal spout to his lips, she poured. Moisture collected near the corners of his mouth, then ran past his jawline, soaking the ends of his hair as well as her sleeve.
At the slide of water, his mouth worked, and he managed to down a swallow, though not enough to satisfy her. Alma coaxed again, knowing a wet rag upon his lips wouldn’t keep him alive for long. “Please, Dillon. You need more.” As he made to take another sip, his breath came, hoarse and rasping, followed by a rattling cough that shook him. “I-I’m so sorry, but you must keep drinking.”
Again, Alma held the canteen to his lips.
This time he took a deeper swig. Then his whole body relaxed. She smoothed the crest of his cheek with soft strokes. Slowly, the tension that had twisted tight inside her eased back, and for the first time since he’d found her, hope grew. When she’d changed his dressing earlier, his wound still looked angry, but at least blood no longer seeped out.
She cradled him in her arms, thrilled he still lived. He took another swallow. “That’s good. Very good.”
Though his face was pale beneath the week-old stumble, his skin no looker resembled the putrid color of tallow. A fine sheen of sweat covered him from his forehead down to the tattered blanket pushed to the waistband of his pants.
Again her gaze swept across his sinewy arms, the whorls of dark hair, and his hands the size of dinner plates. Even his fingertips were callused. She swept back to his face, her own flooding with heat as her heart pummeled her ribs. The image of him laughing with a group of men at the party for the Custers anchored in the center of her frazzled mind. She so desperately wanted to hear him laugh again.
Dillon Reed resembled no man she’d ever known.
So different from Lord Green.
Images of her fiancé tumbled across her mind. Alma sobered at once. Getting to Fort Lowell must take center stage in her thoughts. Her mouth puckered and with a tremble, she shook away the remorse.
She turned on her hip and then stretched her aching body alongside Dillon. Ever-so-carefully, she pressed her fingers against his brow.
His fever, while still there, was lower.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He seemed to be rousing, returning to the world of the living. A miracle, indeed. And whatever measure of comfort she could give him, she would.
A log settled deeper into the flames with a soft thud, and sparks shot up in a haphazard burst. For a moment, the floating embers glowed red, then with an erratic flicker, faded to black.
She rubbed her hand up and down his bare arm. Offering comfort. Lifting prayers. She knew most every indentation and swell of his upper body…and yet, she knew nothing more about the man.
You know he’ll protect you to his dying breath.
Yes…a blush heated her cheeks…that much she already knew.
The distant howl of a wild animal deep in the Colorado Mountains reminded her of their isolation. Her hand stilled as she stared at his handsome profile. Another kiss…another kiss…another kiss…
A shudder rippled through her, and she slowly closed her eyes against the truth weighing upon her soul.
Never.
She must keep a tight rein on her spiraling emotions. Injured or not, he tangled up her feelings. On an unsteady breath, she reopened her eyes. Her breath caught.
In taut silence, Dillon stared back. His gaze intense…a dark, indescribable entreaty that held her spellbound.
***
Pain slammed through Dillon, shaking him to the core, a burn so raw it was as if he lay on a hot bed of coals. Surely the torment was the damned Devil dancing upon his soul.
I’m dead…and burning in Hell’s embrace.
Dillon struggled to open his mouth, to beg forgiveness for the horrible wrongs he’d committed over the years, for the men he’d killed with his Bowie in fights he’d deem important at the time. And then, from the edges of his mind, a soothing sensation doused the pain.
An angel’s soft touch.
So gentle on his fiery flesh.
He slowly opened his eyes. This time, his administering seraph acquired a face as the beautiful features of Alma Talmadge swirled into view.
Chapter Fifteen
The following afternoon Alma handed Dillon a half-filled cup of coffee, aware he was more comfortable since he’d propped against a saddle. “Here, drink this. I can’t promise its good, but at least it’s warm.”
“Thanks,” he said, sliding his fingers around the cup’s handle. “I’m sure it’s no worse than others I’ve drank over the years. Some of them made the hairs on the back of my neck strand straight up.”
Alma smiled. “Well, I’m thankful you’re feeling better.”
He tossed her a quick grin between slurps. “This is the best coffee I’ve had all week.”
His subtle attempt at humor. Oh Dillon Reed, what a charmer you are.
“Well, it
’s been your only cup for the past four days,” Alma said, nodding. Preferring a cup of cinnamon infused tea, she nonetheless took a tentative sip from her own mug and swallowed.
Not bad for my first attempt at making the vile brew. Of course, you helped by telling me how.
Concentrating on keeping her hands steady, she sipped again...all the while marveling at Dillon’s quick recovery. With each passing hour his strength grew, and Alma had to force herself to stop doting on him. Through this whole ordeal, she’d come to realize how much she enjoyed the ministering to another role that had been thrust upon her unbidden. The bloody parts of nursing, of course, not so much, but the other aspects, the fetching and doing routine she’d settled into, Alma found now brought her great joy.
Sighing, she tucked her voluminous skirt beneath her crossed legs. “I was wondering…back on the train…what did you really mean when you said you’d learned about the wickedness of society from your mother? I’m guessing she had dealings with that, right?” Her bold questions surprised even her.
“You could say that….” Another swallow took away the rest of his mumbled words, but those she understood carried sarcasm along with a touch of sadness.
Her curiosity grew. And she pushed to know more. “We’ve plenty of time, so you may as well share with me.”
Dillon’s gaze across the cup sent another sizzle up her spine. “Why?”
“I want to understand you better, that’s all.” She craved to know more about him, and his childhood and family seemed as good a place as any to start. “How was she involved in society, I mean? Was she a housekeeper or a maid inside a manor?”
His lips shifted into a half-smirk. “Neither.”
He was evading her question, which made the truth all the more intriguing. As far as she was concerned, this guessing game could continue all day. Anything to converse. “All right, then. Was she a cook or a laundress? Or perhaps a nanny?” Alma inhaled the steam rising from her cup, enjoying the fragrant aroma of the steeped coffee beans.
He glanced out the cave’s entrance.
And she followed his gaze. Trees rustled in the golden sunrays filtering through the pines. Above them, clouds slid past, stranding from mountain peak to mountain peak in a wispy grid. Void of storms and peril, early summer in the Rockies was peaceful. Aware Dillon was out of danger now helped her frame of mind a great deal. Regardless, her questions went unanswered.
“I’m waiting,” Alma said as she glanced back at her brooding companion. “What did she do that exposed you to the horridness of society and turned you against us all with such a burning vengeance?” She tamped back a mocking grin when his gaze locked on hers.
“She lived it.”
Another veiled reply. Frustrated, Alma snatched up a stick and poked at the coals glowing beneath the fire’s flames. Recuperating, or not, for a moment, she even considered poking him.
“So you’re saying your family was part of society?”
Several seconds passed as she sensed him weighing his reply. Another habit that only deepened his quirky charm.
With a grimace, his gaze focused upon hers. “If one could describe the people who disowned her by the idiom of family . . . well . . . then, yes, my mother was indeed cut from Charleston’s upper crust.”
So…you’re from southern aristocracy. No wonder you know how to waltz.
Dillon’s family history was none of her business. And yet, Alma pushed on, blaming her pressing queries on her exhaustive state, not on any matters of her heart.
“Cut?” she repeated in a shallow whisper. The accounting of his mother’s ill-fated destiny grew more intriguing by the minute. “W-What happened to separate her from her family?”
“She fell in love with the wrong man.”
Alma stared at him. With each passing day in this man’s presence she fought to remember who she was…who he was. They, too, were so completely different by society’s standards.
She fell in love with the wrong man?
He continued on a deep growl. “Since pa was in the army, my folks moved to Texas after they’d married. I was born shortly thereafter.” He sipped his coffee again, his gaze fixed on the campfire between them. “Years past. Mother kept writing her Charleston clan, praying they’d open their hearts, but they never responded. And then, Caleb came along.”
“Caleb?” she asked.
“My brother.” His sigh slipped around Alma and she stared at his forlorn face. “Then, a year later, Mother died from some kind of fever. And Pa? Well, he became a drunk and died a broken man a few years after that…leaving me to raise my three year old brother.”
Her heart broke. “Oh, Dillon…how tragic. You were so young.”
He issued his breath on a tight exhale. “Fourteen, to be exact.” He swirled the coffee in his cup. “I even wrote a few letters to those highbrowed sonsofbitches in their fancy mansions to let ‘em know about…everything. They never replied. Not once…but, we did all right, me’n Caleb, though schoolin’ was hit’n miss.” He shrugged. “Learned to survive the hard way. Stealing. Easiest thing I could do, since I could run fast. Money. Food. Never once got caught.” He inhaled, but his gaze shifted again, settling upon the flames. “Then, early one day, outside El Paso, I made the godawful mistake of taking Caleb with me on a simple scavenging hunt for food. He’d just turned ten.” A long pause followed as his lips tightened. “He tripped over a damned milk bucket and some sonofabitch farmer shot him dead on the spot. Clean through the head.”
She gasped. “How horrible.”
“It should’ve been me to die that night ‘stead of my brother. Hell, after all the shit I’ve done, I should’ve died now from this…” he shrugged his wounded shoulder, then winced. “But life has a wicked way of keeping me going with the guilt.”
She dredged her mind for a response as her fingers tightened around her cup. “B-But…if you’d died from your wound it wouldn’t change a single thing that has happened in your past.”
He snorted. “True…but our actions are what set things in motion, right? After I lost Caleb, I didn’t much give a damn about nothing. I ripped through my life with a death wish.”
Their gazes connected and held and the momentary pain etched so clearly across his features stole away her breath.
Emotions tumbled through Alma…grief for the boy too young to have to face the challenge of raising his brother alone, fury for the family that discarded Dillon and his brother as if waste, and compassion for a man blinded by pain until he’d wished for death. “I’m so sorry for all of your losses,” she whispered, dropping her gaze.
“My tow-headed lil’ brother got the bad end of the deal. And me? Well, I had a knack for tracking. So…long story short, one day while attempting to rob an army pay wagon, I slammed into Colonel Talmadge, literally. Seemed he and my pa had been good friends during the Mexican War.” Dillon offered a sharp laugh, lifting his gaze to hers. “Let’s just say he jerked me up by the collar.”
Your wealthy Charleston family abandoned you in your hour of greatest need. No wonder you despise the privileged.
Her heart ached for him, the sensation so intense it vibrated through her veins. Alma closed her eyes against the sorrow as sadness doused her like a rainstorm. Her breath stalled in her throat. Society’s rigid rules. So cruel. So heartbreaking.
So incredibly unfair. And yet, it explained why he preferred his distance. Everyone he’d ever loved, he’d lost. For so long, he’d known only violence. A chill stronger than any known before seized her as a heavy silence stretched between them. Alma studied his profile, defined so clearly in the fire’s glow. She’d known handsome men in her life. Polished gentlemen who possessed both grace and charm.
But no one had captured her devotion quite like Dillon Reed…in all ways of society’s standards, this man was her exact opposite.
And yet…
He shifted against the saddlebags. “But…enough about me,” he quipped, swallowing another gulp of coffee. “What does one
do after marrying a duke?”
Alma sighed, knowing he’d closed down and she’d get nothing more in regards to his past. Truth be told, though, she knew plenty already….from every hard, masculine body angle to the grief that made him the man he was today. “Well, if you’re referring to my fiancé, he’s an earl. And titles, by the way, are usually hereditary and are bestowed by the royals.”
“Sounds rather stuffy to me.”
“It is…and I’m still learning their ranking system. First, of course, there’s Queen Victoria. Then comes her first-born son, the prince. And, in order of importance after him is a duke, then a marquis, and then an earl. The other titles below Lord Green are a viscount and a baron, I believe. Maybe a few more, but I’m not sure. Father told me to marry the earl, so that’s why I’m here.” She clasped her hands in her lap and glanced around the cave. “Well, not here, exactly, but you know what I mean.” She smiled at him and chuckled. “And that’s probably way more than you ever wanted to know about England’s peerage, too.”
Senses on full alert, Dillon narrowed his eyes and strove to deny her smile’s powerful impact. Why in the hell had he shared so much about his pain-filled past with her? An unbidden craving pulsed through him as he skimmed her lips. Beneath his perusal, her tongue slipped out to moisten them, and his body hardened like a rock.
Hell and damnation!
He jerked his gaze to the orange flames crackling between them. Drawing in a deep breath to rid him of his asinine need, he cracked a strained smile. “God help me…I think I’m beginning to enjoy these little chats.”
This time she laughed out loud as she again stirred the coals. “Then I’d say we’ve come a far piece from those stilted tête-à-têtes back on the train, wouldn’t you?”