AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  She gritted her teeth at the thought of her stylish riding habits jolted about in some crate heading westward. When her cargo arrived at Fort Lowell without her in tow would Lord Green send forth a search party? Would he demand answers to her whereabouts?

  Do I even care?

  For an inkling she wished she might be a free spirit – not duty-bound by her father’s oppressive controls. But then, guilt recoiled through Alma in colossal waves, reminding her of exactly who she was and that she had no business gallivanting around the countryside…or entertaining such truculent, misbehaving thoughts. And yet, for all her chastising, something akin to pride flickered again inside Alma, and she knew the six-foot-plus, hard-angled cowboy pressing against her backside right now provided much of the glimmer behind her pretention. The way he looked at her. The timber of his voice. The strong and solid purpose that drove him onward.

  Every one of his moods jumbled up her insides.

  On an exhale, Alma suppressed the thoughts.

  Hooves clattered on rock as they rounded a boulder, and then the ground began to flatten out. An hour of riding turned into two. Wordless, Dillon plodded southward. By the third hour, surrounded by such vast wilderness and her eyes heavy from sheer exhaustion, she eased back against his chest. Her small trivialities seemed unimportant.

  Without warning, his hands slid around her waist. She gasped.

  “Simmer down,” he whispered, his warm breath caressing her ear. “I’m just rearrangin’ things.” He shifted her into a more comfortable position before him. An easy pull brought her back against his chest.

  She should protest his boldness…the beast! And yet, lulled by the horse’s rhythmic gait as well as the security she felt inside his embrace, she relaxed...just a bit, knowing that the only burn she felt right now was the tiny little flame for this oh-so-wrong for her man flickering deep inside her heart. Alma sighed, staring down at his gloved hand resting before her on the saddle, the reins threading through cream-colored, leather-encased fingers. The scout’s other hand rested much too intimately on her brocade-covered belly. I could get used to being in his arms. Her eyes slipped closed upon the truth and to her confounded disquiet, all thoughts hazed as she at last succumbed to sleep.

  ***

  The military post on the outskirts of a growing Tucson was a million miles away from his problems back in England and the reason Lord Henry Smyth Green, the Earl of Locknor, had selected this location.

  His servant, Edgar Clarkson handed him his gloves.

  Henry nodded, then slid his hands inside the expensive calfskin, working the leather down each finger. For as far back as he could remember, his aide had been in his life. His nanny had been Edgar’s mother and his own mum’s most trusted confidant. Because of their childhood bond, he overlooked his servant’s misbehaviors, while Henry would never have tolerated such ill deportment in others.

  He presented an open palm toward his servant, his fingers flipping inward. Edgar laid a riding quirt across Henry’s hand. Cold appreciation slid home as he lifted the braided shark-skin handle, slapping the forked end of the short stock whip against his hand.

  Perfect.

  He then settled the lightweight Planter’s hat atop his head; the wide-brimmed, round crowned chapeau a perfect match to the ebony shade of the quirt. The tantalizing aromas of fried onions and other mouthwatering complexities of the Mexican fare he’d savored for breakfast in the hotel’s eatery behind him, still filled the morning air.

  He gazed across the compound, scanning past officers' quarters, sandstone barracks, and a gleaming white clapboard headquarters centered before a parade ground. The ingenious layout was impressive and vastly different from the landlocked army posts inside ancient walls in England.

  With a pleasurable exhale, he glanced toward Edgar. “Sometime this afternoon, I need you to check with the colonel on the whereabouts of Miss Talmadge.”

  “Yes sir. I shall.”

  “Good.” Henry crossed the boardwalk, stepped to the dusty road and into the spill of sunlight. He appreciated this enchanting land. So different from the repressive dregs and shadows back home. If only he could escape his ongoing peerage problems as easily as he could ride into the wilds of America.

  At his approach to the railing, a bay gelding bearing a white blaze down his forehead snorted. Earlier this morning, as Henry had requested, his aide had brought the animal around. He smoothed a gloved hand down the high-quality steed’s ebony coat near the shoulder. Nearly sixteen hands high and muscular, the horse was the finest at Fort Lowell.

  And Henry liked only the finest of things.

  Eager for a hard ride to help him forget the political upheaval of his mother country, he shoved his high-polished boot into the stirrup and mounted, securing his quirt on the side with a hard shove. Those far-too-liberal Whigs with their asinine social reforms had thrown aside the old dominion and now guided the queen in all matters of her sovereignty.

  Henry grimaced as he recalled the first change had been that damnable political decree stating noblemen, such as himself, could no longer purchase their commissions. Advancement in the military, even for British nobility, must now be earned by merit, rather than from a position of peerage. Appalling. Fortunately, he still had enough influence to garner this lucrative assignment, in spite of the changes being passed by Parliament. Still, he somewhat reveled in the social instability, which kept the focus off his own growing aristocracy problems.

  He settled deeper into the saddle. “And when you visit the colonel, remember not to slouch. I promised mother you’d be a good representative on my behalf.”

  With a grumble, the servant stepped farther into the shade beneath the overhang.

  “Edgar!” Henry snapped. “You’re muttering again. You know I detest that behavior. Speak up, man. What’s your problem now?”

  The aide slumped against the closest post. “It might look better if you checked on your fiancée’s whereabouts rather than me. As we both know, your uncaring attitude toward women has caused you problems in the past.”

  Henry grimaced at the man’s continual refusal to address him in the proper social tones when they were alone. And those times were rapidly growing. Regardless, the colonel had assured Henry that Miss Talmadge would arrive safely. In spite of the last-minute change of his nuptial location from Boston to the fort, the bans had finally been posted in England, and his upcoming marriage to the wealthy debutante would go off as planned.

  That was all that mattered to Henry.

  He cleared his throat. “Since I’m riding with the company into the Dragoon Mountains on an Apache raid today, I don’t have time to clutter my afternoon with issues regarding my fiancée’s.”

  “Like when you didn’t have time to care about Hillary?”

  Hillary? Henry stared at Edgar. The remembered face of an upstairs chambermaid who favored them both during their childhood, zipped through his mind. He shoved aside the image, then tightened his lips. Friendships only went so far, and his patience with this nonsense was wearing thin. “I am required by the crown to learn everything I can of the American soldiers and their tactics in battle.” He backed the horse from the railing. “I don’t have time to, again, discuss Hillary’s misfortune.”

  Edgar’s brow crimped. “I understand your position and agree, but she cared for you, and would’ve done anything for you.”

  A heavy sighed rolled from Henry’s lips. “I couldn’t marry her even if I wanted to, a fact you well know. She provided me no financial gain.” The stomp of hooves and errant whinnies echoed from the stables. Henry squinted against the sun. The horsemen were preparing to ride. He narrowed his gaze upon Edgar once more. “Hillary’s death was…as we agreed by her own hand. Indeed, an unfortunate, but unavoidable, tragedy, yet one that’s long past.”

  “Unfortunate?” Edgar shook his head and snorted. “She was pregnant with your babe.”

  “Lower your voice, you imbecile,” he hissed, ignoring the black scowl that crumpled
Edgar’s face. “Do you want the entire fort to hear us?” He leaned closer, his words a stabbing whisper. “We shall nevermore discuss this nonsense. You just find out what has caused Miss Talmadge’s delay.”

  Assured his aide would comply, Henry jerked the leather reins sideways and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. Dirt flew from beneath the mount’s hooves as he galloped toward the soldiers.

  ***

  The sun’s warmth roused Alma.

  She slowly opened her eyes. A wide, high valley replaced the enormous evergreens of this morning. Impressed, she scanned the smooth wash of rocks. While she’d slept, they must’ve traveled a great distance.

  “You’re awake,” Dillon said. “Been sleeping for several hours.”

  Contrition bounced through her. “I’m so sorry for dozing.”

  “Don’t be sorry…you’ve worked hard these past few days. ‘Specially since you’re not used to my kind of life.”

  At his sympathy, she smiled, the enmity she’d felt earlier fading. “I’m such a fish out of water, that’s for sure.”

  Her eyes slipped closed again, but her continued reverie was interrupted by his deep voice.

  “See those peaks in the distance?” Somewhat surprised he wanted to converse, Alma nodded. “They’re called Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Spanish for Blood of Christ.”

  “That’s a strange name for mountains. What makes them bloody?”

  “At sunrise and sunset, during the winter months, blood-red bands hover right above the horizon.”

  Alma tried to envision the image he so eloquently painted with his words. “How is that possible?”

  “Well, I’m not sure of all the scientific details, but my guess is when the sun’s rays reflect off the snow, the illusion is somehow created. Seen it myself a time or two, and it’s quite impressive. Same as this territory’s name. Colorado means ruddy in Spanish, from all the red silt carried down from the mountains by the spring thaw.” He loosened his hold around her waist and pointed left. “And over there, all along the foot of that mountain range, hot springs bubble up like magic. With all these natural oddities, I understand why the Utes consider this area sacred.”

  “That’s fascinating,” she said in awed tones. She skimmed her gaze over the distant peaks, touched that he wanted to share, intrigued that the picture of ruthless savages she’d heard so many stories of back East didn’t quite match the dynamic people Dillon now painted. Above her head, a hawk shrieked, coasting on the currents with wings spread wide. Suddenly, the bird streaked through the sky and disappeared behind a boulder on the far side of the valley.

  “He’s found dinner, I’m guessing,” Dillon said, laughing.

  Her empty stomach reminded Alma she hadn’t eaten since this morning.

  “And see that narrow gap in the mountain straight ahead?” She nodded. “That’s La Veta Pass. We’ll cut through the southern range of the Rockies there. Means mineral vein in Spanish, ‘cause of all the silver mined from there eons ago. But, last spring, prospectors found another rich vein over yonder in the San Juan Mountains. That’s where things are really heatin’ up now between the Indians and the white man.”

  “Why didn’t you get in on the search for silver…you being the adventurous type and all?”

  His laugh warmed the curve of her neck. “All that panning and digging never much interested me. Before you know it, the damned vein goes dry, and the miner is left with only unrequited dreams to show for all his hard work. I like what I do for the army. Plus, I’m able to work with horses.”

  She let out an answering chuckle, then leaned even deeper into the strength of this man.

  “Holbrook Creek lies just beyond the pass,” he said, and Alma nearly shuddered as another brush of air skimmed past her ear. “We’ll stop there for the night.”

  The night? Her stomach tightened as she tried to accept their sleeping beneath the stars. It may be normal to him, but to her it left them exposed to any predator — man or beast.

  He pointed over her shoulder, his breath wafting across the top of her head. “See how that tallest summit scrapes the sky?” Upon her hesitant nod, he added, “That’s Blanca Peak, highest point in this region, and a landmark I use on my rides back to Tucson.”

  “Why blanca?” she asked, her voice shaking as she gulped back her reactions. He’d protected her thus far…but a safe day’s travel guaranteed nothing for the overnight hours.

  “Blanca means white,” he replied, seemingly unaware of her escalating anxiety. “The Indians believe the peak is fastened to the ground by bolts of lightning.” He slid his hand around her waist again. And squeezed. “I’m boring you with my jabbering, aren’t I?”

  With honesty, she replied, “Not at all. In fact, it’s beautiful out here.” She enjoyed every single one of the stories he’d thus far shared.

  “Just you wait, Princess…you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  And that was the problem.

  In regards to her escalating feelings for him or the challenges they faced ahead, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see either one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hours in the saddle had done little to dissolve the starch stiffening the socialite’s spine. In fact, Miss Alma Talmadge, sitting so proper on a boulder near the creek, looked as regal as any queen seated on a throne.

  Her pomposity was as staunch as the stubborn tilt of her chin.

  Dillon’s jaw tightened. More than once on this journey she’d tried his patience, but she’d also saved his life.

  With a mumbled oath, he pulled his gaze away from the colonel’s niece and set to unbuckling the saddle’s girth. A quick yank hauled the McClellan off the horse. Leather creaked as he slid the sturdy piece to the ground.

  Dillon gritted his teeth against the aching throb in his shoulder.

  He needed another full week of rest before his infirmity became more tolerable – time he didn’t have. Her kidnapping and his subsequent injury had forced him into survival mode. And he was determined to deliver this woman to the fort without any further delays. Not for her sake, or the promise he gave the colonel, but for his own damned peace of mind now.

  Against his better judgement, his gaze drifted back to his charge.

  His mouth went dry as Alma smoothed her hands over the sides of her hair, tucking back a pale-as-spun-gold strand. She was beautiful and smart, yet even in the wilderness, this high-browed chit held fast to her pretentious ways. Ways that guided most women’s decisions of dress and other fancy manners toward that of common sense.

  Most women.

  Hell, as if with her stubborn attitude she’d consider any advice he might suggest. Dillon scraped a hand over his mouth. Jeezus, did every single one of his thoughts have to revolve back to her? Things pertaining to this girl were rapidly slipping out of control. Regardless how he felt, he was involved with her up to his damned neck.

  So stop lookin’ at her, fool.

  The knot in his chest grew. He stepped around the saddle, guided the bay to the nearest tree, and slapped the reins around a low-hanging limb. With the horse already grazed and watered, it was high time Dillon got to work. He surveyed the area beneath the canopy of trees, and then up and down the creek. The recent rain had left the Holbrook running deeper than usual, otherwise everything looked normal.

  Just the way I like things.

  Dillon squinted against the dappled light sparkling the water’s surface. The restive gurgle of the rippling current around rocks and fallen logs merged with the images of mountain ferns and white-barked aspens, easing back his nerves. More relaxed, he once again glanced at Alma.

  And found her watching him, a pretty blush pinking her cheeks. For a long moment she held his gaze, then broke the connection and faced the creek.

  Pulse racing, he took a deep breath and slowly pushed the air past clenched teeth. Why couldn’t he have been burdened with some withered old crone instead of this sassy-mouthed temptress?

  The muscles in his arm tightened as he
jerked the blanket off the horse. Hell, the only reason they were even getting along was because Miss High and Mighty needed him to guide her back to civilization. Once there, no doubt, her highfalutin ways would resurface, and she’d be the same obnoxious brat he’d first met in Washington. She glanced back and raised her chin in a pretentious manner, underscoring that all-too-obvious truth.

  Dillon nailed her with a stern glare as he tossed the woolen pad beside the saddle.

  Wind whooshed around the aspens, rattling their coin-like leaves and flattening Alma’s dress against her legs. The ample exposure of her slender curves kicked another gaping hole in his heart.

  Sonofabitch!

  Heat climbed his neck and he closed his eyes, furious he’d noticed, more so at how he’d hardened inside his denims in response to her perfect form. He tipped his head back and scowled at the darkening sky as if it played in league with his body’s betrayal.

  With a spiked pulse, he pushed away from the horse. Night would be upon them in less than an hour. The sooner he got their fire started, the better off he’d be.

  Anything to get his mind off bedding the damned wench.

  ***

  Alma scanned the clearing Dillon had chosen for their evening’s stop.

  They were tucked behind a cluster of trees whose roots spread across the ground in a twisted heap, resembling the backs of mythical forest beasts. Her gaze lifted to the creek, a rippling mirror that gurgled past a jumbled array of boulders, wavelets nibbling away the bank’s edge. Where endless water splashed on stone, pillows of blue-green moss clung in silent resilience.