AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  Lured by the beauty, she scanned further, narrowing her gaze on the kiss of wood sorrel flecking soft blue petals through the tall grass in the meadow beyond. She’d learned many things along this journey, but like the horrors already witnessed, she also knew catastrophe loomed large without notice and could oh-so-easily shatter the peace.

  A twinge of stiffness tightened her muscles, and Alma twisted sideways, working out the kinks from the long hours in the saddle. Who would have thought she’d be trekking through such remote stretches of land? She frowned. By now, her father, Uncle Thaddeus and Lord Green must be worried sick about her. She was out of her element, struggling hard to be brave…and the sheer fact that she hadn’t gone stark raving mad was in no small thanks to Dillon. On a sigh, she peered at the broad-shouldered scout hunkered over the beginnings of a small campfire.

  I’m safe…as long as I’m with you.

  With her ignorance of living on the range, he, however, must think her useless. And she was. In all ways that mattered to him. Still, she wasn’t a total failure. She’d saved his life, under his direction gutted a deer, and had even made her first pot of coffee. Through it all, he’d taken every risk to keep her safe, including taking a bullet. Humbled at his bravery, she swallowed hard. Never, in her wildest thoughts, had she imagined such a fierce protector.

  What would her cousin think of this silly worriment over a man? Oh, to rejoin womankind again – to gossip and giggle and chat about nonsensical things that only ladies enjoyed.

  No deer disemboweling. No bandits. No blood.

  Anticipation fizzed through Alma as the image of Pamela materialized. She hadn’t seen her cousin in years. How much had she changed since moving to this wild and reckless land?

  At the crackling snap of fire, Alma turned. Smoke twisted upward from the pile of wood in a makeshift fire ring as flames danced near its center. “How long ‘til we reach Tucson?”

  Dillon kept rummaging inside his saddlebags without looking over. “Another week or two. Longer if we run into more trouble.” He withdrew a canvas bag, then held out a generous portion of the dried venison, waggling dinner in her direction. “Come get this.”

  A niggling of unease filled her as she scooted from the rock and headed toward him. She took his proffered gift, then bit off a small section of the cured meat, the salty-sweet taste surprising her. “I’m so tired of trouble.”

  “Everything’s trouble out here.” He glanced at her. “Get used to it.”

  “That’s asking a lot, I’m afraid.”

  “And another reason why we’re taking things one day at a time.”

  One day at a time? Good grief, every second spent in this man’s presence spelled trouble. Her escalating heartbeat solidified her conflicted reactions regarding this man.

  Frustrated, she wrestled her features into bland indifference and took another bite of venison. The sun low on the horizon winked at her from between the layers of clouds blanketing a far-away mountain peak. She sighed as the long, lazy rays spilled an orange-red glow across the clearing. “Nice evening,” she said…more for her own validation than for his.

  Dillon nodded, and the jangle of his spurs blended with the crackling flames as he drew up a leg. Draping his arm atop the knee, he leaned back on the opposite heel. “We’re heading into the best part soon.”

  “We are?”

  He nodded. “You’ll see.”

  Alma sank down beside him. Even under perfect conditions, forging any kind of real relationship with him was unthinkable. The awkward, intimate pairing which had been forced upon them reminded her of that truth. They were as different as day and night, water and oil, and every other timeworn comparison she’d ever known.

  Stifling a sigh, Alma took another miniscule bite of meat. As if her father would even sanction such a union between his only daughter and an uneducated army scout? He’d probably have a heart attack at the mere thought. Not that she was thinking such foolish thoughts. The drone of crickets melded with the water’s soft churn, and the remaining bit of jerky she held disappeared in her mouth. If only she had a libation to finish off her meal and help her forget about her current situation. Sparkling wine. That would be nice. She glanced at Dillon…as if he’d even have some.

  A giggle escaped her lips.

  And his tightened. “What’s so damn funny?” he asked. “Don’t you like this time of night?”

  “It wasn’t that. I rather do love dusk.”

  “But you laughed. Just now. I heard it.”

  She drew her knees to her chest and leaned forward, tucking her voluminous skirt around her before wrapping her arms around her legs. “I was simply contemplating the joys of sipping on a cool glass of sparkling wine and the unlikelihood of such an expensive bottle being stowed in your saddlebags.” Already knowing of the contents within, she tipped her head to peer at him. “You don’t have any…do you?”

  His lips lifted into a grin. “Sorry.”

  “Have you ever sipped? Sparkling wine?” She bit back another laugh, doubting this tall drink of cowboy had even seen anything as sophisticated as that, let alone imbibed.

  “Can’t say that I have.” He swallowed, then glanced at her. “Heard about it a time or two, though.”

  She smiled. “Well, the best I’ve ever had is made by the Pleasant Valley Company in upstate New York. They began harvesting their Isabella grapes just before the war. A couple of years ago, they branched out into effervescent wines.”

  A scowl touched his mouth as he tossed a handful of sticks onto the fire. “How the hell do you know so much about spirits?”

  She leaned sideways, lightly bumping her shoulder against his. “I probably should’ve mentioned Father has a vested interest in Pleasant Valley. But, the winery’s so popular now they’ve even earned the moniker Reims of America. Father’s quite happy about that, too, I might add.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Why is my father happy?”

  “No, the other. That reims thing.” He shoved a second piece of venison into his mouth, and reached in the bag for a third.

  His interest seemed genuine, so Alma indulged, eager to share what she’d learned from her father. Though she’d never visited the vineyard, he’d told her so many stories over the years. “Reims is world-renowned for their spirits. They’re the only champagne-producing region in the world. Well, at least of all the les grandes marques.” She pressed her fingertips against her lips. With a flourish, she tossed an imaginary kiss into the air. “Champagne is si délicieux, so delicious, and since Roman times, it’s been created right there in the caves and tunnels beneath Reims…which is an ancient town near Paris.” She paused and glanced at him, their gazes connecting. “Which is in France.”

  His eyes narrowed as he handed her another strip of meat. “Interesting. And for the record, I know where Paris is, Princess.”

  Guilt slid through her as she bit off another small piece of meat, chewed, and then swallowed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure.”

  He shrugged.

  As she finished her second piece of venison, Alma stared into the fire. “I’ve enjoyed champagne at social gatherings up and down the East Coast, but don’t dare indulge too often.”

  “Why?” He tossed another handful of twigs onto the logs, then stoked the flames with a longer stick.

  She propped her chin on her knees, and sighed. “Palliatives and I don’t agree. I, um, tend to get twitter-pated.”

  He settled onto his heel and glanced at her. “How?”

  A light laugh trickled out. “More than one glassful makes me tipsy.”

  He softly chuckled, then reached into his saddlebags and rummaged around. A moment later, he withdrew the silver flask. Shaking it, he frowned. “Damnit, half gone.” He lifted the flagon before the fire in a saluting gesture. “You can keep your champagne, darlin’…I’ll just take the whiskey.” He hoisted the metal to his lips. After two long pulls, he gave a satisfied sigh. Humor touched his brows as he glanced her way. “I�
�d offer a sip, but now knowing you can’t hold your liquor, I guess I’m gonna have to say no.” He recapped the container, and then shoved it in the saddlebags.

  The crackling campfire and soothing babble of the nearby stream filled the stillness. Dillon handed her the canteen. She smiled and took several deep swallows. The water was no wine, but the tepid liquid quenched her thirst.

  As he stared into the flickering flames, she studied the scout’s handsome profile. Dillon Reed was the worst kind of trouble for any woman. Too big and controlling. Too ill-mannered. And absolutely too disheveled. She’d already memorized her list of reasons why she must keep her distance. Alma frowned as she handed back the canteen. And yet…two more weeks in this man’s company and she’d be crazy with wan…

  Dillon surged to his feet, shattering her thoughts. “Let’s get our bedrolls,” he announced, heading toward the gelding.

  An hour later, Alma had stretched out across the blanket beside Dillon. On her back, she stared at the emerging night sky. With the creek’s distinctive minuet burbling in the background, one by one the luminous stars materialized.

  Nighttime crept in, and sheeted the world inside a silver mystery. The hard days of travel, the dangers they’d faced, and the unknown challenges ahead all pressed with a crushing weight across her chest. “Oh, Dillon,” she said in an unsteady whisper. “Everything is just so overwhelming.”

  “For you, probably yes. But, for me, it’s my favorite time of all. Out in the open. No cave. No house. Just staring up at all…this.”

  Her heart thudded against her ribs as Alma fought back her worries. She forced herself to peruse the slowly evolving display above her as he might see it. With each inward breath, her pulse slowed, and with each exhale she took in the ever-darkening sky. “Look, the stars are beginning to emerge.”

  “From horizon to horizon and all points in between. Give it a few more minutes.”

  Silence fell between them.

  After a moment, she slid a glance toward him. Was he assessing her? Thinking her foolish in her fear of so many unknowns? How could he expect otherwise? Until this journey, never had she been exposed to such elements. She clenched her eyes closed. All around her, the forest beckoned with croaking frogs and chirping crickets and other unknown animal calls that the night now magnified.

  With her senses enhanced, the tang of the composting forest filled her every breath. Trees rustled against the soft breeze and nearby a leaf fell, swishing to the ground in a gentle whisper. The fluty piping of a far-away bird echoed in the blackness. What a pathetic coward I am.

  “It’s all right to be afraid, Princess,” Dillon whispered. “This is another new moment for you. When you’re ready, reopen your eyes and just behold.”

  Would she ever be ready for his world? She realized now how desperately she wanted to be.

  Alma forced her lids up.

  And gasped at the majestic canopy overhead.

  Darkness had fallen completely and wispy, translucent clouds framed a crescent moon. Other celestial constellations, known and unknown, real and imagined, shimmered before her in silvery harmony, every single thing pinned into place upon an infinite, blue-black canvas.

  Dillon chuckled, then pointed to the brightest cluster of stars overhead. “See that? Each diamond light is a million miles away.”

  Tears slipped from her eyes, tracking into her hair. “It’s all so incredibly…beautiful.”

  “That it is.” Then he continued, his whispered words almost rueful. “And there they stand, the innumerable stars, shining in order like a living hymn, all written in bright light upon the heavens.” He gave a soft laugh. “Guess I got a soft spot for the poet N.P. Willis. Many an evening, father read his work to me…and Caleb.”

  In all her life, Alma had never been more surprised – this hardened man quoting a gifted bard.

  Amazing.

  Unsure why, but needing his touch, she released her pent-up breath, then slowly edged her hand over and bumped his, her palm sliding atop. “I feel so small beneath such unimaginable…vastness.”

  “Remember, Princess, everything’s not what it seems.” A softness she’d never heard before filled his voice, and a heartbeat later, he turned his palm up and folded strong, callused fingers over hers.

  Warmth flowed up her arm and settled into every anxious corner of her heart.

  Finally, Alma relaxed.

  “And don’t be afraid of the night sounds either. Just listen to what they have to say.”

  She nodded again and swallowed, knowing that as long as he held her hand, she would listen for the remainder of the night. And yet, the clock of despair began ticking. Would her fiancé keep her this safe?

  The doubt inside her heart crept ever closer.

  ***

  The following morning after a repeat meal of dried venison, Dillon helped Alma mount the horse. The ten-minute argument preceding resulted in him handing over her parasol. With a well-honed skill, she whooshed open the gadget, then shot him a haughty look. “I am now ready to begin another day.”

  “Well, I’m so glad to hear it,” he growled. The scout pulled up into the saddle and settled into place behind her. With a grumble, he snapped, “Just keep that damned thing out of my face.”

  Alma promptly tipped the tiny canopy out of his line of vision. “My apologies, sir.”

  Another guttural groan followed as Dillon tapped his spurs against the gelding’s flank, and headed southward, paralleling the Culebra mountain range.

  By noon, they’d crossed the shin-deep Costilla Creek, and turned westward. Fort Garland lay a full day’s ride ahead, cowering somewhere in the shadows of the distant mountain peak.

  Throughout the morning as they’d travelled, her parasol held aloft to block the sun, Alma enjoyed watching the land transform from highlands to plateaus, evergreens to prairie grass, and now into a tranquil meadow strewn with flowers. Tilting her sunshade against the rays of the perfect June day, she scanned the area. As far as the eye could see, white-petaled blossoms arched over ferny foliage and bobbed in the afternoon breeze.

  “Yarrow,” Dillon said, nodding toward the snow-colored blooms. His chuckle held a smile. “Figured you’d want to know.”

  Her lips turned upward. “They’re so beautiful.”

  “And a potent medicine in these parts, too. Every bit of the plant is used – for teas, poultices, even tinctures. An effective painkiller, too. Mexicans call it plumajillo…for little feather, ‘cause the leaf’s shape resemble one.”

  Glancing at the closest cluster of flowers, she nodded. “Yes, I can see that now.”

  “If you grind up yarrow and shove it into a wound, it’ll staunch the flow of blood. Even Homer’s Iliad had the warrior Achilles using this plant to treat his fallen comrades.”

  Alma turned to face him, her eyes widening. “You’ve read Homer?” During her schooling she’d studied in depths the works of the epic Greek poet.

  Dillon settled his hand atop the parasol, pushing the canopy from his line of site. “Been a while. I wanted Caleb to know the classics.”

  This man never ceased to surprise her. Slowly, she turned forward and tipped the parasol to her right to block the sun. As the horse slogged onward through the field, crushing blossoms beneath its hooves, she drew in a deep breath.

  The pungent scent of the flowers made her cough.

  Dillon snickered. “Suppose I should’ve warned you yarrow looks way better than it smells.”

  He glanced sideways upon the blooms. “The cavalry even uses these plants when medicines run low on a battlefield. They call it soldier’s woundwort.”

  Ah, Dillon. Such astounding things you know. She shifted again, peering at him over her shoulder. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but he tipped his head and his gaze pierced hers, clear and intense. His lips slid into a lopsided grin. “What?” he asked, his eyes alight and crinkling at the corners. “It’s all true.”

  Her heart melted. Shaken, she faced forward and foug
ht to squash her reaction to his rugged charm. “You sound like a teacher.”

  “Education the hard way, Princess…living on the run, and avoidin’ other people along the way. The land’s many gifts, I learned from the Indians.”

  She recalled his shared story of stealing food to keep his brother fed, so determined to preserve his beleaguered little family. Sadness over Dillon’s lost youth rose inside her. “Well, had I been given some of this miraculous yarrow back at the cave, I would’ve packed you full of flowers.”

  He chuckled and tightened his hold around her waist. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Alma nodded and again settled against him, glancing down. The parasol’s minuscule shade spilled a hazy, peach-colored shadow across his hands. Stretched across her belly, his strong fingers flexed, then skimmed the fabric of her dress leaving a trail of awareness wherever he touched.

  On an unsteady breath, she dragged her mind from dangerous thoughts, and instead focused on him and the hardships he’d obviously known. She stared at his bare hands, so unlike her fiancé’s manicured fingers. The years had not been easy on the scout, the weathering and calluses a strong testament to the challenges he must have faced.

  After the horrors she’d encountered in the few weeks she’d been on the trail, a pittance really, what must he have experienced over all his years? Her throat tightened as she struggled to ponder such an existence, a way of life so foreign, so out of touch with her reality, she wondered if she ever could understand or accept all that he’d endured.

  At times when his guard was lowered, she saw the angst he worked to hide. Whatever bothered him left him far from peace. Dillon Reed wielded his stern countenance as did the warrior Achilles a shield, to protect, to preserve the man inside, one whose very lifestyle had been cast for him during a childhood without choices. Unable to move past his own troubled past…had he chosen the life of an army scout to be of service to others?

  Compassion melted the last of her reserve, and the moment shifted. As if a breath in time, the walls around her heart crumbled. She now journeyed to meet her fiancé. Everything about her life was set, and this man who protected her so well had absolutely no place in it.