by Cindy Nord
Alma Talmadge spelled trouble in every corner of the word. She irritated him, frustrated him, and had a body that drove him insane. If he remained in her company much longer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
He needed distance.
And soon.
Two hours later Dillon stood in the front parlor of the post commander’s residence, a glass of whiskey in hand. “Thank you for arranging private quarters for Miss Talmadge, sir.”
Major Filbert nodded. “My pleasure, Reed. I trust you’ll be comfortable in the barracks?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m used to sleeping on the ground.”
The major laughed. “Ah yes, the life of an army scout.” He glanced across the room toward his wife and Alma. “Laundresses aside, Susanna hasn’t enjoyed the companionship of a lady in over a year.” He sipped his liquor, a frown creasing his brow. “As you know, an army post doesn’t offer much of a life for the finer womenfolk.”
Dillon narrowed his gaze upon Alma, gut knotting. Another reason why things wouldn’t work between us. In the subdued light glowing from the oil lamps, she beamed, laughing at something the commander’s wife had shared. A moment later, her gaze fixed on his. A small smile brushed her lips…his own mouth tightened beneath the evoking taste of her.
Face tight, he looked away
“I know you’ve just arrived, Reed, and are probably looking to catch that stage out of Santa Fe, but I’ve got troopers heading southwest to Fort Defiance tomorrow. I’m sending them to reinforce the garrison that’s guarding the Navajo agency. You and Miss Talmadge are welcome to ride along. From there, you can skirt the Mogollon Rim to Camp Apache, and then head on down south through the desert. Route’s rather rigorous on the other side of Defiance, but overall a straighter shot to Tucson.”
Dillon took a swallow of his whiskey. Two weeks on a crowded Concord winding south through New Mexico, then catching a Butterfield westward at Fort Bayard, the possibility of yet another abduction looming large all along the way? Or…twenty-eight days with fewer distractions on a direct path through a territory he knew well?
His heart squeezed. Damnit! One’s much faster. The other’s more controlled. He shoved a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. The trail down the rim was daunting, but passable. More important, the days spent with the military would put things back into perspective for him.
Regardless, her safety came first.
I’m sticking with my earlier plan.
“Your offer’s too tempting to turn down, Major. ‘Sides, I’ve been that way before. We accept.”
“Fine. You’ll leave right after reveille. ”
He again glanced at Alma and took another deep swig from his glass.
“By the way,” the major added. “Lieutenant Vaughn’s in charge of the detachment. He’s an annoyingly dapper gent who graduated from West Point. Likes to feel important, so I let him.”
“We’ve got a few junior officers like that at Fort Lowell, much to the despair of Colonel Talmadge.” Dillon nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”
“I’ll send a message for Vaughn to join us this evening,” Filbert said. “When he arrives, we can iron out the particulars.”
They clinked their glasses. “Deal.”
An elderly Indian stepped around the parlor’s corner and announced dinner.
The major set aside his glass. “Well, ladies,” he said, his arm outstretched toward his wife, “our meal awaits us. Shall we four adjourn to the other room?”
Laughing, they agreed and crossed the parlor.
With her bustle re-anchored on her backside and her ivory fan flapping up a breeze, Alma sashayed past Dillon, last evening’s tipsiness long gone as she shot him a haughty look.
The memory of her soft breasts against his palm and her sweet taste burned through his mind like a torch. He tipped his glass and drained the remainder of his whiskey.
Good God, if only he could as easily forget.
***
“Thank you for everything, Susanne,” Alma said, closing the front door of the commander’s quarters behind her.
God bless the woman.
A bath, a light breakfast, and freshly-laundered clothing had done wonders for Alma’s spirit. The last-minute dab of rose-scented perfume even returned a whisper of normalcy to her world. With her hair swept into a perfect coiffure and her hat, albeit a bit crumpled from time in her traveling bag, pinned into place atop her curls, she stepped to the edge of the front porch.
Beneath clear skies, the far-away mountain peaks scraped an azure canvas like mammoth ship sails. Alma scanned her surroundings. The rough adobe barracks built for cavalry and infantry were sparse at best and spread out in a long, brownish-pink line. Workrooms, storage facilities and private residences also crafted from adobe housed teamsters and laundresses employed by the army to work with the Indians. To the northeast of the fort, weathered wooden crosses stood like silent sentinels above the remains of those who had perished on duty.
In stark contrast to the beauty of the Rocky Mountains she’d traveled through on horseback with Dillon, austere was an apt description for this remote track of land. She took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. Chin high, Alma braced herself to face this next phase of her journey.
Commotion across the way had her turning.
Sunlight glinted off cavalry sabers as the detail of soldiers waited for their order to mount.
Her gaze narrowed on Dillon. He stood beside Lieutenant Vaughn, their height similar, but any further likeness ended there. Last evening, she’d met the officer. His well-groomed refinement and flaxen-haired paleness proved the polar opposite of the scout’s dark hair and somber mood. A pompous dandy if ever there was one, and yet, the lieutenant’s ever-so-doting attention on her seemed to tense Dillon’s jaw.
Good. She smiled and swished open her parasol, angling the diminutive canopy to block the rising sun.
Every eye turned her way as she walked toward the men. Her gaze, however, burned only into Dillon’s. Glimpses of their passion the night of the Bear Dance twisted around her heart. The searing pressure of his lips upon hers. The warmth of his hands on her breasts.
Alma looked away.
Better to let him believe she remembered nothing than to admit her reckless behavior and embarrassing joy at the moments she’d spent in his arms. The way she’d trembled against him, begging him to kiss her, imploring him to…to…
The woozy rush of blood warmed her face. Nothing in her behavior that night had been acceptable by society’s morals. Nothing! She swallowed and blamed the heat across her cheeks upon this newest twist in her journey west. Her slow and steady breathing doused the burn for the scout, and by slow degrees, control returned.
“Ah, Miss Talmadge, how wonderful to see you again,” the lieutenant said, stepping around Dillon.
She slid her gloved palm against the officer’s extended hand. His oh-so-chaste kiss across her fingertips only forced another grating comparison.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I am eager to begin our journey to Fort Defiance. I trust I’ll be safe under your care.”
“It is my honor to escort you.” Sky-blue eyes held hers and the squeeze across her fingertips spoke volumes. “Never doubt that I will protect you with my life.”
Alma swore she heard Dillon’s gritty sigh.
She bit back a smile. Even in these wastelands the laws of society ruled. Alma well-knew the courting signs that the lieutenant shared. She’d played this game for years in a hundred ballrooms back east. Subtle. Predictable.
His cat.
Her mouse.
From the top of his hat to the tips of his boots, Alma itemized the lieutenant’s assets. Tall in stature. Slim hipped. Delicate features. When she measured this man against Dillon’s raw masculinity, the lieutenant fell leagues short. Worse, the anticipated spark she would’ve welcomed two weeks earlier had failed to ignite.
And not because of her betrothal to Lord Green, but from the remembered feel of Dillon’s callused hands upon her b
reasts. Her heart tripping even faster, she glanced sideways.
All because of you…
With his hat pulled low, Dillon stood arms crossed, his eyes narrowed upon her with a fierce glare. Without a single word uttered in her direction, he turned and stalked to his horse.
Her heart sank, and she pressed her lips together to ward off a foolish response to his blatant cut.
Lieutenant Vaughn tipped his hat, reclaiming her attention. “I’ve arranged proper seating for you in the back.”
Alma offered a thin smile as he gestured to the closest wagon.
“‘Twill be more comfortable for you than sitting atop a hard bench…” he leaned closer and the scent of hair pomade wafted over her. “Or, God forbid, straddling a horse. Had I been with you, my dear, I would’ve given you the animal and gladly walked the length of America beside you.”
She doubted this coxcomb had walked far enough to even scuff the soles of his finely-polished footwear. Nonetheless, at that precise moment she appreciated his aplomb. She dropped open her fan slats and waved the delicate ivory before her. “I’m moved by your kind expression, Lieutenant. But, Mister Reed is still recovering from a grave wound. We did the best we could possibly do considering the circumstances.”
“Well, yes…I understand.” He tapped his boot heels together and issued a quick bow her way before motioning to the closest soldier. “Kindly assist our honored guest into place.”
“Yes, sir,” the young private replied.
Minutes later, amidst a collection of canvas-covered crates, blankets and cooking gear, Alma settled upon a chair in the back of the wagon, thankful at least for the added cushions. The rough wooden box was the extreme opposite of the comforts found in her father’s elegant, cradle-sprung Brougham. At the clop of an approaching horse, she tipped her parasol, masking her surprise as Dillon drew his gelding alongside the wagon.
“You should be on a horse, but what the hell do I know?” A smirk brushed his mouth as he took in every aspect of her throne-like seating. “The trail’s gonna knock you crazy sitting in here.”
The wagon rolled forward and lurched, then settled to another stop. Alma cringed. The hours of hard travel ahead promised little except a sore backside. Staring at him, a lump lodged in her throat. As if a rutty track were the worst of her problems. Without him even aware of the complications he’d created, this man had tangled her carefully laid-out marriage plans to Lord Green.
Her breath caught as she stared at Dillon…wanting him…not with the light-hearted, foolish flutters that made a woman swoon, but a soul-deep need that stole her breath. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to climb over the wagon’s edge and slip back in front of him on his saddle.
Instead, her words tumbled out in a thin whisper, “I’ll be fine, Dillon. Thank you.”
His gaze bored into hers. “I’m serious. Grab ahold of something.” The order in his voice underscored his disapproval.
Hurt cut through her, and she nodded. For him, nothing had changed. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her he’d seen her as someone he’d been burdened with protecting.
An obligation.
Duty.
Nothing more.
Hand trembling, she clasped her gloved fingers against the side of the rig. “I-I promise I shall hold on tight.”
“Good.” His saddle creaked as he leaned closer, his expression darkening. “’Cause I don’t want a damned thing more happenin’ to you until I’ve delivered you to your dukedom.” He tapped his spurs to the gelding’s flanks, and cantered toward the front of the column of men.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The evening of their first stop, Alma crawled from the wagon aching in places she never knew existed. By the arrival of the second night, she could barely walk. At noon the following day, she’d had enough jolting and vacated her throne in the wagon’s bed in favor of the wooden seat beside the driver.
Except, through the next day’s never-ending battering, the bench proved no better. The watering stops were few and far between, and three nights with little sleep had left her nerves in shreds.
The final night of their trip to Fort Defiance found Alma near tears. She’d seen Dillon only from a distance during the days, and the nights swallowed him into their shadows. Unlike Lieutenant Vaughn who, much to her frustration, was never far from her side.
Now, perched upon a campstool near the fire, she sat within a cluster of blue-coated soldiers as each group took shifts on guard duty.
Alma stared into a bowl of some sort of bean concoction the lieutenant had delivered. He settled onto a seat beside her, dropped his hat upon the ground, and began to eat. Should she tell him she wished to be alone? Would it make any difference? As the muffled conversations melded around her, she absentmindedly stirred her soup. Tired of the soldiers’ bland fare, she longed for a lovely Matelot. Alma allowed the savory composition of fish and wine sauce to linger on memory’s tongue. Even a bountiful portage, like the stew she’d learned how to make in the cave, would be a welcomed repast.
She spooned up a tiny portion of beans and swallowed. Her stomach roiled against the taste. Memories of the pleasurable night spent beneath the stars by Holbrook Creek in only Dillon’s company forced another lengthy sigh from her lips.
With a grimace, Alma set aside the bowl. She stared at the campfire, her gaze following a smoky tendril swirling upward. Thick clouds obscured the majestic canopy that had captured her breath that night.
“Not hungry?” the lieutenant asked.
“No, not really.”
“I understand.” He scraped his spoon across the tin plate to capture his final few bites, then issued an apology as his bowl rattled to the ground. “Sorry this is not up to Delmonico’s standards.”
Her eyebrow arched. “You’ve been to Delmonico’s?”
“I’m from Long Island, so yes, I’ve been there many times. I always order their famous steak.” He smiled as he patted his hand over his sticky, matted hair.
“Whenever father and I visit New York,” she said with a smile, “We stop in for their Baked Alaska. Their chef de cuisine always makes me a special serving.” She shifted aside her bowl with her foot.
“Ahh, yes…that is quite delectable.” He took a sip from his coffee. “Did you know the dessert was created a half-dozen years ago to celebrate the purchase of Alaska?”
“Imagine that,” she said, not wishing to inform him she already knew.
“And how about his other signature dish, Lobster Newburg?” Lieutenant Vaughn asked.
Alma nodded as she readjusted her bustle, attempting to work out the kinks in her aching back. “Absolutely, that butter and sherry sauce is heaven sent.”
“True, but there’s speculations Ranhofer didn’t actually create that recipe. His fight to claim the fame still lingers.” He settled his hand on her knee, a smug look crossing his features.
“In actuality, ‘twas Chef Fauchere who breathed life into that delicacy.”
“The crazy Frenchman?” she asked, dislodging his hold with a much-practiced leg shift. She’d heard of the noted chef, but hadn’t known about the squabble over the dish.
“Yes ma’am,” Vaughn stated with a glint in his eye. “At the Hotel Fauchere in upstate Pennsylvania.” He straightened and stretched his legs. “Had a platter-full in his restaurant many times after hunting in the Poconos while on break from West Point.”
Alma offered another tight smile. “Well, it seems we do have a few things in common after all, Lieutenant.” The socially unacceptable deed of sitting alone under the stars with a man may have been waved due to her extreme circumstance of traveling to Fort Lowell, but inside Alma struggled to continue her pleasantries.
“Indeed, we do.” He leaned toward her, infiltrating her senses with the nauseating stench of hair pomade. “Our love of good food and elegant dining, for one. And please call me Jonathan.”
“I don’t believe that is necessary. Lieutenant works just fine for me.” Alma bit ba
ck another groan and inhaled, her gaze skimming over the soldiers engaged in conversations.
“I’m going to pour another mug of coffee, my dear. May I interest you in a fresh cup?”
She shook her head. “I’m planning to retire, so I shall pass.” Alma glanced at the back of the uncomfortable monstrosity of a wagon now-boasting its nightly bonnet. Every evening upon making camp, a detail of soldiers diligently added the curved, canvas topper for her privacy. Of course, the rough pallet could never be a substitute for her elegant bedroom back east, but she was glad for the gesture.
Her gaze shifted to the lieutenant. “I appreciate all the kindness everyone has afforded me during this journey.”
“I-I enjoy taking care of you and would welcome the opportunity to do so every day…if allowed.”
No matter how kind he was, she had no interest in the man. And besides, she was an engaged woman. “That’s gallant of you, but if you’ll excuse me, I shall say goodnight.”
He shifted, leaning toward her again. “B-Before you retire, perhaps you’ll consider a stroll with me around the camp?”
Her frustrations with the lieutenant’s unwanted advances built. What kind of cads were the army employing these days? Avoiding eye contact, she shook her head and stared across the top of the flickering flames. “No, thank you.” Forcing a smile to her lips, she stood, straightening her dress.
He shoved to his feet, knocking over the campstool. “B-But…” he stammered, catching her arm to stop her from turning away.
Alma tried to break free; his grasp remained firm. “This is our final night of the journey. I was…was…hoping we might spend some time together.”
Panic threaded through her…Oh Dillon, where are you?
***
From the edge of the encampment, Dillon eyed the near-empty flask dangling from his fingers, irritated that even in the shadows, the subtle laughter between Alma and the lieutenant had reached him. Every night since leaving Fort Garland he’d kept his eye on her.