by Cindy Nord
In a swish of dupioni silk, Pamela rose to her feet, another smile wreathing her face. “Oh Papa, I can’t wait to see Alma again. Imagine how difficult this must all be for her. She’s so fragile and helpless.”
“She’s not like you, my dearest, that’s for sure.”
“We must have a soiree for her when she arrives. I know Albert will not object.”
“That’ll be just fine …”
“And we’ll hold the gala at the hotel. Why, I’ll even create the invitations this evening. I do so hope Callie and Jackson…and Gus…can attend, too. If I remember correctly, they’re delivering horses here soon. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the Eschevons.” She tapped her lips with the pad of her fingertip. “Although Roberto has been feeling rather poorly of late.” Shaking off her concern, she smiled. “Regardless, Dillon can come, too. I mean, since he’s been Alma’s escort and all.”
Thaddeus frowned at the prospect of sharing the sad update involving the wealthy Eschevons, one of the first settlers in the territory whose vast track of land bumped up next to Jackson and Callie’s spread. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Roberto passed away while you were gone. I went to his funeral in your absence.”
Grief darkened her gaze, and she set her hand upon the edge of the chair. “Oh no! I must pay Carlotta a visit. What will she do now with all that acreage and no husband?”
“She still has family in Mexico, but you go pay her a visit and comfort her. She’ll like that, I know.” He stood, walked to her side and slipped his arm around her corseted waistline, leading her to the door. “Go make all the plans, my dear…I, however, must get back to work. I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
“Of course, Papa. I have so much to do now. I shall see you soon.” With a kiss to his cheek, Pamela disappeared into the hallway.
***
Alma’s introduction to Fort Defiance arrived without fanfare. They rounded a bend at the base of a soaring butte and emerged onto a flat land the color of sandalwood. The stronghold spread out before her and blended into the high desert, little contrast existing between the dry earth, the mountains, and the military outpost nestled on the edge of nowhere.
According to Dillon, on the long side of the L-shaped compound lay a line of low barracks, kitchens, and latrines. On the short side emerged simple one-story log and sod buildings. Behind those dwellings, an assortment of small tents sat like snowflakes against a brown canvas.
She’d expected anything but this desolation.
An open field claimed the center of the garrison, a tall, wooden staff dominating one end. At the top flew the American flag. To the right, livestock filled stables and corrals.
Everywhere Alma looked she saw Indians. Young, old, all dressed in colorful garb, their dark hair worn loose or in braids.
“They call themselves Diné,” Dillon explained, “but the white man refers to them as the Navajo. After years of fighting, this tribe has finally accepted life on the reservation.”
“Why are they here…at the fort?”
“The post has been converted into the Indian Agency and supports the government’s Navajo treaty signed several years ago. Fort Defiance now provides schooling and supplies to the Diné.”
“I will never understand these Indian issues.”
“Treaties are complicated,” he agreed. “Because of that, I’m afraid the Indians will always struggle.”
The troops on the post greeted them as they rode in. Near the quartermaster’s office, orders to halt the column rang out. Everyone stopped, and the men dismounted.
As he walked past, the lieutenant barely gave Alma a passing glance.
I’m so relieved.
After saying goodbye to their escorts, Dillon ushered her into a single-room adobe dwelling.
“What is this?”
“Set aside for visitors,” he explained. “You’ll sleep here tonight.” After a thorough security check of the musty chambers, he headed for the door. “I’ll make sure your meal is sent over.”
“Y-You’re leaving?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be far.”
On a sigh, Alma nodded, then settled in for the night…a small, rickety-built bed and lopsided-table with a single chair her only companions. Ten minutes later, a knock on the cabin door found a private holding out her dinner tray. With a mumbled thank you, she accepted the offering, relocked the rough, weathered panel, and dined alone.
Staring down at her half-eaten meal, Alma sighed. The cabin was sparsely furnished, yet she felt suffocated. She missed her usual evening banter over dinner, missed the clean, freshness of the great outdoors, the breathtaking canopy of stars, the crackling sounds and smells of a well-built campfire. But most of all, she missed Dillon. A restless night followed, and at dawn, Alma arose, hurriedly dressed, and headed for the stable as planned.
Dillon stood beside two horses, a full sack of supplies draped behind his bedroll. Near his now-scuffed boots, another saddle waited. He made short work of hoisting the leather across the closest animal. A flutter of excitement skimmed her breasts. This man personified heat and hardness and she was so happy to see him again. She drew nearer and he lifted his head, dark eyes locking on her. A grin pulled crooked across his lips. “Mornin’, Princess.”
She tossed back a tiny smile. “Hello.”
Sweet poison sluiced through her veins. Oh how I craved his smile. Alma squelched the rush of warmth, and yet the intimate areas she kept hidden beneath layers of cloth blazed with a reminder of their night in the teepee. She gulped again. His breathing, on the other hand, remained steady.
Her social repute where he was concerned lay in tatters, but Alma didn’t care one whit. Shocking. Insatiable. Unquenchable.
Forbidden words that never before held meaning now clouded her mind this morning. Puzzlement tightened her features as she tucked her parasol beneath her arm. “Am I not riding on the same horse with you?”
Her question hung thick in the air.
A long pause later, Dillon bent and checked the saddle cinch. “You’ll be riding this horse over the Mogollon.” His shirt clung tight against his form, outlining solid muscles.
Muscles she well-remembered caressing.
Alma tamped down a smile. “What’s a Mogollon?”
He peered from beneath his hat, scanning her from head to foot. “Part of the Colorado Plateau. The mountain range.” He readjusted the stirrups on her saddle to adapt their length to her smaller size. “Two-hundred miles of limestone escarpment cuts east to west straight through the heart of the territory.” He walked around, lifting the horse’s front legs one at a time, examined the iron nailed onto the animal’s hooves to ensure no rocks or other objects that could lame the horse were embedded beneath. “There’s no going around the rim…or I would.”
“I’m not that good a rider.”
“You’ve endured worse. Crossing the Rockies, facing bandits, taking on a wolf, and after every one, you’ve come out on the other side smiling.” His gaze met hers, and he winked. “’Sides, you’re fearless for a Boston debutante, right?”
She lifted her chin. “That I am…and don’t you forget it, you unsocialized beast.”
A smile kicked up on his all-too-handsome face, and Alma giggled, too aware of her quickening heartbeat. She pulled on her white gloves. At least she was out of that horrific wagon. “How far to our next stop?”
After a final inspection, he lowered the last leg of the horse. “Once we’re across the rim, we’ll follow the White River ‘til we get to Camp Apache.” He shrugged. “We should arrive sometime next week.”
“Well…riding the Mogollon sounds far different from riding the pastures around father’s estate.” Nerves jumpy, she patted the gelding on the rump. “So I’d appreciate you checking back every once in a while just to make sure I’m still in the saddle.”
Dillon riveted his gaze on hers and stepped closer.
Cast in his shadow, Alma held her breath as his gloved hands slid around her waist. Heat burned in h
is eyes, igniting another flash of desire.
Not anxiety.
Need.
“I’ll check on you, Princess,” he drawled, his cool charm enticing. “Count on it.”
“I–I…”
His half-grin stole her breath. “Now don’t get all flustered, I’m just liftin’ you into the saddle.” With ease he settled her across sun-warmed leather.
She whooshed open her parasol and counted. One…two…three…four… Control waited at the midway point of ten.
Dillon swung into his saddle and then glanced back over his shoulder. “The mule path we’re following over the rim is well-traveled. Still, I’ll take things nice and slow…can’t have you ruffled before your date with destiny.”
My date with destiny. Her throat closed as reality returned, dredging up an unwanted moment with her fiancé amidst the roses in her Boston garden.
“My dearest, I am off to Washington D.C. to discuss my assignment out west,” the earl whispered as he offered her a perfect bow. “I will telegraph you as soon as I arrive.”
The envy of her unmarried friends since her betrothal to him, Alma’s social invitations were never-ending. “But…when will I see you again?”
“August, most likely. Upon my return, I promise we shall wed in your beautiful rose garden.” He brushed a kiss upon her hand and departed.
The thudding ache intensified as Alma swirled back to the present. Other memories filled her mind like a smothering fog. The unbridled happiness at being courted by an Englishman, her father’s contentment, her horror at being sent off on a train bound westward with an arrogant beast as her only companion.
To her date with destiny. Oh yes, one nearing with every step. Except the flames of desire for the earl seemed a distant flicker now, if the feeling ever even existed between her and Lord Green at all.
Her breathing hitched as her horse plodded behind Dillon. What did she really know about her fiancé?
Nothing.
As for the scout, two things were certain: The high-tension attraction toward him grew deeper, more dangerous, with every breath.
Neither was she in a hurry to become the earl’s wife.
Alma’s lips thinned. This journey was somehow transforming her from a frightened child afraid to take chances into a woman of confidence. Not from her father’s wealth or power, or from her betrothal to an Englishman but from a growing belief in her own self.
She scanned Dillon’s broad shoulders, the length of dark hair falling over his collar, his solid, sure presence. His gruff words along the way had only emphasized her own lack of life skills. Cultured talents, she had those down pat…but a competence of life, that was where she had floundered. And somehow, he must’ve known. She’d pushed him in fear. He’d pushed back harder with expectation. He made her stand on her own two feet, and overcome challenges unheard of before in her oh-so-sheltered life.
The gathered-and-tied bustle bumped against her knee with each step the gelding made in her journey. She smiled and resettled the fashionable item, tightening further the rope that held it secure to the saddle. On the outside, she’d changed little, still favoring the role she played in society. A lifestyle that had truly defined her…and still did. Never would she forego her appreciation for fashion, no matter how many times Dillon Reed grumbled.
A flush covered her cheeks and she raised her face, inhaling deeply. She scanned the transforming landscape. Just like the country, changes were happening inside her. No longer did she need a husband to feel important. Rather, she needed a man to love, to care for, to share in the good and the tough times along her journey through life.
Despite the high-desert air brushing her face, lifting her tresses, wrapping her in an ever-evolving clime…a calm and mellow understanding embraced Alma. Decision made, she nudged her mount closer to Dillon’s. At her next stop she would telegraph her father and advise him that, for the moment at least, she’d changed her mind about marriage.
Chapter Twenty-Five
With each passing hour, the dust-ridden mesas around them shifted into a sweeping scope of pines. As Dillon led the way over the escarpment, forested peaks soaring thousands of feet above them intermingled with red-rock canyons lush in vegetation, cascades, and emerald pools of water. Along the base, the White River, more a twisting, rock-strewn creek than a wide channel, cut through the Mogollon’s limestone via passes and corridors to create a narrow, natural passageway down the rim.
On the evening of the third day, they made camp in a shady pocket near plenty of water and firewood. A herd of white-tailed deer grazed in the distance while Dillon staked their horses in the small meadow, then set about creating a fire.
With only venison and desiccated vegetables to eat as they’d trekked down the steepest part of the rim, tonight, nestled in the shadows of the half-way point, Dillon decided to provide Alma a bounty comparable to society standards. Maybe, if luck were on his side. He stepped from the edge of the campfire and smiled at her. “Every so often, toss a log on this.”
“That I can do,” she replied, scooting closer to the dancing flames.
If nothing else, his little responsibility was no longer being difficult. Now, she seemed eager to help. Stifling a chuckle and doubting he’d ever begin to figure her out, Dillon pulled a wad of string and a small brass hook from his saddlebags.
Near a tree at the edge of the encampment he caught sight of a long stick. After stripping away the excess branches, he tied the string around one end, then placed a tiny piece of jerky onto the hook. “All right,” he proudly announced. “I’m off to fish for dinner.”
A blush tinted her cheeks. “Look how clever you are, Dillon Reed. You’re our very own Samuel Clemens as in his biography, Roughing It.”
Dillon lowered his make-shift gear. “Who?”
“Samuel,” Alma clarified, “or better known by his journalistic name…Mark Twain.”
Dillon had seen that famous name in several periodicals. Good God, first Custer and now Twain. Does this woman know everyone? Nonetheless, he took her comment as a compliment. “From what I’ve read by Twain, I’ve found him to be most humorous.” He headed toward the river. At least she compared him to a worldly sort of chap.
An unbidden grin creased his mouth.
Streams of brilliant yellows and orange streaked the early evening sky as an hour later Dillon scooped up a still sizzling trout from the pan. He laid the fillet on the tinplate Alma extended, then set a chunk of cornbread and a heaping pile of roasted carrots alongside.
She speared a small portion of the flakey fish. “I am starving, and this smells purely delicious.” The bite disappeared between her lips and she savored it, then swallowed. A satisfied sigh followed and she locked her gaze on his. “A dish as scrumptious as any seaside restaurateur could ever hope to make for me.”
He wouldn’t go quite that far. The little minx. Dillon eased out a long breath, frustrated for having held it, then forked a chunk of fish for himself. “Nothing better than fresh-caught black river trout…and this kind is only found here.” Daylight surrendered into night as they ate in companionable silence. An extra cup of coffee finished his meal.
As she sipped on her second cup, their gazes connected over the flames.
Firelight laid a luminous glow across her face. Her hair glimmered as if pure gold. With a silent curse, he forced a smile and looked away.
“You know, Dillon,” she said, the crackling wood an intimate backdrop. “I went to the academy with Samuel’s wife. Olivia Langdon is such a witty delight. She rejected his first proposal of marriage due to her…um…society standards.” She frowned. “Her father disapproved of Sam’s less-than-desirable journalistic position.”
“Is that so…” He stared at the fire, a smile pasted on his face. What angle are you getting at? She rarely wasted words, and he’d bet that like the bait he’d crafted earlier to catch their fish, Miss Alma Talmadge was angling toward something with this discussion.
“Yes,” she continued
. “But…Samuel persevered. And two months later he proposed again. This time, true love won out. Olivia said yes, and completely thwarted society with their unexpected marriage. They’ve been happily united for several years,” she added, pausing to toss a small stick into the flames. “So, see? A union between people of different social standings can and does work out.”
He nearly choked on his coffee.
What the hell?
Dillon shifted his boots and straightened, staring at her.
“And, in fact,” she continued as a surge of hope tangled around his common sense, “they now live next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe.”
“The woman who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin?” he calmly replied, belying the anxiety of where he thought this conversation had been going.
“The very same,” she continued, then began another story from her repertoire of tales.
He dutifully nodded, but Dillon heard little else. For a moment, he thought she’d been talking about him and her. He stared into the flames. He was a fool to even think such an asinine thought. As if she’d walk away from her cultured lifestyle for him.
Dillon inhaled and collected his sanity. So what if she’d come through when he was wounded? She’d learned how to handle herself under pressure. And he admired her for that.
But admiration sure as hell wasn’t love.
He took a deep breath and centered his thoughts. All he really needed was the silence of wide open spaces. To breathe. To live alone. Without this woman and all her world-renowned connections.
To hell with all these meaningless fancies.
She was betrothed to another and that was all there was to it...
Cutting Alma off in mid-stream, he climbed to his feet and gathered the tinware. He strode toward the river, focused on cleaning-up the dishes.
The scuffing of her footfalls told him she followed. She sat on a log near the water’s edge. A sigh fell from her lips as she tipped her head and gazed skyward. “The stars are magnificent tonight, Dillon. I shall always remember this evening.”