AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  He squelched his melancholy as they crested a hill.

  Behind him, she gasped.

  And Dillon smiled.

  “Saguaros,” he said, his voice low. “I wanted you to see this, Princess.” The reverence of the moment was staggering. As far as the eye could see the columnar giants filled the dips and swells of land, their spine-covered arms soaring into the turquoise sky. God, how he loved the austerity of these massive sentinels that stood guard over the gates of Hell. “Impressive, aren’t they?”

  “They’re…breathtaking. I had no idea these even existed. Thank you so much for sharing this with me.” Her awestruck laugh rippled over him. “Those thick arms reaching upward look just like a million candelabras.”

  He lifted his hat, tunneled his fingers through his hair, and resettled the slouch. They did at that – candelabras. He chuckled. “Saguaros grow nowhere else but here…in this desert.” Dillon nudged his gelding beside the closest giant, pulled the knife from inside his boot, and then glanced back. “Ride up here. Want you to try something.”

  A broad smile lighting her face, she guided her mount alongside. Time spent in the fresh air this past week had given her back her glow. Keeping his damned hands off her had been sheer torment. Detailed images of her supple breasts, the flair of her perfect hips, every magnificent curve flickered into his mind. As long as he drew breath he’d have the memories of her, of her taste, of how she felt in his arms.

  A hard swallow suppressed the relentless image. “See those flowers?” he asked, pointing at the white blooms that covered the tips of the Saguaro. The now-limp feathers on her hat momentarily danced in the breeze as she angled her parasol to shade her eyes, nodding. “Well, they open after sunset and last until mid-afternoon the next day. A twenty-four hour bloom, that’s all. Then, they’re replaced by that bright red fruit tucked under there.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “And only seen this time of year. They’re also lunch.” With his feet snug in the stirrups, Dillon eased into a full stand and knocked off one of the red, pear-shaped pieces. “Birds and bats eat the fruit up high,” he said, passing her a clump of the rare juicy treat. “When they ripen and drop all other desert critters feast. Won’t find anything like this back east.”

  A tiny half-smile grew as pink blossomed Alma’s cheeks. “I’m not sure, Dillon. You well-know I’m more a French cuisine kind of diner.”

  “After all this time spent with you, I know you pretty well. So let’s not forget you’re also now a fine frontierswoman, too.”

  Her gaze melting into his, she leaned forward. “I assure you I shall never forget.” She lifted the fruit from his open palm and took a tentative bite. Surprise widened her eyes. “Oh my…it’s delicious. So sweet. Like…a big strawberry.” She popped the remainder into her mouth.

  “Makes great jam on biscuits, too.”

  “Ooh, I’d love to try some.”

  But you never will ‘cause England doesn’t have this. The warmth of her nearness burned through Dillon. Good God he’d miss her moments of discovery, her new-found courage, her laughter, and….

  His gaze dropped to her lips.

  Her kiss.

  On an inhale, he stood and removed two more sections. A quick twist of his knife and he opened the rind-covered fruit, then shoved another glob into his mouth. He swiped away the juices on his shirtsleeve, and then handed her the other tasty clump. “We should be at Fort Lowell by mid-afternoon.”

  Tears gathering in her eyes, she accepted the treat and stared at him. “S-So soon?”

  Tense silence settled between them, and he swallowed hard and cursed every remaining mile. Their breathing matched. Shallow. Strained. The relentless taste and temptation of her body seared his brain.

  A tear slipped over the curve of her sunstained cheek.

  Jeezus.

  His gut twisted.

  Just tell her…

  Dillon glanced away. With a firm grip, he swiped the Bowie across his pants leg, then slipped the knife inside his boot.

  “Let’s ride,” he snapped, “no sense delaying the inevitable.” A quick jab to the gelding’s flank and he headed for home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In the waning light, Fort Lowell spread alongside the Rillito River on the south side of the territory's capitol city of Tucson. Tangerine tendrils swirled behind the Santa Catalina Mountains as the rocky behemoth swallowed the last of the afternoon light. Dillon scraped his gaze over the majestic site, then rapped his knuckles hard against Captain Palmer’s front door.

  Pamela better damned-well be home.

  Upon their arrival, he’d hoped to find the colonel at headquarters, then he’d simply turn Alma over to the commander. Obligation done. Except, Talmadge’s office stood empty. A search of the post had ended in exasperation

  Dillon grimaced at the continued delay, his mind wandering.

  They’re all out on escort duty, Reed…and the colonel took that blasted Englishman with ‘im, the clerk at the telegraph office informed him when they stopped in so Alma could send a message to her father. After thanking the man, Dillon took up the suggestion they try her cousin’s house next.

  A hot breeze swirled around the side of the adobe dwelling, lifting the limp ribbons on Alma’s hat. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and with a quick heel-tap readjusted the bustle she’d insisted on donning before they rode into Fort Lowell.

  Across the entire country, this woman refused to lose sight of her propriety. In fact, she’d insisted on following her asinine society standards even in the wilds of America where not one living soul gave a damn.

  Despite the truth, a begrudging admiration for his feisty little princess grew.

  A line creased Alma’s brow. “What if she isn’t home?”

  “She’s here somewhere.” He shifted her valise to his other hand, and added a half-hearted smile. “We’ll find her.”

  On a sigh, he rapped again, then scanned the fort. In the three months he’d been gone, nothing had changed.

  Three months? God’s teeth, the trip seemed an eternity. Yet, his time spent with Alma flew by.

  Fort Riley.

  The kidnapping.

  The cave, the Utes, and Camp Apache.

  Sonofabitch, too many places to fall in love.

  With a soft creak, the door swung open.

  Pamela’s eyes widened with pleasure. “Dillon! You’re home.” She looked past him, and happiness wreathed her face. “And there’s my beautiful cousin.” Pamela stepped back. “Come in out of this heat, both of you.”

  Dillon settled the valise on the floor of the entryway, then stepped aside just as crinolines rustled and Pamela swept past him.

  She embraced Alma. “It’s so wonderful to see you again!”

  “I’m delighted, too,” Alma whispered, hugging her in return. “There’s so much I need to share with you.”

  More comfortable with a horse beneath him than women talking, Dillon swept off his hat, and paced the foyer.

  A smile curved Pamela’s lips. “I can’t wait to hear everything. Excuse me for just one moment.” She glanced down the hallway. “Rosa, my sweet,” she said.

  An old Mexican woman stepped into view. “Sí, señora?”

  “Please fill the copper bathtub in my room,” Pamela said. “Thank you so much.”

  The servant nodded and moved toward the back of the house.

  Pamela led them to the front parlor where the coolness of the room belied the heat outside. She indicated the closest settee. “Please get comfortable, you must be exhausted from your travels.”

  Alma drifted down to the cushioned seat.

  “No thanks, I’ll stand.” Dillon toyed with the rim of his hat, looking for the moment he could make his escape.

  Pamela nodded, then settled beside Alma on the leather-covered divan. “After father received your telegram from Fort Garland, I scheduled a small get-together for Alma’s arrival. Then, we didn’t hear another thing, and I
was afraid I’d have to cancel.” She placed her hand atop Alma’s filthy, white-gloved ones. “But you’re here now, my darling, so our soirée tomorrow evening can go on as planned.”

  A becoming blush stained Alma’s high cheekbones. “You mustn’t go to so much trouble.”

  “Nonsense,” Pamela snapped. “You’re family. Of course, we’re celebrating.” She smiled at Dillon. “Jackson and Gus are expected to arrive tomorrow morning with their herd. They’ve responded with intentions of attending. Callie won’t be joining us.” Pamela’s face softened as she turned to Alma. “My dearest friend is expecting their third child next month, and her husband forbids her to travel.”

  “Sounds like Jackson. Forbidding.” Dillon chuckled. “I’m just surprised Callie agreed to his orders.”

  “Indeed,” Pamela agreed. “But, you needn’t worry, Alma, we’ll visit my friends before you leave for England. Right now, however, your fiancé is with father and the troops escorting more savages to the reservation.”

  “I meant to be back in time to help.” Dillon shot a glance to Alma. “We were delayed.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her lips lifting into an ever-so-soft smile.

  Arousal flared deep within Dillon. The accursed thumping of his heart could probably be heard as far away as Yuma.

  Pamela studied them for several long moments, then her lips tipped upward. “I see,” she said, much too softly. “Regardless, you’re here now. That’s all that matters. And our men assured me they’ll be back in time for our party on the off chance you’d arrive. They’ll be so happy to see you.”

  “And I them. Did my trunks arrive?” Alma asked, catching Dillon’s gaze.

  The memory of her standing behind her trunks demanding he bring them along blazed into his mind. The first of many face-offs, and damned if he hadn’t started looking forward to the next one.

  Yet another thing he’d miss about her.

  “I took the liberty of bringing your trunks here,” Pamela said. “They’re in the back room, but I’m certain Lord Green will order dressmakers to create you the newest fashions upon reaching London.”

  At the second mention of Alma’s fiancé, jealousy pumped through Dillon. She deserved a royal prince, not some jackass named Lord Green.

  “Thank you for securing them.” Alma pressed her hand to her forehead.

  “Are you all right, my dearest?”

  “Y-yes …I’m just so tired from the journey. I’ve been ill, but I’m much better now.” She hesitated. “I’ll need my things sent over to the hotel. That’s where I’ll be staying.”

  “The hotel?” Pamela shook her head. “I will hear of no such nonsense. You must stay with the captain and me. Our home is always open to you.”

  “I mustn’t impose,” Alma stated.

  “You are not an imposition. You are family.” Pamela waggled a finger. “Now, not another word. Besides, Rosa is drawing you a bath as we speak.”

  “A-a bath?” The determination on Alma’s face turned to joy as her hands fluttered across her chest. “Oh my…that sounds purely divine.”

  “Then you’ll stay?” her cousin asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, “and I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

  Dillon ground his teeth. These women clucked like a pair of hens. The sooner I make the break, the better off I’ll be. A lie…but one for his sanity he clung to. He damned the fact that he had to leave, more so since he could do little else to change the outcome. “She’s been put through the grinder,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

  “You needn’t worry, Dillon” Pamela stood and reached downward, clasping her cousin’s hands in hers. “We’ll take extra-special care of her now.” She pulled Alma to her feet and a tiny laugh followed as Pamela turned her toward the arched opening. “What do you say we get you out of these filthy traveling things and into something more fitting for your station? After you’ve rested a bit, we shall discuss dinner plans.”

  More fitting for her station. A place that didn’t include him. “Sounds like everything’s all lined up for you,” Dillon said, struggling to ignore the bleeding hole in his heart.

  Alma whirled around to face him.

  The silent longing in her eyes almost had him hauling her to him. God’s teeth. Just say goodbye and go. “Guess this is where I’ll leave you.”

  Alma darted a frantic look between her cousin and him. “What?” she rasped. As tears filled her eyes, she shook her head so forcefully her chignon tumbled free. Her words rolled across the room and slammed into his heart. “N-no. Dillon, please…not yet.”

  Her cousin sucked in a startled breath.

  Jeezus. Now Pamela realized far more than a cross-country journey had occurred between him and Alma. For her own sake, he had to get the hell out of here before Alma exposed anything more. Yet, everything he’d worked so hard to attain…his chosen isolation, his self-protection, the detachment from others…seemed altered.

  Because of her.

  Alma gripped the front of his shirt, halting his escape. “Y-you’ll come to my party, won’t you?”

  Silence thickened between them as he held her unwavering gaze.

  The clock in the hallway marked the agonizing seconds in a steady tick-tick-tick. Every damned one of them felt like an eternity.

  Memories of their journey filled him. Her incredible laughter as she sampled the saguaro fruit, how her eyes had sparkled as she peered into the star-filled majesty of the Colorado nights, her antagonistic spark as she confronted a wolf, the sweet pleasure of tasting her body, and the innocence of their kiss in a moon-shrouded courtyard in Kansas. Everything…every single thing…wove around Dillon in vivid, excruciating torment.

  Just say goodbye.

  Now!

  Their eyes locked and his breath seemed insufficient. He drug in another quart full of air to get him through the agony of his next words. “No, Princess. I’ll not be attending. You take care of yourself.” He lifted her hands from his shirt and set her back, forcing a tight smile.

  “But, p-please…” she rushed out. “I can’t go on without–”

  “Yes, you can” he cut in.

  On a huff, Pamela stepped between them, her smile a bit too bright. “Oh for heaven’s sake, you two.” She shot Dillon a don’t-you-dare-argue look. “Of course, he’s coming to the party.” She ushered them into the hallway and stopped near the front door. “This man has accompanied you the entire breadth of the country. He will absolutely walk a few more feet to the hotel. Besides, we can’t wait to hear all the details of your exploits.”

  Our exploits?

  His gaze speared Alma’s in a silent plea for caution even as he recalled the soft sweet swell of her breasts beneath his fingertips. “I don’t think so, but thanks for the invi–”

  “Dillon Reed.” Pamela glared into his eyes as if she could read what burned inside his mind. He expected to see disappointment or disgust, and was stunned by the flicker of understanding. Her eyebrow arched. “Of course you will be there for her. We shall see you precisely at six o’clock tomorrow evening in the garden courtyard of the Phillips House Hotel.”

  His jaw knotted as his mind raced with all the reasons why he should not show. Sonofabitch.

  “Fine,” he snapped, the thrumming pulse in his throat squeezing tighter. He’d go, if only to see Alma for a few more precious hours, and prayed he wouldn’t put a stranglehold on her fiancé. After the party, he’d mount his horse and ride off into the sunset. His duty done. Half elated, half running scared, he stared into Alma’s eyes. “I’ll be there.”

  “I’m so glad,” Alma whispered, her sweet voice bathing his wretched soul.

  Again, he envisioned her naked beneath him, her legs wrapped in a lover’s squeeze around his waist.

  Despite the coolness inside the house, a sliver of sweat tracked down his neck.

  God help me get through tomorrow night.

  With a curt nod, he settled his hat into place and left the house. A bon
e-deep weariness crawled over him as his boot heels crunched over sandy ground.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Dillon delivered his report to Colonel Talmadge. After they shared a glass of whiskey, he filled the commander in on the details of the kidnapping, Alma saving his life, the selection of a different route to protect her, and her illness and subsequent recovery. Of course, he left out the parts that didn’t matter a damned bit to anyone except him.

  Two hours later, he stepped from headquarters. A swirl of dust had him glancing toward the range.

  In the distance, the herd of horses from the Dos Caballos ranch, their colors ranging from browns, bays, chestnuts, and duns, galloped down the wide lane out front.

  A half-dozen vaqueros directed the powerful flow of mustangs toward the corrals.

  At the rear of the writhing mass of horseflesh rolled a lone wagon. Dillon narrowed his gaze on an aged Gus Gilbert perched upon the wooden seat, reins in hand and cursing a blue streak toward the Percherons that pulled his rig.

  Dillon jammed his fingers into his mouth and sent a sharp whistle toward the old man to catch his attention.

  On a laugh, Gus lifted his battered hat and waved.

  A movement behind the wagon caught Dillon’s attention. Visible through the dust rolling across the clearing, Jackson Neale brought up the rear.

  Spotting him, his best friend angled the gelding toward headquarters.

  Dillon slumped a shoulder against the closest post of the overhang, and waited. A fine row of cottonwoods shaded the wide lane out front.

  Hooves clattered on the ground as Jackson drew to a halt, dismounted, and tossed his reins around the post. His spurs chinking against the sandy ground, he headed toward Dillon.

  Their palms slid together in a handshake, and Dillon laughed. “Good to see you again.”

  Jackson chuckled. “I was beginning to wonder if you were just going to stay back east.” He tugged off his leather gloves. “You look like hell, my friend.”

  “Ran into a bit of trouble on the trip back.”

  “Trouble, huh?” He smacked the side of Dillon’s arm as he strode onto the boardwalk. “You mean like in the form of the colonel’s niece kind of trouble?”