by Cindy Nord
Nerve endings frayed as Dillon shrugged. “You sound like Callie. How’s she doing, anyway?”
“She’s pregnant,” Jackson said. “I’ll let you fill in the rest of that statement.”
The image of a beautiful hellion and the love of his friend’s life, shone bright in Dillon’s mind. “You’ve got your two boys, Jackson. So this’n will probably be the troublemaking embodiment of her mother.”
A full-blown smile cracked his face. “Good Lord, that’s all we need.”
Dillon pointed to the corrals where dust from the milling horses filled the horizon. “You’ve got a great lookin’ herd this year.”
Horses…the one thing I enjoy more than scouting.
Jackson nodded. “Army’s buying all I can provide for their forts up north. Hell’s bells, I can’t even fill the orders I’ve got now, but they keep offering me more contracts.”
“Weren’t the Eschevon’s selling horses off their ranch, too?”
“They were, but they didn’t contribute this year.” He scrapped to a stop and slapped his gloves against his thigh. Dust rose from the sewn leather. “We lost Renaldo while you were away.”
Sadness filled Dillon. “Sorry to hear that, he was a good man.”
“And a damned good neighbor. We’re all sad…he ran a nice horse spread.”
“That he did…all thirty-thousand acres worth of nice. You gonna buy out his widow?”
“Hell no. I can barely keep up with the fifty-thousand acres I’ve got now.” Jackson moved deeper into the shadows, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Tell you what. Let me square away things with the colonel, and then Gus and I will meet you over at Renaldo’s Cantina? You can share the gory details of your little trip.”
“Sounds good.”
Jackson swept off his hat and ran a hand through his long hair. “See you in about an hour.” Turning, he strode across the planked walkway and, with spurs chinking, disappeared inside.
With a sigh, Dillon drew on his gloves.
Just not every detail, my friend.
He slumped against the post, tugging the brim of his hat lower to shadow his eyes. He needed to get his ass back to living alone and scouting, neither of which required one damned ounce of worry or the worthless folderol of falling in love.
With a muttered curse, he walked to his mount, and jerked the reins from around the railing as his gaze shifted to the captain’s house.
Where Alma prepared herself to meet her fiancé.
His chest tightened. Sonofabitch. Desire, anger, frustration, fear. All four described his feelings toward her.
Tonight the hotel would be alive with gaiety and the talk of the upcoming nuptials. And he, coward that he was, refused to look at the blank landscape of a future without his spoiled debutante. He’d been protecting her, caring for her, living and breathing for her for so long that the not doing so now made everything inside him ache.
Fury tore through him at never seeing her again. Worse, there wasn’t one damned thing he could do about the pain. Regardless of how he felt, his leaving usually made things better for others, not worse. With a sharp curse, he mounted, sunk his spurs against the gelding’s flanks, and headed south. Later, he’d stop at the mercantile to replace the shirt that Alma had used to help save his life.
First, if only for a while, he needed to escape.
A hard ride might help…and yet, as the horse’s thrumming hooves pummeled the desert, Dillon knew no amount of miles existed that could remove his little princess from his mind.
Chapter Thirty
A warm breeze sifted through the night as Alma scanned the hotel’s garden. True to her cousin’s promise, the elegance rivaled many soirées she’d attended back east. Pleasure warmed her as she took in the linen-draped tables filled with myriad servings of dainty cakes, finger sandwiches, and fancy-cut fruits and vegetables.
Beside these delectables stood several silver buckets filled with bottles of chilled champagne. To their left, delicate glassware glistened in the lantern light.
Oh Dillon, you scoundrel…they do have fluted cut-crystal out west.
Soft music wafted, and she smiled at the small stringed orchestra nestled in a far corner. Another recollection from Dillon’s descriptions of the wild west resurfaced.
The closest thing we have to an orchestra is an odd collection of brass instruments and a few Mexican mariachis.
The ensemble playing up-to-date tunes was a far cry from the ragtag bunch he’d implied. The cozy ambience underscored the intimacy of the bricked terrace, a formal gathering to garner approval from any socialite.
She nodded at the new arrivals, Jackson Neale and Gus Gilbert. Having briefly chatted with both men, she found them to be a pure delight. Her uncle, the colonel, standing beside the two, gave her a quick wink, then returned his attention to the plateful of delicacies in his hand.
Uncle Thaddeus hadn’t changed one bit since the last time she’d seen him. She truly loved the old codger, as did her father.
A full moon rode the sky, spilling a silvery, celestial glimmer over urns of coffee and punch, and a small ice sculpture crafted into a flying Pegasus sitting in the center of the table. According to Pamela, the hotel had brought ice down from the White Mountains during the winter months, then stored the blocks in deep pits layered with straw and sawdust awaiting just such occasions.
Her eyes widened as she spotted cupfuls of varied ices and clotted creams tucked around the base of the glorious winged creature. Back east, superfluous decorations were an every-party embellishment, but Alma never expected to see such finery here.
She grimaced at the constricting pressure at her waist and gave a subtle turn to relieve the pinch of her new corset. Unlike the older-styled undergarment she’d worn for nearly two months across country, the rigidity of this particular unmentionable had been crafted in a longer style that hugged her upper hips. The complexity of the newest bustled fashions required the additional steam-formed and boned support, leaving her scarcely able to catch her breath.
Pamela paused at her side. “Does all this meet with your approval, my dear?” she asked, sliding her gloved palm against Alma’s.
Again, Alma took in the terrace alive with candlelight, the band playing soft music, and the bountiful array of food. “This is all so wonderful,” she whispered, squeezing her cousin’s hand. “Thank you for such a warm welcome.”
Pamela’s magenta silk rustled as she fluttered her fan. “You know me. I love to socialize. Surprisingly, the hotel had everything I needed.” She paused. “Well, everything except the demi-spoons to enjoy the ices. But, the management assured me they’d arrive in time from San Francisco.” Joy lightened her features as she pointed toward the Pegasus. “And they did. See?” Moonlight danced across delicate dippers laid in a silver-streaked path along the table top. “I do so hope everyone enjoys the evening.”
“Well I know I am.”
She nodded. “Tucson is, after all, the capitol of the territory so we must welcome you in style.” With a smile, she held Alma at arm’s length, her gaze sweeping from head to toe. “And just look at you, my darling. You are absolutely ravishing tonight. The earl will not be able to take his eyes off you.”
A flush stole across Alma’s cheeks at her cousin’s statement.
The earl? Oh dear. Her hands trembled as a spike of worry drove through her. She hadn’t dressed with the earl in mind at all this evening.
I’ve only dressed for Dillon. Angst swept her, and she glanced toward the entry. Will he even show tonight?
Emotions swamped her and she forced her sadness aside. “I’m just glad to return to the world of finer things. ‘Tis what I am accustomed too, I’m afraid.” Swathed from head to toe in her favorite House of Worth ball gown, she hoped the salmon-colored ribbed silk with its pearl-like chenille trim would catch the candlelight…as well as Dillon’s eye.
Alma gave a subtle heel-tap to settle her bustle. The larger, lobster-shaped piece hugged her entire ba
ckend and swept to the floor, adding additional support to the twelve yards of fabric that draped around her and extended into a long train.
With a weak smile, she lifted a hand to her coiffure and patted her tresses. Earlier this evening, with Pamela’s help, she’d woven several strands of Boston pearls through her upswept chignon. A sprinkling of pink and yellow rosebuds, picked fresh from her cousin’s garden, added just a touch of whimsical adornment. She’d also dabbed her favorite fragrance at her wrists, throat, and temples.
Heat prickled up her spine when she recalled the time she first saw Dillon’s cobalt-blue bottle of Voleur de Roses. Did he still have the item? Or, had he given the fragrance to someone here in town?
“Well, dearest, looking our best is what we do.” Humor crinkled Pamela’s eyes. “We brighten the arm of our men.” She glanced toward her husband. From across the bricked patio, Captain Palmer lifted his punch glass toward her in a silent toast.
“I absolutely adore that man,” Pamela whispered, “Like you do Lord Green, I’m sure.”
Alma lowered her gaze. “Well, um…about that…” Her voice broke. She’d thought her whole life had been laid out for her by her father.
Then, she met an uncivilized army scout.
A man who lived hard.
A man who held firm beliefs of right and wrong.
A man who had stolen her affections.
Pamela faced her. “About what, cousin? Has something changed concerning your upcoming wedding to the earl?”
Unbidden tears filled Alma’s eyes. Frantic over her change of heart and her new-found love for Dillon, she simply nodded.
“Because of a roguishly charming army scout, perhaps?”
“Y-yes,” Alma whispered.
“I knew it!” Pamela exclaimed in a forceful whisper.
Alma peered into her cousin’s eyes, surprised to see a smile warming her face. “How?”
“Women who observe know the look of love blossoming before them. Now, tell me true.”
What a wise woman you are, cousin.
“Oh, Pamela,” she whispered, unable to stop her flow of words. “I…I didn’t tell you everything yesterday. He’s taught me this whole new world. And when I think about him…his touch. His every breath. H-his…kiss.”
Her cousin’s eyes widened. “His kiss?”
“Yes,” Alma replied, the burning remembrance of Dillon’s hands against her bare skin thrumming through her veins. “We’ve kissed, more than once…and, well…other things…”
“Oh my. Well, I can see how that would affect your feelings for the earl.” Her eyes narrowed. “Does Dillon feel the same about you?”
“I t-think he cares for me, but he’s so guarded in his thoughts. I know he believes he has nothing to offer anyone.”
“Well then, as scandalous as this might sound,” she leaned closer, whispering, “you must help him change that sad thought, my darling.” She softly laughed, then nodded. “We women hold all the power.”
“Change his thinking?” Alma grimaced. “I’ve no idea how to do that, I’m afraid…that man can ride my last nerve.”
Pamela squeezed her hands. “I’m sure you’ll think of a way.”
“All I know, right now, is that I cannot go through with this marriage to the earl.”
“Of course not.” Concern darkened her cousin’s eyes. “When are you going to tell Lord Green? He’s expected to arrive any moment.”
“This evening.” Alma straightened her shoulders, her chin rising. “I tried to let my father know that I’m calling off the wedding, but his office sent me a telegram this afternoon stating they cannot find him.” Tears blurred her vision, and she dabbed at her eyes with her hanky. “He’s not in his townhouse in Boston, nor at the mansion outside of town. And he never boarded his ship bound for London.”
“Have they checked the clubs?”
“They’re searching everywhere he normally frequents now,” she replied. “Or so his shipping manager, Mister Johnson, advised me.”
“I am sure your father will be found, my darling. Do not fret,” Pamela said. “As for Dillon, I have known him for many years. He is a good and honorable man. If this is meant to be, I wholeheartedly approve of you two. In fact, I am thrilled. After you tell the earl of your decision, I’m here if you need me.”
Alma nodded.
The side door swung open.
A small-framed, dark-haired man dressed in an expensive silk coat and trousers stepped into the courtyard.
Lord Green.
Though the earl was impeccably dressed, she missed the softness and durable simplicity of Dillon’s cambric shirt beneath her fingertips.
Stop comparing!
The sheen on the earl’s black leather boots no doubt reflected hours of polishing by his manservant, Edgar, who followed on the heels of her fiancé into the party.
Lord Green scanned the courtyard, then his gaze settled on her. She caught a flicker of relief in his eyes a second before he smiled.
She dropped open her fan and waved the delicate ivory before her face, aware there wasn’t any part of her that loved this stranger.
Or ever could.
Dillon had stolen her heart.
Alma nodded her acknowledgment of the earl’s appearance.
After whispering to Edgar, who moved off to the side of the garden, Lord Green headed toward her across the bricked patio.
“I see your fiancé has arrived.” Pamela gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Be strong, my darling. You can do this. True love is worth the struggle.” Her cousin moved toward her husband.
Bolstered by the additional support, Alma squared her shoulders as the earl drew to a stop before her.
Her fiancé presented a smart bow. “My dearest Miss Talmadge,” he said. “You look exquisite this evening. I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am that you’ve arrived in good health after the ordeal you must have endured.”
Alma’s mouth grew dry. Dreading his touch, she extended her hand and received the lightest brush of his lips. Impatience trickled through her as a thin smile lifted her lips. “I am good thank you, my lord. I hope you’ve fared well these many months since our last visit.”
Lord Green leaned close, and the aroma of his spiced hair pomade assaulted Alma’s senses. Until this noxious reminder, she’d forgotten his overpowering scent.
“I am most eager for our upcoming nuptials,” he whispered.
The invisible noose around Alma’s neck tightened. Oh Dillon, where are you? Scraping her teeth against her lower lip, she sent a worried glance toward the entrance.
Empty.
With dread she looked at her fiancé. “Yes. Well…in regards to that–”
The side door opened. Dillon stepped into the candlelight.
Joy swept Alma, and her heart did a quick sputter.
The earl followed her gaze.
Hat in hand, Dillon wore the same outfit he’d donned at the Fort Riley gathering. His hair, however, remained long, falling over the collar of his coat in soft, clean waves.
Her desire for the scout intensified.
Dillon perused the gathering until his gaze locked with hers.
Giddy, her lips parted as she breathed his name. He was so tall, so handsome, and every word, every look, every single touch they’d ever shared flowed over Alma.
He nodded at her.
Heat stormed her cheeks. She’d been staring, after all. Thankfully, he couldn’t read her thoughts. He’d made things quite clear at Pamela’s yesterday that he was eager to unload his responsibility of her and depart.
With a huff, the earl stepped before her, blocking Dillon from her view. Face taut, he clasped her arm in a possessive hold. “Allow me to procure for you a spot of refreshments.” He steered her toward the tables. “We have much to celebrate tonight.”
Annoyance at his dominance severed her intent to wait until later this evening to share her decision about ending the betrothal. Regardless of the situation with Dillon, she refuse
d to continue this charade. “Lord Green,” she whispered. “I-I’ve been giving much thought in regards to our upcoming marriage—“
“My dear,” he broke in, moving until he was mere inches from her ear. “We’ve all evening to discuss our plans. Let’s enjoy this celebratory feast, shall we? Afterwards, I insist we dance.”
He insists?
The arrogant cad. Dancing with him was the last thing on her mind. She scanned the courtyard until she spotted Dillon standing beside her uncle and the two other men.
Dillon met her gaze and raised a curious brow.
Alma faced the earl, then lifted her chin. “We’ll talk. Now.”
Irritation flickered in his eyes. “Later.”
Alma gasped as the earl’s white-gloved fingers clutched her upper arm.
The woman who’d begun the journey westward would have been swayed by the domineering tactics of this man. The weeks of hard travel, of fighting for Dillon’s life and then hers, had changed Alma. The helpless debutante who’d boarded an evening train two months earlier in Boston no longer existed.
A fact the earl would learn.
She glared at him, snapping, “Unhand me this instant.”
Surprise edged with displeasure flickered in his gaze. He dropped his hold and stepped back. “I do apologize, my dear.” Clearing his throat, he straightened the hem of his gold-edged, embroidered vest, and gave her a smile. “In my excitement to see you, I allowed my eagerness to overrule my thoughtful common sense. I am impatient to dance with you.” He bowed and motioned toward the refreshments. “Please allow me to escort you to the tables? ‘Twould be my honor to do so.”
For the moment, Alma suppressed her reservations. After the months he’d waited for her, for propriety’s sake, she owed him a few moments of her company. After all, it wasn’t Lord Green’s fault she’d stopped caring.
She glanced over her shoulder toward Dillon.
Despite the conversation flowing around him, the scout continued to stare at her. The tingly feelings she’d tried to squash inside her heart surged to life. She needed to talk to him again and tell him how she felt. Hiding her feelings did nothing except torment her.