by Cindy Nord
On a hard sigh, Alma collapsed her fan into her tight fist. “Fine, Lord Green…but I insist you be respectful.”
“I shall, my dear…of course.” A desperate glint returned to his eyes as he motioned to the table. With a grimace, Alma prepared for the moment she could say goodbye, knowing full-well a part of her wanted to run across the courtyard and into Dillon’s arms.
Bowing to convention, she allowed Lord Green to guide her toward the icy, outstretched wings of a slowly melting Pegasus.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dillon’s lips thinned as he studied the earl. Small-framed. Foppish. So this is the jackass that’ll provide Alma her happily-ever-after?
He had his doubts.
A servant brushed past him bearing a trayful of liquor-filled glasses. Dillon snagged the nearest one. Upending the tumbler, he tossed back the whiskey, then hissed at the burn in his throat. Not even the scalding could kill the jealousy that simmered beneath the surface of his calm.
His gaze shifted to Alma as the drone of conversation between Jackson and Gus whirred around him. Candlelight wrapped his princess inside a golden glow...her hair, her gown, her quintessence unrivaled this evening.
Every perfect part of her now beyond his reach.
Another swallow of alcohol burned the back of his throat. He should’ve just kept ridin’ south yesterday. The Mexican army needed help protecting their new railroad at Veracruz. He could begin again. Yes, start over where no society bullshit could remind him of the loves he’d lost. Slipping back into the habituated bitterness at the misfortunes in his life seemed comfortable…and yet, Dillon felt strangely empty. He licked his lips, tasting the whiskey, tasting Alma even more, reliving again the fire of her kiss.
Numerous times, the side door leading into the garden opened. More and more guests poured onto the terrace. Soon the cozy get-together he thought he’d been invited to had ramped up into a full-blown gala. Feeling as out of place here tonight as the good padre, Father Miguel, might at Miss Lucy’s brothel – which was exactly where Dillon should’ve been – he scanned the now-crowded courtyard.
The well-dressed, important folks of the territory had turned out in droves, each person wanting to capture a moment with the guest of honor. With the earl at her side, Alma graciously greeted all who approached her.
Her cousin, the ultimate hostess, lost little time in introducing Alma to the governor and his wife, as well as several other notable dignitaries from across the fast-growing city. His little princess shined in the midst of Tucson’s finest.
In spite of this truth, Dillon wanted to sweep her back to the mountains, to their isolation, to those moments only they’d shared. Time spent with her had been precious, a gift he hadn’t even realized he’d received until she was gone from his life.
Jackson nudged him. “Did you hear me?”
Good God, what’ve they been saying? “What?” Dillon snapped, shifting his attention between the two men.
Jackson set aside his empty plate and frowned. “I asked if you’re all right.”
“Sure,” Dillon growled. “I’m just great.”
“You don’t look so great,” Gus said, lifting a tiny cake from his plate. He poked the tidbit into his mouth, then mumbled around the bite, “In fact, you look angry as hell.”
“That’s bullshit. What do you know anyway?”
Gus swiped a finger over the creamy remains of the frosting on his plate. “I know something’s wrong,”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “New suit?”
Dillon reached for another whiskey from the tray carried by a passing waiter. “I bought it at Fort Riley,” he replied in a monotone, his composure eroding faster than his patience. “What of it?” The ache of watching Alma, now wrapped in the arms of the earl on the dance floor, tore through him. His jaw tightened as he raised the tumbler and sipped.
“Nothing,” Jackson said. “It’s just unlike you to pander to fashion.”
“Pander? What the hell does that even mean?” Dillon already knew, and he’d done exactly that at Fort Riley. Regardless, he didn’t want his friends to shred apart things that didn’t matter one iota now. “Look,” he said, his voice even. “We were invited to a party at the fort with a lot of high-ranking officers. I didn’t want to embarrass the colonel by appearing disheveled.”
Gus laughed. “Oh yes. That sounds just like something you give a shit about.”
Dillon downed the rest of his drink, wincing. “The gathering was in honor of Colonel George Custer. Seems Alma and his wife are good friends.”
The remembered feel of Alma’s body pressed up against him in the teepee burned through Dillon as she again twirled past on the arm of her fiancé. Candlelight caught the ivory sheen of the strand of pearls woven through her hair.
Dillon stared at her.
Her bare shoulders radiated with a glossy elegance beneath the candlelight and his mind relived the silken texture of every inch of her skin.
“Custer, huh?” Gus said. “I’ve heard interesting stories ‘bout him.”
“He’s quite the character,” Jackson added. “Met him shortly before Appomattox. His division was in the same cavalry corps as my regiment. He’s a bit dandified for my taste, but Reece liked him.”
“Reece – your wife’s brother, right?” Dillon absentmindedly asked hoping to steer the conversation into another direction. His gaze narrowed on Alma as she drew Lord Green to the side of the dance floor.
“That’s right,” Jackson replied, turning to stare at him. “And I was his second-in-command…but, then again, you already know all this, pal.” For several long moments, his friend also peered at Alma and the earl before recapturing Dillon’s attention. Awareness slowly lifted his lips into a smile. He nodded, a knowing understanding shining bright in his eyes. “Ah, yes…now I know.”
Dillon swapped his empty glass for a full one from another waiter. “Just let it go.”
“You’re gettin’ slow, Jackson,” Gus said on a laugh. “I had all this between them figured out yesterday.”
Colonel Talmadge sauntered up, a plateful of food in his hands. “Have you tasted these little cucumber thingamajigs? They’re mighty fine.” He swallowed, his gaze shifting between the three men. “What? They are.”
Gus smacked the commander on the arm. “Thaddeus, let’s you and I head back over to the tables and make up another plateful? These young’uns need to talk about the goin’ on’s ‘tween Dillon and your lovely niece.”
“A fine plan.” The colonel agreed, and the two men faded into the crowd.
Jackson stepped before Dillon, momentarily blocking Alma from his view. “So, now…why don’t you tell me the rest of the story?”
“No.” Dillon lifted his glass and swallowed again, sidestepping. The further away from the topic of loving Alma Talmadge he stayed, the better. His gaze narrowed on the earl deep in conversation with her.
She didn’t look a damned bit happy.
Glass of whiskey in hand, Jackson shrugged, then leaned his shoulder against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood. Lanterns swung from the lower branches to illuminate the terrace. “All right, then, how ‘bout I guess, and you let me know if I’m getting close.”
Dillon took another sip. Jeezus…he didn’t want to talk about this.
Not now.
Not ever.
His friend raised the glass, an index finger pointing toward Lord Green. “Now, I’m guessin’ you’d probably like to strangle some English sonofabitch right about now for holding on to your girl. Am I getting warm?”
Jackson’s question had nailed him straight in the center of his heart.
Dillon’s gaze lifted and he swallowed, his mind spinning, his heartbeat ramping double time. Moonlight washed silver the night sky, but what he saw was the image of Alma lying naked on a bed in a cabin in Camp Apache. “Fine. Goddamnit,” he snapped. His hand tightened around the glass. “So you’ve ciphered things out. Now what?” Never had Dillon been so torn between what he want
ed and what he could not have. He shifted his gaze back to Alma just as she raised her head.
Indigo eyes, suddenly serious, locked on his.
Her fan fluttered faster than a jackrabbit chased by a fox.
Something’s wrong.
His heart slammed against his ribs. The earl and Alma were arguing. He could see the frustration on her face.
Dillon’s gut clenched tighter.
All trace of humor had fled Jackson’s voice. “Have you told her how you feel?”
“And what the hell good would that do? I’ve nothing to offer her, and that bastard out there can give her the world.” Dillon slammed back the remainder of his whiskey.
The knife of loneliness cleaved deeper. He wanted to hide from the truth, from the past two months with Alma, from his own maddening fears of love and need and desires. He searched the crowded room for a waiter bearing another tray filled with drinks.
“Look,” Jackson said, drawing his attention again. “You once told me living a full life with Callie came down to one thing: whether or not I loved her.” He jammed a finger in Dillon’s shoulder and shoved him back a step. “So, I’m returning the favor now. No matter how much you drink, your answer isn’t in the bottom of a whiskey glass. If you love this woman, tell her. Let her make her own decision.” He dropped his hand. “The rest of the bullshit isn’t important. You also told me that, by the way. And I’m glad I listened. I suggest you do the same.” With a grumbled oath, his friend walked toward Gus and the colonel standing near the dessert table.
The lump in Dillon’s throat tightened.
Sonofabitch.
His gaze swung back to Alma.
She pulled away from her fiancé and took a step back. Then, took another.
Lord Green advanced on her, his hand grasping her arm.
What the hell?
The earl gave her a hard shake. Once. Twice. Moonlight flashed off the diamonds and rubies dangling from her ears as Alma struggled to break free.
Anger blazed through Dillon. He’d despised this royal piece of shit on sight. He slammed his empty glass on a sidetable, then pushed through the crowd. With each step he took, his rage grew. Hands fisted, he stepped in front of Alma’s fiancé. “Let her go. Now.”
“Dillon,” Alma whispered, a blush riding high on her cheeks. His name falling from her lips eased his rage back a notch, but far from brought the satisfaction driving his fist into the bastard’s face would bring. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Shock decayed to resentment on Lord Green’s face. He held her arm a moment longer, then released her. “Ah, how well opportuned,” he quipped, a crisp lift to his chin. “Look who has arrived. The raw and tritely predictable Mister Reed. The infamous army scout, are you not?”
Dillon leaned forward, casting him in a shadow. “That’s right. I’m that army scout.”
The band continued to play and dancers swirled past, unaware of their escalating confrontation.
“Well then,” Lord Green said with disdain, “I’m afraid that does make you a true nobody.”
Dillon shot his hand out, crumpling a fistful of the man’s gold-embroidered silk. He dragged the earl closer. “Listen to me, you ignorant lobcock,” he snarled, not giving a damn who might hear him. “No one, not even you, will disrespect her.”
“Please, Dillon. Turn him loose,” Alma beseeched, laying her white-gloved hand upon his arm.
He hesitated, too aware of how good it’d feel to drive this arrogant ass to the floor. A lesson in propriety he needed.
“Please,” she repeated. “Don’t let him upset you. We were just conversing about…things.”
Dillon stared down into the earl’s widened eyes. “How fortunate for you she’s merciful,” he hissed. “Unlike me.” On a mumbled curse, Dillon shoved him away, satisfied at the mix of outrage and fear on the man’s face.
Lord Green smoothed his crumpled vest, and a quick twist resettled his white satin bowtie. “We’ve just met, Mister Reed, and yet, I already find you tedious and boring.” His grim expression darkened. “And the things Miss Talmadge and I discussed is how she insists on calling off our engagement.” One at a time, the earl straightened the cuffs beneath his dress coat’s sleeves. “Now, I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, did you?”
Dillon’s heart pounded so hard he thought the damned thing might rip from his chest. He glared into the fop’s eyes. “If I had, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”
A crowd around them grew as couples stopped to gawk.
Moments later, Colonel Talmadge pushed into view. “Hold up there, Dillon,” he said, sidling next to Alma. The commander patted her back. “You all right, my dear?”
“Yes, Uncle Thaddeus. We were just having a…discussion.”
“A discussion, huh?” The commander looked Dillon square in the eyes. “Why don’t you go cool down, son? I’m sure what needs saying can be accomplished in a far better and more discreet manner at some later time.”
Pamela arrived and shot Dillon an understanding look, then slipped her arm around Alma’s waist.
A firm hand pressed hard on Dillon’s shoulder.
“Colonel’s right, my friend,” Jackson said. “Come along with me, and we’ll let these fine folks get back to their dancing. There’s a bottle of whiskey at Renaldo’s that’s waiting for you. My treat.”
“Thank you, Jackson,” Pamela whispered.
“No. Wait.” Alma pleaded. “H-he doesn’t need to leave.”
“Yes, he does,” Jackson stated. He glanced over his shoulder. “Gus? You coming with us or staying here with Thaddeus?”
“Think I’ll stay awhile longer,” Gus said, eyeing the fuming earl. “‘Sides, I got me a hankerin’ for some more of that clotted cream over yonder once this is all settled.”
Dillon shrugged free from his friend’s hold and stared into Alma’s eyes, drawn to her like a restless sigh pulled into a hot, swirling wind.
Her indigo gaze intensified. “We’ll talk soon,” she whispered. “I promise.”
“For you, Princess.” Nerves taut, temper guiding him, Dillon shoved past the earl, crossed the terrace, and jerked open the side door.
He glanced back.
Alma still watched him.
With a sharp oath, he left the hotel and headed straight for the cantina.
***
As Alma moved off with her cousin, Lord Henry stepped to the side of the courtyard and cursed under his breath.
Two peas in a pod those two.
Across the bricked terrace the dancing and frivolity of the evening resumed.
Henry glared at the belligerent wench. How dare she humiliate him with her whispered endearments to that condescending scout? Gone was the colorless woman who’d stared up at him with adoration in her rose garden several months earlier. That Miss Talmadge would never have called off their wedding a week before the occasion. An idea no doubt planted in her mind by Reed.
What else had that low-class scout planted inside his fiancée?
Tension knotted in his gut as the time to save himself from a debtor’s prison ticked away. He’d spent months finding the perfect bride in this insipid Boston beauty. All his hard work, all his well-thought-out plans, all his deliverance quashed by some insignificant dullard.
A waiter moved past with a tray of refreshments. Henry snatched the closest glass of wine. He inhaled, forcing a look of calm upon his face as he nodded at several passing guests. With a thin smile, he sipped the aperitif.
“Ah…an aromatic Bordeaux,” he stated to his manservant, Edgar, standing beside him in the shadows. As the claret flowed through his veins so did much-needed control. Henry raised the stemware and swirled the magenta liquid, perusing the tears that draped the side of the goblet. “A strong alcohol, indeed.” He smiled. “Though not as perfect as a fine Portuguese spirit…I’m impressed.”
Henry sipped again, then removed a handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his coat. He dabbed
his lips as his gaze settled on Miss Talmadge, standing near the colonel and his daughter.
Henry’s gaze met Alma’s
He smiled.
Salvaging her affections should prove little trouble as long as that lone wolf scout could no longer influence her.
A problem easily resolved.
“Edgar?” he whispered.
His loyal servant nodded, leaning closer. “Yes, m’lord?”
“Find Simon Bell. Tell him to come to my cottage at first light.”
“Yes, sir.”
Henry drained the remainder of the Bordeaux, then dabbed at his lips once more. With another smile, he handed the empty glass to his servant. “Let him know I have another job for him.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
With the Welcome to the Arizona Territory gala over, Alma settled in the guest bedroom at her cousin’s home. According to Pamela, the evening had been a huge success. Exactly what determined the declaration, Alma was unsure. As far as she was concerned, after Dillon had been forced to leave, she couldn’t wait for the festivities to end.
“¿Algo más, señorita?” The servant mumbled in Spanish.
“I’m so sorry, Rosa,” Alma replied, lowering into a nearby rocker. I must learn this language. “I don’t understand your words.”
“Lo siento…I sorry, Mees Talmadge. I ask if you need anything more.”
Alma shook her head, offering a soft smile. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. I appreciate all your help tonight.”
“De nada, señorita.” With a nod, Rosa departed, pulling the door closed behind her.
At last.
Alone.
Alma scanned the small room, pausing on the jewelry glittering the top of the dresser. Lamplight spilled in an unrestrained glow across the diamond and ruby earrings, the only visual left to affirm this evening. All the clothing, toiletries, and accessories had either been hung up in the wardrobe or stowed inside her trunks.