With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  The woman shot a glance to the man, nodded and then stepped back into the hallway.

  Callie pivoted just as Jackson Neale unfolded his large body from the chair. In three strides, he crossed the room to tower over her.

  “Call me a visitor if you want,” he said. “But we both know differently, don’t we?”

  Panic quivered through her, raising her voice. “Until I get the full details from my brother, that’s exactly who you are and nothing more.” She turned to leave but he braced his arm against the doorframe to block her exit. The intense look he passed over her caused her to step back and bump into the wooden facing. The coolness of the pine nipped through her cotton shirt.

  He leaned down and leveled his gaze with hers. “Let’s get something straight right now. I didn’t ride the width of this country to be run roughshod by a woman wearing britches. So, the sooner you climb down from that high horse you’re straddling the better this’ll be for both of us.” His body eased back a mere fraction. “Now, it’s been a long day and I’m damned tired. So if you must continue all this, do so tomorrow morning while I’m looking at our finances. And make sure the ledgers are available to me, because I’m finished with our howdy-dos for tonight.”

  A moment later, he pushed from the doorframe and swept past her.

  Callie threw the pale-blue towel onto the top of her washstand, then twisted her hair into a damp braid. She secured the end with a scrap of leather before she turned away from her mirrored image. Her insides churned. Reece hadn’t sold her out for money. They had funds in the coffers to last a lifetime. And he’d always encouraged her to be self-reliant, to be strong and fight for her rightful place in the world. So why the hell had he done this?

  Like a caged puma, she turned and paced the room. The chill off the terra-cotta tiles beneath her bare toes seeped upward to settle beside her burning rage. She dropped to the chair, tugged on her cotton socks and then jammed her feet into worn, ankle-high roper boots.

  What a conceited vulture.

  Jackson Neale presented the self-assurance of one accustomed to getting his way. And, to make matters worse, he wanted to see the record books! Anxiety at the thought of laying the financial status of the ranch before him tightened her chest. Reece had ridden east five years earlier to bury his pain-filled memories of a dead wife under the responsibilities of a Union command. He’d also left full control of the ranch to her. And she’d done her best with the ledgers, but the horses held her interest more. Those she understood. And respected. In fact, she’d spent her entire life surrounded by the wily beasts. But as the months faded into years, a heavy yoke weighed across her shoulders when it came to the juggling finances. The monotony of paying bills on time had become an onerous ordeal. Callie prayed for the day her brother would return to set right the mess she’d made of their books.

  But now, that day would never come.

  Heaviness pressed across her chest. She knew the sensation well. A weeping sadness clamped hold, digging deep the talons of despair. Onrushing tightness swelled inside her throat.

  The death of her parents and her sister-in-law had stripped away the apron strings of her childhood. Her tenth birthday… On every birthday since, the horror resurfaced to reinforce life’s bitter lesson. Loving meant losing. To her it always had. And now…her brother was gone.

  Another love.

  Another painful loss.

  Callie stood and balled her hands into tight fists at her sides. Ragged fingernails bit into calloused palms. Like countless times before, she suppressed her sorrow and staunched the flow of tears that time had failed to dissipate. She inhaled deeply, in and out, faster and faster, until she tamped down the grief. As she always had, Callie drew strength in containment, strength in denial, strength in refusing the truth. This house, her land, represented all that remained of her family, and she’d be damned before she’d let her only link to them perish too. To survive the upcoming battle, she would need all her strength to expunge Jackson Neale from Dos Caballos.

  Dawn had barely pinked the sky when Callie stepped into the dining room, oblivious to everything except the pungent aroma of coffee. She headed straight for the pot on the sideboard. Surely, the scalding brew would help revive her and ease her past the previous restless night.

  “Buenos dias, Patróna.” Standing near the table, her cook folded small, blue-veined hands before a crisp apron fronting an embroidered Puebla dress.

  An answering smile sprang to Callie’s lips. “Mornin’, Pilar.” She accepted the filled-to-the-brim cup the woman held out. From deep in Mexico’s core, Pilar represented the true spirit of her people. Earthy and indomitable, she reflected an ancient culture every day through her hearty food servings, the cuisine a true reflection of her heritage. The mother country still pulsed strongly through the old cook’s heart.

  A sigh of pleasure escaped Callie’s lips as the sturdy brew slid down her throat. “Bring on breakfast. I’m starving.”

  Pilar’s eager-to-please wave reflected her excitement about cooking for someone again as she glided through the opening and disappeared into the kitchen. Callie smiled as she palmed the mug, glad she’d hired the cook away from the St. Xavier mission.

  Even though Pilar didn’t talk much, Callie sure enjoyed her company.

  A deep voice resonated from across the room. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d show up.”

  Thoughts scattered as Callie whirled toward the sound, sloshing liquid over the rim of her cup. Hot coffee met tender skin.

  “Sonofabitch!” she rasped. Her gaze connected with Jackson’s the exact moment she jammed her fingers into her mouth to suck off the burning mess. The interloper sat at the far end of the trestle table, the same overbearing grin he’d worn last night plastered across his face. She jerked the digits from between her lips and wiped them on her denim-covered hip.

  “I don’t recall needin’ to report to you,” she spat.

  He raised his cup in a mock salute. Over the rim of china, his gaze locked with hers and he smiled, then took a quick sip before settling the cup upon the table. “I assumed you got early starts around here. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

  Inside her leather boots, Callie’s toes curled so tight her instep cramped. “Six o’clock is early enough around here, Mr. Neale.”

  “Call me Jackson. It’ll make things easier.”

  “For whom?” She dropped onto the closest chair, her cup thumping to the table. “You’re not wanted here, or have you forgotten that?”

  “No, you’ve made it abundantly clear.” He placed his napkin beside his now-empty plate. “But your wishes don’t alter the fact I’m staying.”

  Her breath thinned. “This is a busy place, Neale. The last thing I need underfoot is some worn-out soldier who knows nothin’ about horses.”

  His mouth sunk into a smirk, bringing the haughty glint back to his eyes. “You’ve no idea my abilities, princess.”

  The door from the kitchen swung open. Pilar shuffled in with breakfast and deposited the fragrant offering before Callie. The aromatic steam rising from the plate swirled upward in fragrant wisps. Soft bread soaked in egg yolks rested beside the huevos rancheros, and the tomato sauce drenching the top of the fried egg caught the morning sunlight and glistened back at her upon its corn tortilla bed. Callie tried to ignore the grumble in her stomach and refocused her thoughts, allowing her frustrations to mount when the cook turned to whisk away the man’s empty plate.

  His rumbling voice met her ears. “A fine meal, Pilar. And you were right, I was much hungrier than I thought.”

  The cook’s round cheeks lifted with her easy smile. “I glad you eat, Señor Neale.”

  “Yep,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I haven’t tasted such hearty fare since before the war.”

  Pilar’s blush deepened. “Well, that’s what I do best, señor. I cook! Anytime you hungry, you come t
o me. I make you something.” She turned to Callie. “We feed him good here, sí?”

  Callie narrowed her eyes under the man’s steady gaze. “I don’t care if he starves to death, Pilar. And I sure as hell don’t want you waitin’ on him hand and foot.” She tried to ignore the gasp that tumbled from the old woman’s mouth. Wasn’t finagling half ownership of her ranch enough for this smooth-talking vagabond? Now he thought to charm over the cook too? Hell no. And she’d clarify the situation with Pilar at the earliest opportunity.

  “She doesn’t want me here,” he explained, a smirk skirting his mouth. The cook nodded, then scurried back through the swinging door, empty dishes rattling in her arms as she swept from view.

  Jackson shot his gaze down the long table and let his resentment build. The situation would have been comical had he not spent good money to purchase this misery. Icy blue eyes glared back at him for a full minute before his new partner dropped her attention to her breakfast.

  Jeezus…what an insufferable shrew.

  He perused the heaping mounds on her plate, the hearty feast enough to feed half his regiment. No delicate bird, this woman. Apparently, she worked hard and had a hunger to prove it. Nowhere in her controlled appearance could he find the wild-haired waif he had encountered last night. Today, the tart-tongued hellion had curtailed her sun-drenched curls into a tight braid. A dark kerchief wrapped around her slender throat, the ends of the faded cloth stuffed into the V-shaped opening of a full-sleeved white shirt.

  The colonel’s curvaceous sister was nothing short of a mystery, and the stories Reece had shared about her sharply contrasted with the woman who now sat across from Jackson.

  He drained the last succulent drop of coffee. Infused with a soft nutty flavor, the brew was far superior to the bitter ordure he’d been forced to drink during the war. His frustration edged into curiosity as he lowered the cup to the table. Surely to God there’s more to this woman than cursing and insolence. The bonneted image of the ethereal beauty smiling back at him in his daguerreotype flashed once more across his mind. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected and this partnership would not be the easy one he’d anticipated.

  Jackson shifted his gaze to the bank of windows on his left. Morning sun filtered through the thin curtains and laid a cozy guise across the room. Adept at ignoring the ache carved out by four years of battle, what he longed for was a new beginning, a halcyon of peace where he could forget the atrocities of war and the responsibilities of command. He’d paid the price and earned it.

  His thoughts slipped to the ranch’s assets. Taking another fortifying breath, Jackson stood. His new partner swiveled her head upward, and he tried to ignore the ever-present scowl that twisted her comely features. He leaned forward, placed both palms flat upon the wood and stared down the length of pine.

  “When you’re finished here, join me in the library. We’ll go over the financial records together.” She shoved a rolled-up tortilla into her mouth and simply glared at him. That she refused to answer further irritated Jackson. He pushed from the table, then strode to the doorway. At the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder. “But don’t rush on my account, hellion. You take all the time you need.” He slipped from the room, a smirk wrenching his lips sideways when he heard her fork clatter to her plate.

  Jackson eased into the leather chair and shook his head in disbelief. He’d spent most of his adulthood before the war pampering the fine ladies of Philadelphia. And he’d had a high time doing so. In fact, most women he’d entertained had been pleased to be in his company. He was quite skilled in taking both their innocence and their hearts.

  So what exactly had he gotten himself into here?

  Not once had Reece mentioned his sister was such a… Jackson scrambled to think of the perfect word to describe the hellion. Hell’s fire, she didn’t need or want pampering, and she wouldn’t be open to one damn thing he had to offer. Months ago, he’d confided to Reece he was tired of the roguish lifestyle. He wanted nothing more than to find the kind of supportive, tender woman his friend had married.

  A groan fell from Jackson’s lips as he ran his hands through his hair. When he’d decided against returning to his father’s bank, and instead invested in a place of his own, he never dreamed it would turn out like this. He leaned back in the chair, the cool leather dousing the fires of his disappointment. And I thought to stroll in and take charge with my smooth charms and humor.

  His dry laugh echoed in the room.

  Would it have made a difference if Reece had been honest about his sister? Probably not. Hell-bent on riding west, Jackson looked forward to putting distance between himself and bloodstained battlefields back east. Buying half of Dos Caballos gave him the opportunity to do just that, to build again instead of destroy, a solid replacement for the past four years spent wrestling the gods of war.

  His thoughts returned to Colleen Cutteridge.

  Perhaps he’d been a little too harsh with her. After all, her belligerent behavior was, if not enchanting, at least understandable. No one liked being bushwhacked with bad news, although the thought that he was viewed as such unsettled him. His sigh disturbed the dust motes peppering through the sunbeams that fell across the desk. The air still carried a trace of an old fire mixed around the subtle scent of leather. His unwilling partner’s sapphire eyes, blazing brighter than any fire ever could, shimmered back into recall.

  “And Reece told me you were such a sweet, young thing,” he whispered to the sunshiny streaks in the room. He shoved aside his maddening thoughts. With the restlessness of one accustomed to activity, he pulled his attention back into control.

  Before the war, he’d worked in all aspects of the banking environment and had developed a keen eye for finances alongside a fair bit of legal knowledge. As a full partner, he didn’t need anyone’s damn permission to look at the ledgers.

  Jackson slid his gaze past dusty literary volumes on even dustier shelves. Nothing even resembled a financial notebook. His fingers slipped over the brass handles on the desk before him. A loud creak of protest stopped his attempt to open the drawer… The resistance only fueled his determination.

  He gave a hard jerk on the knobs and this time, the wood slid free.

  The sunbeams splashed across a disorderly collection of papers. Dozens of drafts and notes—IOUs, bank scripts, crumpled and yellowed with age—all shoved into the opening and apparently forgotten. The dust motes swirled around the discovery in a taunting dance as Jackson stared down at what seemed years’ worth of disorder.

  Good God, is this how the woman keeps the accounts?

  He opened the drawer farther, and a handful of paid promissory notes fluttered to the floor beside his boot. Jeezus. The hellion cursed like a muleskinner and strutted around in britches like a man, yet acted as if she were the damned Queen of England. The very least she could do was keep their books in order. He could lose his entire investment if she’d left any unpaid bills buried under all this disaster. If creditors foreclosed on her, they’d sure as hell foreclose on him. He’d expected anything but this mess.

  Jackson shoved his hands into the interior and raked out endless scraps of pay vouchers, sales slips and bank statements, mounding them into a haphazard pile on the desk. He shook his head.

  “This is the first thing I’m changing.” A deep growl rolled from his lips and he forced his shoulders to relax. Her highness had shoved her last piece of paper into this desk drawer. Of that, he was certain.

  Callie stopped at the closed door and leaned forward, placing both hands against the wood. The smooth surface stood in sharp contrast to the heat roiling through her. She drew a deep breath, struggling to quell the staccato beat of her heart.

  Her brother’s words filtered up from somewhere deep inside.

  Try to act like a lady, Cal.

  She shook aside the recollection and reached for the brass handle. The library door eased open.
Her gaze fastened on the man sitting at the desk. Her desk. Mounded before him lay a huge pile of the transactions and paper receipts she’d paid, then conveniently forgotten.

  Embarrassment swept through Callie at her ineptness in record keeping, followed closely by the bewildering pain of his intrusion. She shoved open the door, the groan of hinges and a loud thump when the wood connected with the wall filled the room.

  Neale’s head rose, his startled gaze changing into a rancorous glare. “Is this what you call managing a ranch?” His hand swept over the mounds of papers.

  Callie’s lips pulled taut. Her eyes narrowed. Any thought of civility that might’ve been lingering in her mind flew out the sun-drenched windows. She drove forward, retrieving the gauntlet he’d just thrown. He was right about her poor management skills, but that only stoked the flames of her loathing.

  In four strides, she crossed the room.

  He shoved to his feet as she rounded the desk. Callie’s hand rose, and she pointed toward the door. “Get the hell out of here! No one comes into my home and plows through my personal papers.”

  He settled his hand beside the mound of crumpled receipts. “This is unacceptable, woman. My God…a child keeps track of papers better than this.”

  Callie loomed closer, her cheeks heating.

  The nerve of this pompous ass!

  “How I store my things aren’t nobody’s business but mine!” She knocked the receipts sideways, and with a minimal amount of satisfaction watched as they spread out across the desktop. Her gaze recoiled to his, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “This is my ranch. As long as I draw breath, no one’s coming in here to take it away from me.” Her hand dropped to the desk for support, her legs nearly buckling from the weight of this man’s sudden appearance in her life.

  “Rest assured, I want nothing from you,” he ground out, his body dwarfing hers in a long shadow. “But, it’s imperative we develop some sort of working relationship—”

  “The only relationship I want developed is the one between you and your damn horse ridin’ off my land.”