by Cindy Nord
His jaw clenched; a controlled exchange of air underlined his rage. “Effective today, I’m taking responsibility for the accounts. It’s apparent finance is beyond your grasp. You’ll need me for—”
“I don’t need anyone. Certainly not you.” Callie despised being weak almost as much as she despised this man. Her hands rose to his chest and she shoved. Like an unbending oak, he refused to budge.
A heartbeat later, strong hands banded her upper arms, capturing her in a resolute grip. An easy tug raked her up against his chest. She gasped. Through the thin fabric of her blouse, Callie felt the cool outline of the pewter buttons that rode down the front of his shirt.
The brittle sensation of weakness resurfaced.
“Listen to me, you wild hellion,” he hissed, his breath stirring the wisps of hair that framed her face. “I’m not the enemy here. Why are you insisting I become one?” She could see the weathered creases that tracked the corners of his eyes, could see too, the sun-nipped strands in his dark hair. A clean-shaven, strong jaw now replaced the bearded stubble from last night.
Her hands rose. She pushed against his chest, frantic to free herself from the intimidating sensations building inside her. “That’s exactly what you are.” Her heart pummeled her ribs in painful punches. She struggled for breath. “Y-You’re stealin’ everything I’ve got left.”
An acerbic snort fell from him. “And you’re not what I’d hoped would be waiting when I arrived either. Not by a damn long shot.”
Like range fire, his words swept through Callie. Engulfing fast. Burning hot. “What did you expect? A jabbering idiot who’d welcome you with open arms? I can scarcely believe this has happened, let alone understand it all.” His hold softened, and with it her struggle to breathe.
“Look,” he snapped. “I know this is sudden, and I’m sure it’s difficult to accept the truth that your brother sold out. But, the fact remains we’re snared in this mess together whether we like it or not.” His eyes glittered with a strange light and he released his hold. Slower this time, his hand moved over the receipts. “And yes…you do need me more than you realize.”
The truth sliced through Callie to sever her rage. She stumbled back, bumping her hip against the desk. Silence hung between them, broken only by the oppressive ticking of the mantel clock above the fireplace.
We’re in this together.
Under the magnitude and weight of his words, her throat tightened against further speech. Her mind screamed for distance. And Callie obeyed. With her next heartbeat, she turned and fled the room.
Chapter Three
Standing in front of the window, Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. Drenched in sunshine beneath a turquoise sky, his troublesome partner stalked across the stable yard. With an ease born from repetition, Colleen Cutteridge strapped on her Remingtons in stride.
Jeezus…a woman wearing guns.
The unmistakable sway of her full hips penetrated straight into memory. How could he have mistaken her for a man last night? She was all female, and a feisty one at that.
Feisty? Bullshit. Jackson’s mouth tightened as his brows pulled together. She was filled with rage, but what fueled her incredible fury? His presence here was merely the catalyst. He was certain of it. Indeed, he’d seen something reflecting in her eyes just before she fled the room.
Uncertainty?
Fear?
Jackson passed a hand over his jaw and started to step away from the window, then paused when he spotted two men exiting the largest of four outbuildings. The older one, a stocky white man, offered Colleen a greeting before handing her a wide-brimmed hat. The second helper, a scrawny young black man, led her sleek-coated bay by the reins. He bent to tighten the cinch on the gelding’s saddle and when he straightened, he too looked toward the house following Colleen’s agitated gesture.
Jackson chuckled. No doubt, she was extolling all the grim details about the nefarious mongrel that lurked within. Would she order her men to drag him outside and over to the nearest tree? Moments passed as he watched her rant, her boots scuffing the dirt as she paced back and forth in front of them.
Eventually, the men turned their attentions toward helping her mount her horse, and Jackson released his pent-up breath.
His lynching would obviously wait.
He pushed from the window and crossed to the desk. He had a full day’s work ahead of him. Only when he knew the financial status of the ranch could he face what awaited him outdoors.
Out in Colleen Cutteridge’s world.
Callie jammed her boot into the stirrup and pulled herself into the saddle. The leather creaked as she settled her weight. She leaned over, accepting Diego’s reins from her farrier.
“Now remember, Banner, you don’t need to talk to him. I’ll still give the orders around here, and nothing will change that.”
“Yes’m, I understand. And do ya still want me to go to Tucson for more feed?”
“Yes. And have Bailey at the livery post the bill to my account. I’ll settle up with him later.”
Banner nodded and then retreated into the barn.
Callie pulled on her work gloves and turned her attention to the hacienda. With understated elegance, the rustic lines of pink adobe glistened in the morning light, but the silent beauty dwarfed beneath the resentment that simmered in her veins. Again, she visualized Neale plundering his way through the bits and pieces of her life.
You do need me more than you realize.
Callie struggled to ignore his compelling presence, and instead drew rein on Diego, clenching the gelding’s leads tighter than necessary. She glanced down at her foreman. He looked toward the hacienda, his massive arms folded over his barrel chest.
“I’m riding over to the Angel, Gus. You want to come along with me while I check on the mares?”
A lopsided smile carved the grooves deeper into his weathered face. “Nope. I think I’ll keep an eye on things around here today.”
“That’s fine, but keep your distance from that jackal. I don’t trust him. I’ll be back by nightfall.” Callie nudged Diego into action and headed toward Angel Creek.
The sun rose on the horizon to bathe the stiff, spiny wands of the ocotillo bush under a rush of warmth. Wildflowers spilled before Callie in a rainbow of colors, tossed across the basin in haphazard abandonment. The usual monotony of her world brightened under early spring’s glorious palette. She inhaled the sweet bouquet, then spied an imposing cluster of Saguaro cactus. Dozens of barbed arms soared upward into the robin-egg-blue sky. A lifetime ago, her family had picnicked around the impressive stands and every time she rode past them, her memories rekindled happier times.
But then the Apache came and killed everyone left at home. Family picnics where she plucked wildflowers for Mother and chased desert cottontails with Papa were gone forever.
Callie swallowed back her sadness.
Don’t think of those times…just…don’t.
Her gaze darted left. From out of the shadows, a mule deer on nimble legs eased into the sunlight. Ever alert, slender ears twitched with apprehension as the buff-colored creature listened for predatory sounds.
Diego snorted when he picked up its scent. Leaning forward, Callie smoothed her hand across the gelding’s warm hide. “Easy, fella. You’ve nothing to fear from that one.” Nearby, a lizard scurried over the rocks in search of an insect, only to become the day’s first meal for a Harris hawk. The sleek hunter swooped from the sky, devoured the whiptail in a single gulp, then ascended on powerful wings.
Callie stared at the magnificent creature soaring overhead, then cupped her hands around her mouth, and hollered, “If you want to do something constructive, why don’t you fly over to the hacienda and snatch up that sonofabitch squattin’ back there?” As if mocking her irascible tone, the hawk screeched, yet continued to climb in ever widening circles. “I
need a miracle here,” she mumbled, dropping her hands to the reins. “And if you won’t help me, who will?”
Diego’s easy gait rocked her in the saddle and she focused on each hoof sifting through sand. Off to her left, the rising sun arched heavenward, silhouetting the Rincons’ craggy peaks. Shimmers of heat radiated off the desert floor just as a shadow slipped past the corner of her peripheral vision. Her gaze lanced eastward and she perused the bushes near a dry wash.
Nothing moved.
I know I saw something.
Callie scanned again slower, then shook her head. The sun was starting its tricks early this morning, she supposed. “Come on, Diego. Time’s a-wastin’.” With a tap from the spurs strapped around her boots, Callie prodded her gelding into a cantor toward Angel Creek.
In concealed precision, a half-dozen Indians slid unseen through the shadows of the desert willows behind Callie. Clad only in tall buckskin moccasins and breechclouts, they displayed the mark of the hunt, bold streaks of cerulean and black smeared across their sun-bronzed faces. Ever since their spirit-maker, Usen, had given the land to the Chiricahua Apache at the moment of their creation, this land had belonged to them. Under the leadership of the great warrior Cochise, it would again.
The time had come for them to strike. And this time, they would not fail. They turned their mounts eastward and once more disappeared into the protective embrace of the mountain.
Callie rode into the stable yard; her body slumped in the saddle from exhaustion. Even her fingers ached from gripping rope all day. Keeping the wild horses rounded up in the makeshift corrals was a twenty-four hour job, and she’d hired a dozen vaqueros to camp out among the cottonwoods along the Angel for just that purpose. Around noon, everyone had stopped for a serving of lukewarm chili, but the spicy fare had done little to fill the hole in Callie’s stomach.
She was more than ready for supper.
She stepped from the stable, glanced skyward at the marvel of stars and then headed toward the house. She’d refused all thoughts of Jackson Neale until now, and a feeling of much-needed control had strengthened her purpose. With any luck, the libertine had grown tired of the ludicrous idea of a partnership and had packed up and left for greener pastures. The thought invigorated Callie. Her steps lightened. Despite her weariness, a satisfied grin flitted across her lips. With a carefree toss of her head, she glanced toward the hacienda.
Her euphoria vanished along with her smile.
The unmistakable glow of lamplight shimmered from the library and she caught a glimpse of the broad-shouldered cur through the windowpanes. He still hovered over the record books exactly where she’d left him this morning. She’d had more than enough of this huckster. The kitchen door slammed shut behind Callie as she entered the house. “Has he been in there all day?”
A startled Pilar looked up from the worktable, her hands buried in a mound of dough. A weeks’ worth of tortillas, each the size of a dinner plate, were stacked in four precarious columns before her. “Sí, Miss Callie. He come out two times to get something to drink. We talk about ranch, about horses. But he not talk long.”
Callie pulled off her leather gloves and slapped them against her thigh before tossing them, along with her hat, onto a chair near the door. She unbuckled her holster and draped the pair of Remingtons over the spindle-back.
“Did he say anything about leaving?”
“No, señorita. He say no more.” Pilar wiped her hands on her apron. “I have dinner ready soon. I know you hungry after working horses.”
“That’ll be fine.” Callie reached for a tortilla as she passed. Maseca flour powdered the front of her shirt when she crammed the tasty flatbread into her mouth. She paced through the adjoining dining room, across the entry hall and down the corridor toward the library, her entire focus riveted on the door at the end of the long, candlelit passage.
Jackson tossed the pencil to the desk and tunneled his hands through his hair. Regardless of how many times he added the columns, the same sum appeared. On the tenth day of every month, for the last four years, fifty dollars remained unaccounted for and forty-eight scraps of paper reflected the same clue…a single notation: F. Miguel.
Obviously a name.
No other words. No explaining details. Nothing. The thought of a mysterious man in Colleen’s life delivered an edgy sensation in the pit of Jackson’s stomach. And that awareness unsettled him more than being unable to balance the books.
Whoever this F. Miguel was, he seemed necessary enough to the foul-mouthed shrew to warrant an exorbitant monthly cash withdrawal. Annoyed beyond justification, Jackson shoved the ledger into the pile of stacked receipts. Twelve hours of deciphering had given him a better understanding of the financial status of Dos Caballos, along with a dull headache.
He stood and stretched, then crossed to the door and pulled it open, only to crash headlong into someone entering the room. He grabbed for the slender form to keep them both upright. The scent of horses wafted over him and mingled with the faint trace of soap drifting upward from the woman’s hair. The gasp of surprise and the tensed body confirmed her identity.
Besides, he’d held this woman before, and had already burned her curves into memory.
The light from the open doorway behind him illuminated the area with an uneven glow as Jackson settled Colleen upon her feet. His thumb rose with his next heartbeat and impulsively he wiped away a smudge of flour dusting her chin. A brief touch, and so unnecessary, yet the heat summoned by the simple stroke startled him.
“You left a little there,” he quipped, a smirk lifting his lips. “And there too.” He indicated the dusting of flour across her shirtfront where the lamplight outlined her generous curves in a wash of gold. His gaze rose to lock with hers. “Did you bring me one of Pilar’s tortillas too?”
She jerked from his hold and brushed away the flour tracings. “It’s not my job to feed the wolves.”
Jackson shrugged. “And here I thought you were coming in to announce dinner in that pleasant little way of yours.”
“I came to talk to you,” she snapped, her hip jutting out in a manner he was beginning to know all too well. Tonight, however, he had more of an understanding of the way things were at the ranch. The last thing he would allow was a repeat performance of their previous encounter.
Besides, he was ravenous.
Jackson pushed past her, determined strides taking him down the corridor. The staccato tapping of boot heels told him she followed close behind.
“Get back here. I’m not finished with you.”
He moved on into the entry hall. In a burst of energy, she dashed ahead and blocked his path. “I said I’m not finished with you.”
Jackson released a heavy sigh before sidestepping her. She shifted too, and blocked him again.
This time his restraint crumbled. “I’ve spent a long day cleaning up your financial disaster. And Pilar said anytime I’m hungry, she’ll feed me.” He leaned down, his nose scant inches from hers. “Well, I’m hungry now, so move.” The ledger’s unsolved mystery nipped dangerously close to his frustrations.
She pulled into full fighting stance, her hands curling into fists on her hips. “You’re through with telling me what I can and cannot do in my own home, mister. And we’re going to settle things right now.”
Her snarl frayed the last tenuous hold Jackson had on his temper. “Fine. Let’s do that…and how about you start by telling me who the hell F. Miguel is?”
Jackson watched her expression run the gamut from anger to surprise to annoyance until she finally stared up at him with her mouth agape.
He leaned forward, his body dwarfing hers under a long shadow. His chest rose and fell as he dragged in quarts of air in an attempt to contain his anger. “That’s right, hellion.” His finger jammed into her shoulder before dropping back to his side. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Guess I forgot to tell
you I’m a financial genius. I can find anything, anywhere, and I know you’ve been paying F. Miguel fifty bucks every month for the past four years.” He enunciated each word as if she were an imbecile. “And now since we’re chatting so well, you’re going to tell me what he means to my ranch.” His words carried the same commanding tone, the same unquestionable authority that had seen him through four years of war.
“No.” Though barely audible, the raspy reply cleaved the silence between them like the talons of a raptor. On the heels of her one-word whisper, a blistering, unbalanced suspicion crept over Jackson to slice apart his usual logic.
“No?” His brow arched. He stepped closer, the tip of his boot bumping hers. “You’re hiding something. What don’t you want me to know about him?”
“W-Who…he is…is no concern of yours.”
He dwarfed her in his shadow. “Everything about this ranch is my business.”
Her shoulders drew back. Her chin rose. “Those fifty dollars come from my half, and what I do with my half of the money is none of your damned business.” Her eyes narrowed, spitting malice. Jackson could almost hear her rally the troops. “But, since you’re so precise about recordkeeping, Mr. Neale, please see to it that my money is promptly deducted and placed in a sealed envelope the first morning of every month.”
She’s playing me for some kind of fool.
The high-strung tart infuriated Jackson past the point of rational thought. If she’d been a man, he would’ve connected a well-aimed fist with her jaw. As it was, he ached to jam soap into her filthy mouth for a good scrubbing.
Jackson disregarded the well-bred code of conduct he’d valued since childhood. He knew better, but standing in the eye of this escalating storm, he gathered his aggravation into a tightly clenched jaw. His whole focus centered now on ousting her royal highness from her haughty throne. He drew himself forward and issued his taunting whisper, thrusting the query into the space between them with a wickedness he rarely used. “Is he your lover, Colleen? Is that it? Is that what you don’t want me to know?”