With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  A thunderstorm of emotions rolled across her face.

  Her eyes widened.

  “My…what?”

  “You heard me. Are you paying this F. Miguel for favors each month?” Of course, the thought that even this harpy would need to buy her pleasures seemed ludicrous, yet Jackson knew the exact moment when he’d turned the tables. Her anger dissolved into panic. Throat-clogging fear blossomed in her eyes. When unshed tears shimmered in the blue velvet, his heart winced. Jeezus, is it true?

  She pushed past him, her boots scuffing the tile.

  An unexplained urgency uncoiled somewhere inside Jackson, and his hand snaked out to stop her. He clamped his fingers around her wrist. With an easy pull, he brought her up against him, his breath sending the silken wisps into a wild dance against her temples. An unforeseen stab of possession drowned out common sense. “Are you?” he rasped, his throat constricting around each word.

  She glared at him. “How dare you…you vile pig.” She jerked free from his hold, and stumbled backward. A heartbeat later, she fled the entry hall, leaving Jackson to watch her disappear around the corner.

  “I’ll find out who he is,” he whispered to the swirling shadows left in her wake. “You can be damned sure of it.”

  Smoke curled upward in thick plumes and sent the pungent smell of burning mesquite into the night. Wickiups dotted the creek bank for a quarter-mile. Warmed by the glow from a dozen campfires, the walls of the grass shelters reflected the shadows of a hundred warriors.

  Weaving in circles in the hazy air, the Apache performed their hallowed dance, a revered ceremony under an audience of celestial stars. Their hypnotic display proclaimed in vivid detail the upcoming clash between the People and the White Man.

  A tumultuous shriek permeated the presentation. Murmured voices filtered through the crowd, disrupting the sacred ceremony. Several turned toward the source, then ran to the water’s edge, pointing toward the craggy bluff that shadowed the village. Shouts turned to amazement as wonderment filled the multitude.

  From the cliff above them, another powerful shriek rent the night and a black stallion cantered into view, then reared backward, stabbing the smoke-filled air with its muscular forelegs.

  “The wild beast has returned to taunt us,” proclaimed one warrior.

  The crowd swelled at the water’s edge, watching the stallion prance before them in a splendid show of untamed power and strength. Several voices at once declared, “He is the wind of the desert and the storm of night. We must try again to capture him.”

  Above the tumult, a determined voice finally rose. The mighty Cochise stepped forward and raised his hands heavenward. “No, my People. This is a sign. The ebony beast is a protector and our spirit-keeper has blessed us with its appearance. This animal is not ours to take. Not yet.” The stallion’s massive black head tossed in accord with the gifted leader, and an ebony sweep of mane and solid, shimmering hide reflected the firelight and demanded their respect. The warriors slowly nodded in agreement with their leader’s words. Yes, this was a sign, a gift they could not ignore.

  Minutes passed as they watched in awe.

  With one final shriek of defiance, the horse melded back into the night. And at least for now, the stallion, like the People would remain free. With renewed purpose, the Apache returned to their fires and to their quest with the Great Spirit in haunting songs, thanking Him, and seeking His protection in the forthcoming endeavor.

  Chapter Four

  Since his arrival a week before, Jackson had composed a dozen letters to Reece, but each one ended up in the fire. Every attempt he’d so far made to form a partnership with the colonel’s sister curled into oblivion right alongside his correspondence. In the end, Jackson simply sent his friend a note stating he’d arrived safely and found Colleen to be in…robust health.

  Amid bites of a spicy frittata, another breakfast between them came and went in silence. Caustic glances punctuated the animosity in the room, nipping deeper than the kick of the chili peppers in the morning’s dish. And like the jalapeño that scorched his tongue, Colleen’s bitterness overwhelmed Jackson’s senses without inflicting any permanent harm.

  With the ledgers now balanced, and Colleen’s unexplained deductions noted with the letters F. M., he decided to explore the rest of the hacienda.

  An hour after mealtime, Jackson leaned against a post on the back veranda and watched his recalcitrant partner ride out, glancing over her shoulder at him as she spurred past. He flicked away the stub of his cheroot, and offered a curt smile, his hand rising to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute.

  When she faded from view, Jackson pushed from the weathered wood and headed straight toward the entrance to the stable. His boots crunched across sandy ground and his determined stride ate up the distance.

  A dozen horses greeted him when he stepped into the dim interior, the whickering and chuffs underscoring their natural caution. Memories of cavalry life returned full-force and eddied around the familiar smells of manure, hay and well-oiled leather.

  An impressive pair of Percherons caught his attention first, sleek ears flicking as they sized up his predator potential. Sensing nothing dangerous, the closest beast stepped to the gate and bobbed its massive head in a request for a scratch beneath its forelock. Jackson smiled and recalled the pair of drafts that had pulled General McClellan’s commissary wagons all over Virginia. Whenever Jackson saw them, he’d always slip the beasts a treat, but those animals paled in comparison to this fine pair. Remarkable muscles rippled beneath tight, lustrous hides, and boasted of their ability and strength.

  Jackson’s attention skipped across the other horses: a half-dozen rugged Morgans, including his, a couple of sturdy mustangs and pintos, and one liver-colored Appaloosa whose spots on the hindquarter were so white they looked like snowflakes.

  Every one of the breeds was noteworthy and approval ebbed through Jackson. His gaze centered on a table laden with a motley collection of currycombs, hard-bristled brushes, hoof picks and a shedding blade. On the floor, scraps of damp linen draped the side of a tin bucket. Water droplets that clung to the metal still shimmered in silent testament to the chore already completed.

  The stable was the domain of the men Jackson had seen from afar and the place reflected the pride in their work. Swept clean of all debris, the dirt floor was tamped so tightly it appeared at first glance to be wood.

  Jackson’s smile of appreciation widened. These men weren’t slackers, even with a woman at the helm. A scraping sound drew his attention, and curiosity flooded through him. He spotted an open doorway leading to an adjacent room. With senses sharp, he crossed the distance and quietly stepped over the threshold.

  The old man he’d seen earlier now sat before a heavy table, the wood scarred from years of wear and tear. The wrangler’s white hair would’ve tumbled to the battered top if not for a leather thong that secured the strands at the nape of his sun-stained neck. His focus was riveted upon a halter strap gripped within large, workworn hands.

  Jackson said, “Pilar tells me you’re Gus Gilbert.”

  The wrangler looked up, trying to mask his surprise. A quick scan followed before he dropped his gaze. “Actually, the name’s August, after the month I was born. Got me a passel of brothers somewhere named for every other month of the year too.” He reached for an awl and pushed the implement into the leather. “Ma kept tryin’ for a girl, but never got her wish. December was a bad month for birthin’, I guess…’cause she died tryin’.” He leaned back and shifted the piece in his hands. “But you’re right. Folks just call me Gus.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m—”

  “I know who you are. Callie keeps us well informed.”

  Jackson leaned against the doorframe. He couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped. “Well, there’s no doubt how enlightened you all must be now.” A grin stacked up near the corner of the wrangler�
��s mouth, and Jackson felt frustrated by the compulsion that he needed to correct things already muddied by the hellion. “Did she also happen to mention her brother’s my good friend, as well as my commander during the war?”

  “The friend part she neglected to share, but she did mention the other.” Gus placed his tool on the workbench, then looked at Jackson, all trace of humor gone. “Reece has been sorely missed these last few years, and we’ve supported Callie like he asked us to do. We’ll continue to do so, in case you’re wondering. But, I’m disappointed to hear he won’t be returning.”

  Gus glanced to the leather again and continued, “His pappy and I fought in the Mexican War together and rode west with the family in ’49. Carved Dos Caballos from an untamed wasteland, killin’ Injuns and everything else that stood in our way. Still are, for that matter.”

  Jackson nodded as his gaze surveyed the room. Tack hung from wooden dowels rammed into the low, slanting rafters, and well-crafted saddles lined the far wall across individual bracers. Blankets, bridles and reins draped over sturdy pegs and filled the room with the pleasant smells of leather and wool, the equipment reflecting the excellent care given. Beneath a pair of small, double-paned windows narrow shelves ran the length of the room. They held cruppers and bits, halters and saddlebags. This was the heartbeat of the ranch and it pulsed strongly under the old man’s well-organized supervision. But more importantly, it revealed the true character of Gus Gilbert.

  Jackson’s gaze resettled on the wrangler. Age had etched deep creases into a sun-baked face as hard and battered as the territory he’d conquered. “Well, Gus, I’m Reece’s replacement. And I believe you’ll find I’m capable. If you know him well, and I’m sure you do, you’ll realize he wouldn’t have sold me his half of the ranch otherwise.”

  The blunt words carried a clear message. And several seconds later, the old man dropped his gaze and pushed the leather into a spot clear of tools.

  “I reckon that makes sense, Mr. Neale.”

  “Let’s just make it Jackson, all right?”

  Gus nodded, and Jackson shifted into a more comfortable position against the doorframe. Relief settled through him, pleased he’d crossed this second hurdle without too much hassle. Winning the proud frontiersman’s trust was important, and this initial meeting had gone a hell of a lot smoother than the encounter with the hellion who spewed her animosity with all the force of an Atlantic hurricane.

  Surely to God, this man sees her rancor.

  “You call her Callie. I’ve heard Reece refer to her by that name too.”

  Gus chuckled. “When he was still a pup, Reece announced his baby sister didn’t act like nobody named Colleen, so he up and shortened it. Everyone calls her Callie now. The name fits, since she don’t cotton to the fanciful.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “And don’t be expectin’ her to bake you pies or serve up tea. I don’t think she even knows how. The girl damn near starved to death before Pilar moved in.” His smile widened. “When she was growin’ up, she stuck on Reece like she was his shadow. Loved the horses. Always has. Meg tried to teach her girlie ways, but Callie struggled with the lessons.” The man’s face softened a fraction when he mentioned the other woman.

  And Jackson’s curiosity won out. “Who’s Meg?”

  “Margaret Elizabeth. Callie’s mother. Killed in a raid years ago. All of ’em. Meg. Andrew. And Jenny.”

  “Reece mentioned something about an Indian attack. Andrew was their father?”

  Gus nodded. “And a damned good friend.” Sadness darkened his eyes. “Apache stole in while most of us was herdin’ stock up north. Callie was still a youngster, but she insisted on riding with us that day. And thank God she did, or she’d be gone too.” Gus inhaled, then released his breath on a long sigh. “Reece lost Jenny then. They’d been married less than a year.”

  Jackson nodded. During the war, Reece had shared a bit of the story with him; the heartbreaking loss had torn his friend apart for years. Reece would not allow himself to care about anyone else, but then he fell in love with the courageous Emaline McDaniels during his regiment’s occupation of her plantation. He stayed in Virginia afterward and married the spirited widow.

  Jackson shoved aside the memory and motioned toward the collection of items on the workbench. “Why don’t you show me what you’re working on there, Gus?” he asked, pushing from the doorframe.

  “Be glad to.” Gus pointed sideways. “Pull up that stool over yonder, and I’ll show you how I make my bridles.” Jackson complied, settling down beside the old wrangler. “See here?” Gus pulled on the strap. “The secret is to soak the leather first, which strengthens the strand.”

  “And then, you twist the leather, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jackson’s simple questions dissolved forever any lingering tensions as both men moved toward the beginnings of trust and friendship.

  The makeshift corrals, a dozen in all, were scattered along Angel Creek in haphazard formations for nearly a quarter-mile. Without the fodder Callie provided, there could be no way to keep the mares contained. With water from the Angel, she only had to bring in food. And Banner, along with several hired vaqueros, had just left with empty wagons for their weekly visit to Tucson.

  Callie galloped past the corrals, heading for the last section down by the cottonwoods. Near noon, the heat of the day radiated from the ground. Sweat dampened her face and her tongue slipped out to wet her lips.

  The roundup was good this year, and the animals would carry a hefty price tag. For as long as she could remember, the United States Army had bought Cutteridge horses. Most ended up north to supply the territorial forts. During her brother’s absence, she’d carried on the tradition without faltering once. Callie refused to consider where Jackson Neale fit into the equation, other than getting her brother’s half of the stake now.

  As she rounded the bend, Callie spotted the vaqueros gathered near an empty corral. The logs on the far side of the enclosure lay in a splintered mess. He’s back! She cursed under her breath, and several men ran to her as she dismounted.

  “Señorita! He broke the fences again—”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No, señorita, not this time. But we lose thirteen. That stallion wants them back. We could’ve shot him, but you say no.”

  Callie stomped to the remnants of the corral, her patience equally as shredded. “That’s correct. He is not to be harmed.” She kicked at the splintered wood, then swung to face the men. “Which direction did they head?”

  “East, señorita. To the mountains,” one vaquero answered as several others motioned to the rocky ridgeline stretching along the far horizon.

  She pointed to the closest wranglers. “You three saddle up. You’re ridin’ with me.” They nodded and raced toward their mounts tied to a picket line a hundred yards away.

  Callie strode to Diego, throwing hurried words over her shoulder. “The rest of you, do your best to rebuild this fence. And double its strength. I’m going to finally capture this sonofabitch if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Jackson scanned the horizon from the shadows of the sloping front porch. Supper had come and gone more than an hour ago, and his reckless partner had yet to return to the ranch.

  Callie.

  He propped his boot upon the low railing that ran the length of the hacienda and mulled the nickname…Callie Cutteridge, swaggering with harshness and arrogance.

  Callie Cutteridge…with beautiful blue eyes.

  Jackson couldn’t dismiss the truth. She possessed a single-mindedness that drove him mad. He preferred his women exude softness, but she was as hard as nails. He appreciated dewy skin, powdered and perfumed. The scent of horseflesh radiated from Callie. He liked his women willing and easily conquered.

  The battle raging between them knew no end.

  Jackson took a
nother long drag from his cheroot, then exhaled, watching as the hazy smoke cloud broke apart on the evening breeze.

  He issued a thin and knowing smile. Underneath her puffed-up feathers lurked a wounded bird, and all her bravado, all her arrogance, every single drop of animosity hid a broken wing. Jackson had a much better understanding of her past after talking with Gus, and he recognized now that her tough exterior protected an inner frailty. The dogged determination, a traditional man’s role, she embraced with unequivocal fervor and made no apologies for doing so.

  Jackson sighed.

  He’d never known any woman quite like her. Swathed beneath a coat of hostility lurked a vulnerability as soft as her eyes…as near to him as a sigh, yet a million miles away. Would their relationship ever change?

  Would she ever be able to allow herself to trust him?

  Jackson lowered his leg to the porch. The wood creaked beneath his weight. Jeezus. Stop this. Why was he thinking about her this way? They’d not spoken to one another in more than a week. She obviously handled her discomfiture through avoidance. And he abhorred avoidance with every breath he drew.

  Jackson raked a hand over his day’s stubble, allowing the frustration to penetrate. Again, he surveyed the area spreading out before him in the dying light. Dust devils pirouetted across the desert mere inches above the ground. Kicked up by the warm breeze, they capered among the cacti in untroubled whispers. And somewhere out there amid all the danger rode his willful, sharp-tongued partner—as uncompromising and calloused as her world.

  Stop it.

  He flicked away the cheroot, then slumped against the post. Filled in on the ranch’s schedule, and the upcoming plans to herd the stock to Camp Lowell, he’d spent an enjoyable afternoon with Gus. While they forged iron into horseshoes, the old wrangler had shared the tale of Callie’s ongoing struggles with a wild stallion. The unbroken horse continued to damage the corrals in an attempt to reclaim his mares, and Callie’s battles with the beast took center stage, overriding all her other concerns.