With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Callie slid her gaze to the horse. Gentled? She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry…more arid than the sand beneath her feet. Exhaustion had blunted her reasoning. There could be no other explanation for the emotions now rippling her otherwise isolated pond.

  But…is he right? Could there be another…way?

  “Do you think he understands what you want from him?” Jackson continued, his soft, husky question evaporating the last band of irritation inside Callie. She stood awestruck, her mouth agape. Here in the darkness, blanketed under a desert oasis of stars, she realized her animosity toward this man had shifted.

  Helplessly, she shook her head, then whispered, “He’s…afraid.”

  “That’s right. Fear—it’s all you’ve let him know. He’s cornered. And anxious. And completely focused on protecting himself.” Jackson slid his palms together into a loose grip in front of him, slowly bobbing them over the corral. “To him, you’re just a stranger intent upon changing his world. He’s focused all his attention on escaping that one blinding truth. He doesn’t really know what he’s struggling against, only that it isn’t his choice. So…fighting is the only option left.” A soothing balm to her battle-weary soul, Jackson’s voice melted into her veins, and the muscles in her belly relaxed a tiny fraction more under the compelling pull of his words. “There is another way besides breaking his spirit or crippling him.”

  And then, Callie surrendered to the indefinable pull of this man. Yet still her words contradicted. “He’s injured two of my wranglers and thrown me a dozen times or more. Only a fool would face that danger again.” She shifted back to the fence, putting distance between them, thankful for the comfortable resentment that again signaled her control. “Regardless of how I feel about driving spikes through his knee joints come daybreak, I’m also rational. If I’m going to use him at stud, then I’m not going to fight to contain him. This horse cannot be broken, Jackson, and if maiming him is all I have left, then so be it.” Common sense now ruled, and control felt good. Familiar. “And no matter how much I detest you, I’ll not have you getting hurt, either.”

  His low chuckle skidded over to embrace her. “He’s a powerful animal, yes. But he’s not mean-spirited. I waited and watched you, hellion. Now it’s your turn to watch me move him to my will.”

  “You’ll move him?” Callie scoffed at the words, yet the sparking hope grew larger, dampening her disbelief, which made the ache in her heart more pronounced. “But…if you go in there, all he’ll do is trample you. You’re not a fool, so don’t talk like one.” The horse galloped past them again and drew her attention.

  “I get one week with him,” Jackson said. “If I don’t have him gentled…only then will I allow you to maim him.”

  “You’ll…allow?” The question eked from Callie’s mouth.

  Jackson stepped closer, towering over her by half a foot. Silence stretched around them as she stared up into dark, determined eyes. His hand rose between them, his index finger pointing heavenward in front of his narrowed gaze.

  “One week,” he ordered. “Do you understand?” His hand slid open to cup her chin, and held. Where his fingers gripped, inexplicable heat penetrated past muscle and bone. His eyes told her not to bother challenging him.

  Callie didn’t understand any of the heat crashing through her. The words caught deep in her throat, leaving her helpless to do anything but agree.

  She nodded.

  His hold instantly relaxed. Then, with her next indrawn breath, Jackson traced the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. The simple act sent an astonishing jolt straight through her. She attempted to speak, but only a faint gasp slipped out. He moved backward, removing his touch, and…as silently as her partner had arrived, he disappeared from view.

  Callie reached for the railing, struggling twice before she found support. Her fingers curled around the wood like a lifeline while a tingling sensation vibrated through her all the way to her soul. Her eyelids slipped closed, and with each pounding heartbeat, a raw, unexpected realization emerged…he controls me so easily.

  She brought her hand upward, pressing shaking fingertips against her lips. An eternity staggered past while she listened to the fading crunch of his footfalls, listened until they too became lost under the stallion’s rebellious cry.

  Magic.

  No other word could describe the scene unfolding before Callie. At Gus’s insistence, she had joined him at the main corral after lunch. The half-dozen wranglers she’d brought with her now sat on the top railing opposite them, ready to jump into the arena in case Jackson needed to be rescued from his folly. Instead of throwing a smug I-told-you-so, Callie stared, transfixed. She would not be ramming a spike through the stallion’s knees today.

  Or any other day for that matter.

  Sheer joy overshadowed her roiling resentment of the man. The only way she had known to break horses involved spirit-robbing control, hobbles and ropes.

  Jackson Neale brought a different technique.

  The broad-shouldered miracle-maker walked around the middle of the pen and focused all his attention on every swish of tail, every head toss, every single hoof stomp.

  With alert precision, Jackson reacted to every cue. Each shift the creature made held meaning. And a mind-baffling confidence, along with a long black whip, allowed Jackson to strip away the layers of mistrust that emanated from the twelve-hundred-pound beast. With each bite of leather, every caress across its rump, the horse somehow understood what Jackson wanted.

  Gus leaned over, his voice cutting through Callie’s amazement. “He’s good, ain’t he?”

  She nodded. “I’ve never seen any wild horse controlled so easily, have you?”

  “Nope. It’s like he knows Jackson’s the boss.”

  Callie’s eyes narrowed on the incredible ballet evolving before her. “But how the hell is he doing this?”

  “He’s keeping him moving, remember? Like he said he’d do.” Gus smiled. “I’ve been sittin’ here all morning, and I think I’ve got this whole thing figured out. See…right there. Jackson won’t let him stop, not even when the horse wants to rest.”

  Gus’s smile widened as if he alone had shaped this miracle within his hands. “And right there. Did you see the whip nip its hindquarters? That damn horse got a taste of leather ’cause he wasn’t movin’ the way Jackson wanted him to.”

  “The poor thing’s exhausted.”

  “Exactly, but until Jackson gives him consent to stop and rest, it ain’t happenin’.” Gus crossed his arms over his chest and puffed up as proud as a peacock. “Hell’s bells. Everything pertaining to stayin’ alive in the wild involves movin’, be it eatin’ or even breeding rights. And that’s exactly what’s happening here. Jackson’s controlling your renegade stallion in that little bitty circle out there just like a herd stud does to his mares in the wild.”

  Callie blinked. “But why’s he standing behind the horse? Why not in front, so he won’t chance getting kicked?”

  “Don’t you see, suga’pie?” Gus unfolded his arms and pointed at the stallion again, allowing a paternal patience to frame his word. Her cheeks heated at the long-ago, little girl nickname he’d given her. “Horses don’t like to be pressured from the front, do they? That’s what wolves do. Cougars and coyotes too. It’s created a natural-born fear in ’em.” Sunlight poured over his weathered face and carved the age lines even deeper. “Horses approach each other from the side or the rear. That’s how they’re comfortable. You know all that. Hell, being watchful is second nature to them. They’ve needed that instinct just to survive.”

  An unshakable respect for Jackson Neale had taken root inside the foreman. Callie recognized the admiration as surely as if her beloved Gus stood atop the railing to holler his approval to the vaqueros watching on the other side.

  First, my cook. Now…my foreman.

  Her gaze slid back to Jackson.
He moved the powerful horse like a marionette, plucking the strings of reward and punishment with his ebony whip. He caressed the withers with a soft swish when the beast obeyed—the leather nipping its flank when it didn’t.

  All the signs became clearer and clearer the longer Callie watched. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “Me neither. And I’ve seen a hell of a lot of things in my life.” Gus’s gaze locked with hers and his quick wink followed.

  Callie couldn’t help herself. She laughed aloud, then glanced toward the vaqueros.

  From their nods and excited voices, she could see they, too, were beginning to understand this new method of horse breaking.

  Add the hired help to the list.

  A newfound respect for her unwanted partner demanded acknowledgment. Jackson Neale had an uncanny power, and instead of being arrogant about his unique method, he had patiently shown her, shown them all, how to create an ally instead of an enemy.

  Heat infused Callie’s face as her emotions rumbled around inside with the ferocity of a thunderstorm. She lowered her head, realizing she could not stay here another moment without saying something to Jackson.

  After all, he had saved the stallion from a fate worse than death.

  Sweat trickled down the side of her neck and Callie reached up to swipe it away. She realized Jackson deserved some acknowledgment. Perhaps she’d say something nice to him at dinner tonight. She could manage agreeable, if only for a few short moments.

  Right now, however, she needed distance.

  Callie swung her legs over the railing, and a moment later, dropped to the ground behind Gus. He glanced at her briefly, before returning his gaze to the corral.

  “Where you heading?” he asked.

  “I’m going to the stable. Banner should be back anytime with supplies. I’ll need to get things ready for him. Besides, I’ve seen enough to know our visitor will do what he said.”

  “He saved your stallion, suga’pie. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Callie wiped her sweaty palms down her hips, then reached behind her shoulders and pulled her hat into place.

  “Yeah, I know that. And I don’t need you gnawing at me as a reminder. But be sure to give him a big, shiny medal from all of us when he’s finished, all right?”

  Gus chuckled. His shaking head only frustrated Callie as she tugged her hat brim lower to block the sun. Her gaze tracked through the rails to settle back on her unwanted partner. Under the spill of sunshine, he radiated like some dark-haired, chisel-jawed savior moving around the center of their world.

  Determination oozed from him, and even where she stood, Callie felt suffocated as she watched the ebb and flow of his persuasive influence. For a fleeting moment, she sympathized with the stallion, even though her gaze remained locked on the horse’s master.

  Damp with sweat, Jackson’s black, dust-covered chambray shirt molded over the contours of his chest. Callie could only stare at the play of power across his shoulders. With shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows, his arm muscles flexed each time he raised and then lowered the whip, always in steady rhythm with the circling, struggling beast. Sweat glistened over the defined forearms dusted with dark hair.

  So different from her.

  So masculine.

  So perfect.

  Confliction coursed Callie’s veins, and her gaze dipped lower, driven now by some unknown need. You don’t have to look, whispered the tremulous voice inside her head. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, her lips as parched as her soul. She drank in the long legs encased in dusty denim, the firm buttocks cupped snugly beneath faded blue.

  Then, he turned…and rapt now, Callie stared where the stiff straps of his chaps coupled just below his belt buckle. In that split second, she assessed the virility of the man.

  Her throat seized closed.

  Her breath strained in short puffs. The sun blazed down on Jackson, burning his image into her brain. Every nerve in her body quickened as a heat zipped up her neck to settle into two blistering spots on her cheeks. Her skin tingled, forcing her to roll her fingers into tight fists at her sides. The remembered pressure of his body pinning her to the ground, the texture of his thumb pad as he stroked her lip…all of her memories coalesced at once and lanced through her thoughts. Nothing, not even the stallion’s submission, prepared her for the burn that ravaged her veins as she now stared across the corral at the denim-covered bulge of Jackson’s maleness.

  She swallowed.

  Then scrunched her eyes closed as a wellspring of panic crashed over her. A blinding hiss of denial doused the roaring fire of her brief imaginations. Boot heels dug into the hard-packed earth, sending Callie straight for the stable. Her steps gobbled up the distance and as she cleared the threshold, pushing herself into the enveloping coolness, she vowed never to look below the bastard’s belt buckle again.

  Ever.

  Chapter Six

  The hacienda nestled in Sabina Canyon under the soft rays of a late-morning sun. Small by standards of most in the area, the pink adobe blushed with a beauty that belied its size. Mexican vaqueros had finished their chores earlier than expected and now lounged in the shade cast by mesquite trellises gracing the southern side of the main house.

  Wednesday meant laundry day, a time of relaxation at the ranch. Papago and Pima Indians worked side by side to hang out the owner’s wash. Children dashed around the colorful skirts of their mothers while high above their heads in a cloudless sky hawks soared on unseen currents.

  The yeasty smell of baking bread filled the air.

  Just before noon, the rasping shrieks of “Pindah-lickoyee!”—white-eyed enemy—lanced the ears of the unsuspecting inhabitants as fifteen Apache warriors swooped down from the surrounding mountain. Within minutes, all the Anglos, as well as their Mexican and Indian servants, lay dead, their souls carried away on silent winds.

  Sweat sheened the copper-skinned warriors while a justified vengeance boiled through their blood. Usen—the Creator—had given this land to them, yet the white men—the vile ndaa—did not care. Day after day, they violated Mother Earth and all her precious resources. Pushed on by greed, they rerouted water and killed more than they ate; they were the brazen savages here. Usen understood the thirst for vengeance, understood why they would not leave consecrated ground where generations had lived and thrived, understood why the white-eyes must die. With pride, the warriors paid homage to their ancestors as the fires left after the bloodbath consumed the white man’s world.

  Just as quickly as they had arrived, the Apache disappeared into the shadow-filled mountains, leaving behind only their mark of death.

  The evening air eddied around Jackson, carrying a pungent promise of rain. He stepped into the stable just as Gus stepped out.

  “Whoa, there, didn’t see you coming.” Jackson moved aside to allow the old man room to pass.

  “You finished with the horse for the day?”

  Jackson nodded. “I’ll start again in the morning, but he’s just about broke now. Great animal—I’d sure like to keep him.” He pointed over the wrangler’s shoulder to the inside stalls. “Been riding that Morgan for several years, and he’s been a good horse, but I’m hoping to trade up for the stallion.”

  Gus chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denims. “Hell’s bells. You broke him. Don’t see why you can’t keep him.” Jackson headed into the tack room, and Gus followed, stopping at the entryway. “I’m taken with your horse sense. Where’d you learn all that?”

  “A muleskinner trained me when we were winter encamped around Petersburg in late ’64. I became part of Reece’s staff after he was promoted to brigade commander, so I had lots of time on my hands.” Light shimmered from a lantern on the side table and illuminated the tools and supplies lining the walls. Shadows fell across Callie’s saddle, the tooled leather rugged, worn and durable, just l
ike its owner. At least the hellion was home and not out gallivanting around the countryside tonight, not that it mattered one hill of beans to him.

  Jackson refocused, tossing the words over his shoulder as he draped the slender whip across the closest peg. “The ’skinner had been tutored by John Rarey; but that Ohio horse trainer’s unusual techniques included hobbling one o’ the critter’s leg with a strap as a means of control. The ol’ army ’skinner didn’t agree with that particular step, so he up and changed things a bit. I never forgot his routine. Damned if it don’t work every time.”

  “You think you could show us how to do that when we’ve got more time? Sure would be easier breaking horses around here. At least we could all stay in one piece.”

  “I aim to teach everyone.” With a loud thump, Jackson dropped the halter used with the stallion onto the workbench. “Except Callie. She wouldn’t listen anyway. She’s hard-pressed to change, especially where it involves me.”

  Gus folded thick arms across his chest, then sent a crusty laugh toward him. “She’s a lot like that horse out yonder, son. Misunderstood. But she was mighty impressed with your little show this afternoon.”

  “I’m not sure impressed is the right word. More like, she was hoping I’d get trampled to death.” Having Callie at the corral had forced Jackson to be even more aware of his work. Her pointed glare cleaved apart his focus, shredding his concentration into tiny slivers. Just knowing she sat there watching unnerved him.

  Mocking me better fits the bill.

  “Nope. Impressed she was, my friend,” Gus continued as if reading his mind. “In fact, she even asked a few questions.” The foreman paused and leaned against the doorframe. “Then all of a sudden, she lit outta there like she’d caught a bee in her britches.”

  “She’s the damn bee and her britches should’ve made a run for it,” Jackson retorted. Another chuckle from Gus banked the flare-up that surged through Jackson’s veins. “None of her reasoning makes sense. She does things, and to hell with the consequences.”