With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Gus fished in his shirt pocket, pulled out a tobacco wad, and lifted the dried chaw to his mouth, ripping off a generous section. Like crushed autumn leaves, bits of residue drifted to the ground near his boots. “She’s quite a handful. You’ll get no argument from me on that one.”

  “A handful? That’s a mighty kind word considering that woman. Not once did Reece mention she was such a…” Out of respect for the foreman, Jackson stopped just short of spewing the perfect word. “She’s controlling. And always riled up about something.”

  Gus moved the chaw to the other side of his mouth. “Mule-headed’s more like it,” he said. “Started when Andrew and Meg died. She’s a shadow of the sweet child she used to be.” A solemn look darkened his eyes. “I remember a time when her hair was all done up in ringlets and ribbons, her angel smile as bright as the sun. After her folks died and Reece rode east, she became the responsible one. But it’s left her with this constant fear that everything will fall apart.” He shook his head and chuckled. “So that’s why she needs to control things. Of course, she can’t, nobody can, but…she can control me. If I let her—which I do, ’cause it makes her feel safe. And that’s my job—as her friend. To make her feel safe.”

  The old man’s words settled deep.

  “Well, safe or not, she’s itchin’ for a fight.” Jackson surged past him and back into the main stable.

  Gus issued a muffled snort. “With you?”

  “Maybe.” Jackson headed toward the entrance. Whickers from the nearby horses reached out in consoling accord with each of his heavy footfalls.

  “That won’t help, son.”

  Heated words pushed from Jackson’s mouth. “Maybe not, but it’ll make me feel better.”

  “Sounds like she’s starting to get to you.”

  The ludicrous statement brought Jackson up short. His boot heel dug into dirt as he swerved to face the old man. “I hardly think so. I prefer my women soft and ladylike…and clean.”

  Jackson turned his back on the man again, and braced both hands on the sides of the rough pine doorframe. He worked to unlock his jaw. “Christ Almighty, what’s wrong with a woman just being a woman?” Just beyond the doorway, a steady rain kicked up puffs of dust and carried the scent of dirt and horse manure into his nostrils.

  Another soft laugh met Jackson’s ears. “With the right fella, she might be willin’ to learn.” A roll of thunder nearly stole the man’s words. The heavens fractured and delivered a full-blown storm.

  Swirling wind lifted Jackson’s long hair off the nape of his neck.

  He contemplated Gus’s idealistic remark. Perhaps Callie did need the right man to gentle her, to demonstrate how pleasant womanhood could be, to help her discover all the delicious little secrets of being seduced. Twisted tighter than Dick’s hatband, Callie would tumble like a house of cards when she finally found her…release. Christ Almighty, he should do it…just to prove to himself how easy the task would be.

  Are you out of your damned mind?

  The scorching truth coiled in the pit of his stomach and lanced downward to settle into his throbbing groin.

  He hadn’t pleasured a woman in several months, and what was spearheading this asinine notion dwelled at the opposite spectrum from his brain. Callie Cutteridge was no whore to catch a flipped coin, bury the earnings inside her reticule and scoot out the door with a brightly satisfied, “Thank ye, sir.”

  Somewhere in the last minute and a half, he had completely lost his mind.

  Jackson inhaled and took a full step out into the driving rain.

  The water scoured his face and hands. In an instant, his clothes were soaked. His partner might well need a toss in the hay, and by someone who knew exactly how.

  He possessed such talent.

  Excelled at the job, in fact.

  But no matter how long Callie’s legs extended beneath those too-tight britches or how firm her breasts swelled under her masculine shirt, he was not a damn bit interested in the shrew.

  Sunlight fell in a brilliant wash across the mission nestled in the valley. The cluster of buildings glistened, the pink adobe walls washed clean by last night’s rain. Callie eased her horse down the incline and headed toward a mud-brick hut hugging the edge of the compound.

  Inside her saddlebag nestled fifty dollars.

  She patted the careworn leather for good measure. The corners of her mouth tucked in as she recalled the neatly penned entry of her deduction in the now equally neat ledger. Since their confrontation several weeks before, Jackson had not once mentioned F. Miguel or the money, and when she went to write the draft this morning, she’d found fifty-dollars waiting for her. Exactly as she had instructed, Jackson had deducted the money from her portion.

  Her smile deepened at the small victory.

  Ten minutes later, Callie reined Diego to a stop before the building. She dismounted just as a wiry man stepped from the doorway of the church to greet her. Swathed from head to toe in brown wool, the priest tightened the robe belt circling his sparse waist. Around his neck, a heavy, filigreed cross dangled from a leather lanyard and caught the glint of the sun’s first rays with each step he took toward her. Dark-hued castellano heritage etched a gaunt face, yet the padre’s small stature belied his hidden reservoir of strength. As he approached, she caught a whiff of tallow from the collection of burning candles in a tray inside the small vestibule of the church. Callie wished she had time to light one. Was it wrong to pray for the day Jackson Neale would drop dead?

  Probably.

  She draped her saddlebags over her shoulder and met the cleric halfway. “Good morning, Father Miguel,” she said, forcing her lips into a smile.

  “Señorita Callie! How good to see you again.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late this month. I’ve been getting our horses ready for the move to Camp Lowell. But I wanted to bring you my regular donation for the mission orphanage.” She lifted the flap of the saddlebag and reached inside as Father Miguel joined her.

  “Your ever-faithful gift keeps food on the table for the children. God will continue to bless you for your generosity, my child.”

  The priest’s cheerfulness tempered Callie’s mood. She held out the wad of money, then waited while he issued a blessing over the bills before slipping her donation into the side-pocket of his robe.

  Reverence filled her voice. “I’m more than glad to help.” She glanced around the mission, her gaze skipping past the outbuildings. “Where are the children this morning?”

  “They’ve just sat down to breakfast. Please. Come. Stay with us and eat. We go join them.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t this visit. But, do you remember the problems I’d been having with the wild stallion?”

  “Ah, yes. I remember well.” He motioned toward the courtyard of the compound. Shade trees filled the area, and a water-well occupied its center. They walked into the sheltering relief of a large cottonwood, and Callie rested her shoulder against its white-barked trunk.

  “Well, I finally caught him a few weeks back. He’s completely broken now.”

  The padre scanned her from head to toe before returning his gaze to hers. “And you can still walk? I have seen your stiffness from other such occasions.”

  “I didn’t break the horse, Father.”

  His dark eyebrows swept upward in mild surprise, creasing his tanned forehead. “No?”

  “No. My new partner did.” The flat statement reflected the strain of the past two months and coalesced into a hard knot in Callie’s throat.

  “A…partner? This is something new?” he asked.

  Callie nodded. “Yes. And not my choosing, I assure you. Reece sent him as his replacement, one of his officer’s during the war. His good friend, I’m led to believe.” She reached into the saddlebag and withdrew the folded letter. Shoving her brother’s missive into the priest’s gnarled hands,
she said, “This was how he shared the good news. By selling me off to a half-baked easterner like a head of beef.”

  Squinting against the sun’s brightness, the priest scanned the correspondence before handing it back. He clasped his hands behind him and rocked on the balls of sandal-covered feet. “Your brother is a smart man and would not wish you harm. But I sense your unhappiness.”

  A chill zipped up Callie’s spine. She shoved the letter into the leather bag, then pushed off the tree and turned to pace in front of him. “That’s putting it mildly.” She wasn’t sure how to share her feelings with this hallowed messenger of God, and was afraid that once she started she wouldn’t be able to stop. Instead, she moved from under the shade of the tree and headed toward her horse. “Well, I better get going. I just wanted to bring the money over early today.”

  Callie settled the bags into place and then pulled up into the saddle. “I’ll be on time next month, Father, I promise. And please tell the children I’ll make plans to stay for breakfast then.” She reached down and shook his outstretched hand.

  “You are an angel sent from heaven,” he whispered.

  She straightened and gathered the reins. “I don’t know about that, Father. I’m afraid there’s not much good left in me.” She wheeled Diego around and headed westward.

  From his position atop the bluff, Jackson watched as his wily partner galloped away from the old mission until distance stole Callie from his view. Earlier this morning, he’d watched her ride out, the fifty dollars buried inside her saddlebag.

  Her trail hadn’t been hard to follow, not that she tried to cover her path.

  Four years with the cavalry had given Jackson some tracking ability…maybe not the intricate skills needed to follow a band of crafty Indians, but certainly enough talent to track someone unaware they were being followed. He intended to have an answer to the burning identity question regarding the mysterious F. Miguel. Callie’s lover or not, the answer lay within easy reach now.

  Jackson eased the stallion down the incline and headed toward the mission. His lips pulled into a lopsided smirk. Oh yes, the good padre obviously knew something about F. Miguel, and before Jackson was finished charming the priest this morning, Callie’s secret would be spilled.

  Chapter Seven

  “Señorita! Señorita! I have important news.” Pilar’s voice rang through the hacienda. Callie lifted her head from her reading just as the servant rushed into the room. “I have news of Señor Neale.”

  Callie tossed aside the manual European Dressage—A System to Train Horses. “What kind of news?”

  “Well, me and Juanita were talking and…” Pilar paused to shove a black braid over her shoulder to join the other one hanging down her back. “You know Juanita? Señor Eschevon’s cook? Like I yours.”

  Callie issued an impatient nod. “Yes. Yes. I know Juanita. You talked to her this morning. Go on.”

  “Sí, we friends for many years. She just left from a visit, but told me Señor Eschevon is to hold fiesta for Señor Neale.” Pilar buried her hands in her apron to still their agitation. “They say he’s war hero, Patróna, so I thought you want to know.”

  A war hero…and a party? Callie’s stomach muscles tightened. Good God, someone should’ve offered to throw her a party just for allowing the damn squatter to stay. She drew a calming breath and stood. “Thank you for telling me, Pilar, but I’m afraid I’ll not be going to any fiesta. Mr. Neale is no hero of mine.”

  A deep voice resonated from the doorway. “So you’re not planning to attend, then?”

  Callie’s gaze swept sideways and everything registered at once, from the determined set of Jackson’s jaw down to his dusty boots. For one long, static moment, she stared at him before she forced her gaze out the window, settling it on the side of the stable. An orange glow from the late-afternoon sun splashed over the roughhewed walls.

  A butterfly flitted past her view. “That’s right,” she replied. “I’m not going. I’ve nothing to celebrate.” The diminutive creature fluttered away, and Callie wanted to follow.

  The sound of rustling paper, however, brought her focus back to Jackson. “The invitation just arrived via messenger.” He waved the missive in his outstretched hand as he glanced toward Pilar. The servant smiled, ducked her head and slipped past him from the room. Jackson reconnected his gaze to Callie. “Thought I’d bring this to you.”

  “Keep it. Parties hold no interest for me.” Callie was thankful he could not hear the rush of blood pounding in her ears from the lie.

  An amused smile curled Jackson’s lips and he stepped into the room. “While I believe a party might do wonders for your disposition, your attendance certainly isn’t necessary.” He moved closer, the thud of his boot heels heavy across the tiles. “In fact,” he continued, tangling her nerves into an even tighter knot, “Gus mentioned Señor Eschevon has recently acquired a fine mare from San Antonio. A Paso Fino, I believe.” He stopped in front of her, his gaze wandering over the curls that tumbled past her shoulder in a long, tousled mess. “I’m considering breeding the stallion with his mare, and this party will provide an opportunity to discuss the details.”

  Callie swallowed. Now he wanted to meet the neighbors. Considering how nosey he was, she was not the least bit surprised. She filled her lungs with a slow inhale, then lifted her chin and offered a strained smile. Having him make inroads with her neighbors might not be in her best interest. “Studding out the wild horse is a waste of time right now. We don’t even know if he’ll produce, let alone mount.”

  Jackson’s broad shoulders flexed, and he leaned forward. “Any hot-blooded male worth his salt will mount if given the opportunity.” The deep chuckle that followed sent a rush of heat across Callie’s face. “Besides, he’s no longer wild. And like you…I too want to develop a bloodline that captures his special qualities. He needs a partner who will play down his faults—and vice versa. Did I mention, I’ve decided on his name?”

  The heat ramped up another blistering notch. “Oh do let me guess. Satan?” She bestowed upon him her best smirk.

  “It’ll be Salvaje.”

  Callie’s eyebrow arched. “Ironic, don’t you think? Since salvaje is Spanish for wild.” She glared up at him, refusing to blink. This sonofabitch would not get the best of her. War hero or not. “Perhaps I will ride over to the party after all…just to make sure everything with the horses is handled properly.”

  “Perhaps you should.” Something stirred in the smoky depths of his eyes. “We’ll want to try and present a united front to our neighbors, don’t you think? After all, it’s what your brother wanted.”

  Callie’s knees stiffened. “Had he bothered asking me what I wanted, it wouldn’t have been you.” She tried to ignore the dryness in her mouth left by the remark. “I’m going only to make certain you don’t swindle me out of things that are rightfully mine. And any by-blows from that horse are also mine.” Her voice lowered just enough to drive home her point. “After all, we’re partners.” She ended the sentence on a heavy hiss.

  Jackson’s eyes flickered once, then all emotion faded from his face except for the tight lines that bracketed his mouth. Several moments passed in discomforting silence before he grinned. “This says we’re to be there at sundown on Friday. Shall we ride over together?”

  “I know where they live. I’ll be there.” Subtle undertones of tobacco and horseflesh wafted around Callie and brought back the image of the raw-boned man standing under the drenching sunlight in the center of her corral—his gentle power over the horse and his unstinting masculinity. She forced away the recollection.

  “Fine.” Jackson tossed the request onto the seat of a nearby chair, then tipped his head, scanning her from head to foot. Inside her boots, her toes curled as his blunt gaze reconnected with hers. “Do you even own a dress?”

  Callie’s spine stiffened. “What I wear—”

  �
�I only ask because I’d like to see the skirt twirl while we’re dancing Friday night.”

  “I don’t like to dance.” But the heavy thumping his presence had resurrected inside her heart tipped her sanity into another wobbly spin.

  “Then it’s painfully clear you haven’t danced with the right man.”

  With an abrupt turn, he stalked from the room. A heartbeat later, Callie collapsed into the chair. A well-aimed swipe sent the horse-training manual sailing across the room.

  Visible for miles, the lights of the Eschevon hacienda cut through the desert darkness like a beacon across a sea of sand.

  Word of Jackson Neale’s arrival in the territory had reached as far as the Mexican border. The fiesta had brought Spanish landowners, Anglo military officers and their spouses from miles around. Even the governor would be attending the gala all the way from the territorial capitol in Prescott.

  An army band from Camp Lowell provided the musical entertainment for dancing couples swathed in colorful silks and broadcloth. The sound of brass instruments filled the air, and a few Mexican guitars added just enough local flair to please the entire crowd.

  The evening was warm and dry, and whiskey and wine flowed through the crowd in unlimited supply. The finely dressed of the territory had turned out accordingly, and everyone wanted to capture a moment with the guest of honor to share a story or invite him to their homes or businesses in the thriving community of Tucson.

  Jackson issued a contented sigh as immense pleasure coursed through him. He had grown to adulthood in this type of environment, raised to appreciate the refinement and polish of polite society. His gaze swept the room. Jewel-encrusted mantilla combs and lace glistened from the upswept coiffures of the señoritas, and fine cigars and brandy filled the hands of the well-dressed señors. Though the trappings were different, the underlying current of wealth and gaiety oozed over him.