by Cindy Nord
He offered an agreeable nod at the tale told by Charles Cavanaugh, the owner of the local freighting company, then issued a robust laugh at the antics of one of the merchants of Tucson’s commercial district. In his element here, Jackson entertained them all, and they accepted and embraced him as their own.
The military officers from Camp Lowell required much of his time. News from back east was scarce, and he updated them about the political reconstruction undertaken by Washington since the war’s end. Rebuilding a southland torn asunder demanded troops and money. The locals listened with rapt attention, thrilled to be hearing information other than that of raids by Apaches hell-bent on revenge for imagined transgressions.
Not forgetting the ladies in attendance, Jackson took time to chat about current styles and colorful fashions worn by eastern women. Yet, even as he shared his stories, his gaze returned again and again to the hacienda’s entrance. The damnable shrew had yet to arrive, and his irritation mounted with each passing minute.
A wisp of dark-green satin drifted across his wrist and forced his attention away from the front door. His eyes traveled up the petite form of a young white woman in a stunning ball gown. The wide crinoline beneath the silk skirt created the vision of an emerald bell.
He locked his gaze upon a pair of eyes the color of springtime green framed by long, dark lashes that matched the side swept mahogany curls tumbling over the bare shoulders. Alabaster skin radiated with a glossy elegance beneath the candlelight, and Jackson’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Hell’s fire, woman, where have you been hiding?
“Good evening, Mr. Neale.” Her voice was as warm and smooth as the expensive whiskey that swirled in the bottom of his glass. The smoky tones of her voice settled over him like a hot, wet kiss. “I am so sorry no one has yet introduced us. My name is Pamela Talmadge.”
Disappointment swamped Jackson. How could such a ravishing beauty be married to the portly post commander at Camp Lowell?
“Well, thank you for the introduction then,” he offered, bending toward her extended hand. He placed a light kiss upon her white-gloved fingers, then straightened, leaning closer. “I applaud your husband. Not only for his admirable job in commanding during these troubled times, but for his excellent choice in women.”
Her laughter rippled through Jackson like a brook tumbling over shiny stones. “Colonel Talmadge is my father, you silly man.” She dropped open the ivory slats of her fan and fluttered the delicate piece with practiced skill. “I’m visiting him from Boston.”
“How nice.” A broad smile flooded Jackson’s face.
“Yes, but I am finding everything here so different. And I’ve heard the summers can be quite beastly. So hot. So terribly dry.”
Jackson guessed her to be nineteen years old, twenty at the most. Just as quickly, their fifteen-year age difference was forgotten. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for a delicate woman such as you.”
“Yes, and so few trees, Mr. Neale.” She sighed, her lower lip curving into a practiced pout. “Why, I can’t even have a picnic unless it’s beside the creek. The only proper stand of trees for miles is the cottonwoods that line it.”
“It will take time to adjust.”
“Yes, it will.” Just as quickly, her sweet smile reappeared, and a charming dimple caressed her cheek. “My father tells me you’ll be visiting Camp Lowell soon. Something about horses, I believe?”
“Indeed. We sell horses to the army.”
A perfectly plucked eyebrow arched in surprise. “We?”
“My partner Colleen Cutteridge and I.”
“Oh. I see.” Her fan fluttered once more. “Well then, perhaps I could interest you both in a picnic beneath the cottonwoods the next time you visit.”
Callie and this woman lunching? Good God, this delicious little minx had flirting honed to a fine art. Callie, on the other hand, would as soon shoot her as look at her. He stifled a laugh and reveled in his good fortune. “Perhaps, we shall,” he assured her. “Perhaps, we shall.”
Callie handed Diego’s reins to the young Mexican. “Leave him saddled. I won’t be here long.”
The boy nodded and led her horse toward the stables.
She made her way to the entrance of the Eschevon hacienda, shaking hands with several vaqueros along the way.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled off her leather gloves, shoved them into her leather belt, then stepped across the threshold and into the brightly lit interior.
Above her head an ornate candlelit chandelier suspended from a wooden beam and splashed golden light across the linen-covered ceiling. Seeing the flamboyant piece again reminded Callie of the excitement everyone felt a decade and a half earlier when the Butterfield Stage had delivered it to the Eschevon hacienda.
Edginess settled over her as music spilled into the foyer from the rooms set aside for dancing. The sounds reminded her of the many parties her own parents had given. She had loved every one of them. Callie’s chin rose higher as she anchored her smile.
Nodding at people she hadn’t seen in months, she scanned the crowd. She rarely ventured into Tucson now, preferring to leave the purchase of supplies to Gus and Banner. Seeing familiar faces reminded her of her chosen isolation.
Callie lifted a glass of wine from a silver tray as a servant passed. The base of the cool goblet nestled in her palm as she wrapped her fingers around the delicate stem.
The glass paused in midair as her gaze found the tall form of her partner. A steel-gray frock coat and trousers covered Jackson’s lean body, the crisp linen shirt beneath them the color of drifting snow. His dark hair remained long, but brushed neatly into place. He looked every bit the part of a gentleman.
He could pass as a buyer from back east.
She watched him tip his head down, then smile at something his companion said. A delicate ivory fan tapped him on the arm and Callie’s gaze cut sideways, settling upon a breathtaking beauty.
With her next inrushing breath, Callie felt as homely as a pond toad.
Jackson’s hand slipped around the woman’s tightly corseted waistline as he guided her onto the dance floor. The broad smile plastered across his face suggested things Callie could only imagine. The fan dangled from the tiny wrist and a gloved hand rose toward Jackson.
The image settled like a lead weight in Callie’s stomach and she compared the bulky gloves tucked in her waistband to the pristine purity of the one now resting on Jackson’s arm. Blood surged through her veins, skittering out of control. She jumped as the high-pitched voice of Carmen Eschevon shattered her thoughts.
“Ahh! Callie. How wonderful to see you again.” The hostess pushed her rotund body through the crowd and stood in front of Callie, blocking the view of Jackson and the stunning stranger. “I so afraid you not attend.” Mrs. Eschevon clapped her hands in joy, and the generous, caramel-hued swell of her breasts all but spilled from the bodice of her frothy evening gown. “What a joy to meet Señor Neale. He is truly el hombre guapo!”
“Yes, very handsome,” Callie replied in a monotone, feeling her composure slipping away faster than her patience. She abruptly changed the subject. “I’m sorry for arriving so late, Mrs. Eschevon, but I had a few things to finish at the ranch before riding over.”
Callie took another quick sip of wine, then reminded herself to slow down. She’d missed dinner and had eaten only a light meal at noon. But the sweet taste of the wine tingled on her tongue. Impulsively, she swallowed, then sipped again.
“Oh, no worry, we have people in and out all night. Now come along with me and see Roberto. He not talk to you for so long.”
Carmen led the way toward a gathering of men.
They parted, offering kind greetings to Callie before they dispersed into the crowd.
A tall, silver-haired Spaniard turned around and her heart warmed. “Señor Eschevon,” she said, smilin
g with genuine affection at the distinguished man. “How nice to see you again.” For years, her father and Roberto had been friends. In fact, the Eschevons had been the first to welcome them to the territory.
“Ah, here’s our little Colleen.” He bent slightly in a warm greeting. “Still in britches, I see, but lovely just the same.” He graced her hand with a whisper of a kiss, and Callie smiled at his subtle scolding of her choice of evening attire. Conversation flowed between them for several minutes, along with several more glasses of wine. And all the while, Callie watched Jackson from the corner of her eye. A restless sensation girdled her hips as he glided his companion around the dance floor to the lilting notes of a beautiful waltz. Strauss’s “Beautiful Blue Danube”. Unbidden, a childhood memory of smooth piano keys beneath her fingertips forced Callie to tighten her grip on the stemware.
The wineglass rose to her lips, and she took a bigger gulp.
They made a striking couple as they moved with elegant grace to the haunting melody. Jackson so tall and confident and so much in his element tonight. And his radiant dance partner, a total stranger, resting oh-so-cozy in his strong and guiding embrace.
Callie nodded as Carmen twittered on about the latest endeavors of the Tucsonian Women’s Guild, but an unexplainable longing engulfed Callie. Her mind retraced the years since she’d last danced. A half-dozen? Maybe more. For a brief moment, she recalled a silk ball gown, her first. The berthe of the exquisite dress a brilliant cerise over a full chemisette of lace. Callie’s eyes slipped closed as she gathered her emotions under invisible wings of despair.
Those were happier times.
Her gaze lifted and she glanced again at Jackson. He now had the woman pulled up against his body. Sweet laughter spilled from his dewy-skinned companion and spread across the room to slam full-force into Callie’s bewildering irritation.
She damn well knew enough about what occurred between a man and a woman to know what would come next for those two. But, to display it so boldly to a roomful of people, their own neighbors for God’s sake, in such a suggestive manner was unacceptable. People might behave that way in Philadelphia, but she’d be damned if her new partner would fondle the willing woman right in front of every single resident of the territory.
Downing another glass of wine, Callie pulled her attention back to the smiling hostess.
“Excuse me, Señora Eschevon, but I must go talk to Mr. Neale.” She deposited the empty wineglass upon another passing tray, then coursed straight onto the dance floor. Impatience heated her steps as she moved through the shifting crowd, bumping into one couple, pushing past several more without so much as an apology. By the time she stepped into her partner’s line of vision her simmering disapproval had bubbled over into a rolling boil.
Jackson’s eyes widened upon seeing her, and he stopped dancing and guided the stranger to the side of the dance floor.
He then turned to face Callie, and quipped, “I see you’ve finally arrived.” He scanned her from head to toe as he shook his head in disapproval.
“I’ve been here long enough to see things I don’t like.” Callie contained the desire to haul off and kick him in the shin.
Jackson turned to his companion. “Miss Talmadge, allow me to introduce Colleen Cutteridge, my errant partner.”
The eastern beauty scanned Callie from the single braid hanging down her back to her scuffed-up riding boots. Clothed in black slacks and a white cotton shirt, Callie realized she appeared more outfitted to brand horses than attend any type of social gathering, and would have much preferred doing so to standing in front of this socialite.
The woman offered a tiny smile and extended her gloved hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Cutteridge. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“Yes, thank you.” Callie touched the tiny hand, then dismissed the woman as her gaze locked on to Jackson’s heated glare. “We need to talk,” she snapped.
His voice thinned. “I’m with Miss Talmadge right now.”
“I can see that, as can everyone else in the room.”
He compressed his lips, glanced at his companion, and then back to Callie. “Whatever you need to say will wait.” He smiled at the curious bystanders and nodded before lancing his gaze back. “Lower your voice,” he rasped. “You’re making a scene.”
Instead, Callie’s tone rose even louder. “Come with me right this minute.” She made a full pivot and pushed back through the crowd. Behind her, Jackson offered a hasty apology to Miss Talmadge, then the deep thumping sound of his boot heels rose above the music.
She headed straight down a hallway, around a corner and into the summer kitchen, where several Indians looked up from their food preparations. Callie scanned the room and spotted an open door, a supply closet in the far corner. Moments later, she skittered inside. A lantern suspended from the ceiling by a rope illuminated the small area.
The smells of ground coffee and cinnamon infused the air. She braced her hand against the wall for support, attempting to stop the swirling sensation caused by too much wine and too little understanding of her anger. Hot on her heels, Jackson stepped in behind her and slammed the door.
“What in the Sam hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice boomed over her and Callie whirled to face him, dwarfed by his formidable size.
“Me? What about you?” She blew out her breath. Like a bitter pill, she tasted her unbalanced fury. Her hand slid down the wall and ended in a tight fist at her side.
“I was dancing,” he snapped.
“Dancing? That’s not what I’d call it, mister.” Callie refused to point out the sordid details of what his penchant for groping women might do to her sterling reputation.
He loomed closer. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She raised her right arm and pointed toward the closed door, her index finger wagging furiously. “Out there…on the dance floor is what I’m talking about. You and Miss…” Callie struggled to remember the name and failed. So she settled for, “…Prim and Proper!” She swayed again and rammed her back straighter.
An agonizing moment ticked past as his gaze seared hers. Finally, his voice boomed with scorn, “Good God, woman, is that what this madness is about?” A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead and he reared back, his eyes crushing into slits. “You’ve been drinking.”
“A few glasses of wine. And don’t even bother changing the subject.”
Jackson braced his hand upon the rough wall behind her, then leaned forward, closing the distance between them to mere inches. “Why do you care what I do?”
“Because you can’t do that here. You damn polecat, people talk.”
Three more beats of her heart passed before he whispered, “It’s not acceptable for me to dance with a beautiful woman?”
“I’m not talking about dancing, and you damn well know it.” Her chin rose in a blatant challenge. “I didn’t realize you were planning on seducing women tonight. Had I known, I wouldn’t have bothered riding over.” Her cheeks burned in frustration. “I clearly remember you saying you were coming to this party tonight to talk about horses!”
“I already spoke to Señor Eschevon,” he ground out behind clenched teeth, his features tightening into a mask of stone. “Had you been here earlier, like you should have been, you would have known.”
The faraway notes of a guitar underscored the momentary pause. Callie grasped for the closest thought. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to breed her or not?”
Jackson leaned closer, pushing his lips into a sideways grin. “Who, darlin’? The horse or Miss Talmadge?” The damnable chuckle that followed pommelled Callie like a scorching wind. “And seduction is a mighty strong word for simply enjoying the charismatic allure of a woman.” The sultry smell of him, all citrusy and spicy and so unbearably male, embedded deep inside her brain. “At
least she appreciates being a woman, which is far more than I can say for lonely little you.”
Callie shoved him away and lurched sideways, bumping into a shelf. Glass jars of pickles and preserves and ruby-red tomatoes rattled together, silent onlookers watching her squirm under his stinging words. “I am not lonely, you onerous toad. And a corseted waistline will do nothing to make the tart you crave be strong enough to survive in my country. If creamy skin and décolletage are the only things you’re after, then you won’t last long at my ranch either.”
A dangerous glint flashed in Jackson’s eyes and his features grew rigid. He pushed closer still, wrapping her inside his shadow. “Men like softness and kindness in a woman. Qualities I now know even you possess, but are too damned afraid to show.”
“I’m not afraid of one damn thing.” The lie forced her scalp to tingle as her breathing tripped in and out. She lost track of time and place as the absolute truth of her weaknesses now twisted everything into knots inside her.
“Bullshit. You’re terrified of responding to anything, let alone a man. And God only knows what or who it’ll be to break through that armored wall you’ve erected around yourself.”
“Well I can say with absolute certainty it won’t be you.”
“You’re damned right.” Soaked in sarcasm now, his voice deepened as the glint in his eyes darkened. “I’ll always choose softness and sensuality, both things you’re not.”
A wild tremble rolled through Callie with the force of some unknown demon. Her right hand curled into a tight ball and a second later, she drove her fist full-force into Jackson’s midsection. A resounding oomph resonated as he nearly doubled over from the unexpected blow.
She went rigid with shock as he straightened.
Her gaze locked on his flushed face.
On a slow push of air, he released his breath. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His eyes burned with something Callie could not comprehend. She panicked, but before she could slide away, Jackson’s hand jammed into the hair at the base of her braid. He cupped her head, his face looming so close now she could see the flecks of gold embedded in the depths of his dark eyes. He pushed her up against the wall, knocking over a bucket and a broom in the process.