by Cindy Nord
Her heart banged against her chest and a peculiar sound sputtered out. Had it come from her? Or him? Heat drained from her face as her eyes widened.
He dipped his head.
Surely to God he wouldn’t dare.
The empty cavern of her lungs flooded with air as she tried to scream. The sound never materialized. Jackson slammed his mouth down upon hers, capturing her lips in a fierce, hot possession. A hellish, mind-spinning burn that yearned for release swept aside her icy wrath of moments before. The frisson of fear coalesced through Callie’s veins into an all-consuming rush of heat.
Strong arms wrapped her waist. Then lifted her.
Jackson filled every part of her senses…his taste, his smell, his strength. His presence burned high and hot and strange guttural sounds consumed her. She fought to dislodge him. He tightened his hold, crushing her breasts against his body. She could not get rid of him, so she scrambled to push him from her mind. With a maddening will of its own, however, her mind refused to listen. The hard nubs of her nipples rasped against the cotton camisole beneath her shirt. Her hand slipped over Jackson’s shoulders, her fingers digging into the bunched muscles that strained against expensive wool. A wave of tightness spiraled down to settle into her most intimate place. The only thing dominating her now was the pressure of Jackson’s lips and his hand…and the intoxicating smell and taste of him. Richly caramelized. Oaken.
Bewitching beyond belief.
When had the nameless feeling become her master, careening through her like some living, breathing beast?
Desire aroused a slumbering demon.
All too soon, the pressure against her lips lessened. The release was now as upsetting as the unexpected kiss had been. Callie’s breath caught in her throat when the warmth of his mouth lifted.
Their gazes locked.
His breath rushed out hot and fast, and in the subdued light, the tight line of his cheek appeared cut from chiseled stone.
Seconds crawled past as raspy, panting sounds escaped her throat.
And then, with unbearable achievement, Jackson’s mouth returned to the same mocking smirk. His gaze never left hers as he reached sideways for the door. A second later, he twisted the knob and the sounds of music and laughter and rattling pots and pans spilled inward. Without another word, he stepped from the small room.
Callie’s whole body jerked when the door slammed shut.
Her hands rose, and she spread trembling fingers across her mouth. Her tongue slipped out, wetting her lips…but all she tasted was him. The ache inside her chest swelled, her muscles paralyzed. Unable to breathe now, and as hard as she tried, Callie could not deny the all-encompassing need Jackson had just brought to life inside her.
Chapter Eight
Jackson nodded at one man’s statement, smiled at another’s, but cared little about what was being said.
First, we’re screaming at each other.
And then I’m kissing her?
He brought the whiskey to his lips. In one long pull, Jackson emptied the tumbler. These Spanish landowners adored Callie. In fact, they’d spent the better part of the evening extolling over and over all her extraordinary qualities to him.
Jackson had nowhere to escape.
And all around him, conversation droned on. He drove a hand through his hair. The shocking news discovered from his visit with Father Miguel further perplexed Jackson. Callie’s magnanimous support of the local orphanage proved that somewhere beneath her caustic exterior breathed a warm and benevolent angel.
Why would she pretend otherwise?
“Are you all right, Señor Neale?” Eschevon whispered beside him.
Jackson refocused, plastering a practiced smile into place. How could he tell his amiable host that he’d just come from ravaging Callie Cutteridge in Eschevon’s well-stocked supply closet? “Yes, I’m fine.” He chuckled, raising his glass in a mocking salute. “I just need to go slower with your fine whiskey.” Roberto laughed, reached for a decanter from a passing tray and refilled the cut-crystal tumbler clutched in Jackson’s hand.
“We are holding this fiesta in your honor, señor…so it is permissible to drink your fill tonight.”
As the amber liquid rose to the rim, Jackson slid his gaze across a sea of faces. On the opposite side of the room, Pamela Talmadge leaned upon the arm of a young lieutenant. Her bright smile quenched Jackson’s wounded pride, as well. The woman radiated charm and abruptly altered his thoughts. She was the type of female he understood. Indeed, Callie could never hope to match the well-honed naiveté of the Miss Talmadges of this world.
And the lieutenant?
A minor inconvenience, nothing more. Jackson’s gaze narrowed as a smile tugged his mouth. When he wanted something, nothing stood in his way. And yet, scouring the darkened corridors of his mind, Callie’s innocent surrender sunk in with teeth and claws and sent a sheen of sweat across his brow.
He hadn’t expected her enigmatic response, fueled with some volatile fire that frightened the hell out of him. Jackson knew from her silent reaction, Callie also had been shaken by the kiss.
A grimace dissolved Jackson’s smirk. There had to be a reason for the mess that shredded the layers of his self-control. As hard as he searched his brain, however, he couldn’t quite find one.
Shouts brought his attention back to the fiesta and to the cluster of guests milling around him. Several men approached the group, and the mundane flow of conversation abruptly stopped. Jackson stepped sideways into the shadows to allow the new arrivals more room.
Two Papago Indians, enemy of the Apache as he’d discovered earlier this evening, walked behind a lanky cowboy, and their travel-worn appearance implied urgency. The young Anglo removed his hat, and long brown hair draped over his dust-covered shoulders.
He directed blunt words toward Roberto Eschevon. “There’s been another raid.” Behind the man, the Indians pressed forward, speaking gibberish. The interpreter nodded, then continued. “A small ranch in Sabina Canyon. Near Dragoon Springs Station. Everyone’s dead, including women and children.” He angled his thumb over his shoulder toward his comrades. “Some of the victims were Papago servants, and their tribes are demanding retribution from the authorities. They say the Apache must pay for this.”
Murmurs filled the room as news of the massacre spread through the crowd. Music and dancing stopped as people pressed closer. John Noble Goodwin, governor of the territory, entered the circle of men. Standing barely five feet five, the Maine native’s mild appearance, thinning hairline and spectacles were at odds with the strength in his voice. “Is this the same band that killed the superintendent of the Patagonia mines last month?”
The Indians nodded at the translated question, their response thrown toward the governor in a rush of unfamiliar words.
“Yes. Definitely Cochise and his warriors,” the interpreter delivered. “They say the Papago and Pima trade wheat with the Anglos, and work in their homes. They demand justice for the murders of their people.”
Colonel Thaddeus Talmadge, commander of the garrison at Camp Lowell, stepped forward, his voice booming above the Indians. “This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you, John. The Apache slip out of the mountains, strike quickly, then disappear before we can even find their trail.” The interpreter translated the words for the Indians in a low, rushed voice. “I’ve sent couriers to General Stoneman’s headquarters at Drum Barracks, with news of the recent uprisings. But he says I’m to do nothing at this time. He states the Apache have peaceful intentions, that the government is gathering them toward reservations.”
William Oury, a wiry-framed, hot-tempered Virginian who’d fought in the Texas War for Independence as had been pointed out to Jackson several times tonight, glared at the governor. “These murdering bastards ain’t goin’ to no reservations, John. This is exactly why we need that local militia.” His gaze slid to the
colonel. “To fend off attacks the army is unwilling to even try and stop.”
“I resent that, sir,” Talmadge protested. “I’ve every intention of protecting the citizens of the territory, but I must have more manpower to do so.”
The governor raised both hands to silence them as the crowd continued to shove inward. Lacy fans waved around fearful whispers, and cigar smoke wafted through the room in a cloudy haze. “I understand what you are saying, and I’m authorizing your request for a local militia at least until I can arrange for territory-wide militia staffing. I promise you all, I’ll talk to Washington about this matter. But right now I need someone who’s willing to step forward and lead this local project.” He glanced around the sea of onlookers until his gaze fell upon Jackson. “I need someone like you, Neale, recently from the war. You’d be the perfect choice.”
Cheers filled the room as everyone agreed with the governor’s selection for their new militia leader. Jackson’s stomach somersaulted. All he wanted to do after the war was ride westward, drink whiskey, smoke cheroots and bed big-breasted señoritas.
Inside his boots, Jackson’s toes clenched.
Damnation.
His now-empty glass thumped to a nearby table and Jackson stepped forward into the circle of men. He’d already had his bellyful of fighting. He would decline with grace. “It takes more than words to create a militia of qualified soldiers, Governor. And, it is certainly not something that can be thrown together.” He met every eye before reconnecting his gaze with Goodwin’s. “I’m deeply honored you thought of me, but I believe this task should be handled by the military. Perhaps the colonel might want to appoint a soldier to fill the leadership position in the interim.”
Talmadge countered, shaking his head. “I can’t afford even one soldier absent from my ranks, Neale. We’re stretched thin as it is protecting the supply trains and providing escorts for the freighting wagons. Washington refuses me reinforcements, though I write daily for more soldiers to fill the roster.” He glanced to the governor. “Since the military is stalled where this is concerned, I’m in complete agreement with you. Neale is an excellent choice. In fact, Cutteridge wrote me, stating Neale was twice commended for bravery during the war.” The colonel scanned the crowd, his words reassuring the worried mass, rising higher so everyone could hear. “And according to Reece…” his gaze slipped back to Jackson, “…a more qualified man, you’re not likely to find.”
Sonofabitch.
“Those commendations, sir, came upon the heels of me simply fighting for survival. The war created many heroes in four years, and everyone who rode with me that day deserved recognition.” He’d obviously have to try another tactic, since this was going nowhere. “Besides, I’ve just recently arrived in the territory.”
“All the more reason why you’re the perfect choice. You still have the freshness of battle in your blood.”
A rueful smile tightened Jackson’s lips. “I hardly think freshness conveys the horrors of war, Colonel.”
Talmadge gestured wide. “Look around you, Neale. Who else has your experience?”
Jackson scanned the crowd of onlookers composed of both Spanish and Anglo. Most were elderly businessmen and their families. A few hotheads, such as Oury, were famous for their fiery tempers, but the man was no leader. In fact, stories of two recent duels involving the Texan had entertained the gossiping crowd all evening.
The local freighting company owner Charles Cavanaugh spoke up. “I’ll be glad to supply foodstuffs to the militia when it’s riding in search of Apache, Neale. Surely that’ll be a weight off your mind.” Cavanaugh glanced at the governor, who acknowledged the offer with a quick nod.
“That’s very generous of you, Charles,” Goodwin said. Then the governor settled his attention back upon Jackson. “You see, Neale, we’re all in need of your skills. I can’t say enough what a service you’d be providing the local citizenry.”
Jackson drew in a heavy breath.
Dammit, Reece.
Several long moments pulled at the edges of Jackson’s sanity. He knew he could no more turn and walk away from this new responsibility than he could have walked away from staff assignment after Reece was promoted. Resentment simmered in a hot push through his veins as he glanced at the governor.
“Fine,” he snapped. “But if I agree to this, I want every man trained accordingly. I’ll not have them riding off shooting at everything that moves in these mountains.” He paused to look at Oury, and then slid his glance over the nodding mass. “And the volunteers must come to Dos Caballos for training. I won’t leave my partner alone during all this.”
From the back of the room someone yelled, “Callie takes care of herself, Neale.”
Another added, “She’s been doing fine for years. Don’t think she needs you or anyone else protectin’ her.”
“That’s right, Neale. This country made her grow up fast and mean. The Apache know to steer clear of that hellcat,” another proclaimed.
Jackson laughed with the rest of the crowd. “I’m finding that out right quick, but the only way I’ll accept the position is if training is done at my ranch.”
Everyone agreed, and Jackson instructed those wishing to join up to meet at Dos Caballos in two days. He glanced at the Indians, then over to their interpreter. “Ask if I can count on them to assist in tracking down their enemy.”
The man translated the request, and both Indians nodded. Jackson shook their hands before settling his attention back upon the scout. His hair was the same dark color as the close-cut beard, and the blue eyes that stared back at Jackson looked like twin seas. “You got a name?”
“Reed. Dillon Reed.”
“Can I count on you to translate for me, Mr. Reed?”
“You can.”
Jackson looked toward the entrance of the room, and his chest tightened. Callie stood just inside the doorway, staring at him. A grim expression darkened her features. He wasn’t sure whether his agreement to lead the militia or the memory of his kiss moved the storm cloud across her face. All he knew was where his hand had earlier plunged into the base of her braid, blonde hair now spilled over her shoulder in a soft-as-silk wave.
The haste with which Callie turned and crossed the foyer to the entrance of the hacienda surprised him and instantly dissolved any momentary desire to bed Pamela Talmadge tonight.
Jackson muttered a hasty goodbye, then shouldered past the scout. He didn’t know what the hell he’d say to Callie, but somewhere inside him lurked an apology. The disheveled brat was maddening to say the least, but nowhere near as maddening as…him kissing her. In his raucous past, he’d been slapped by a myriad of debutantes too numerous to count. Why had Callie’s lone punch driven him to the point of retaliation?
And for what? Reminding him of his rudeness?
She’d had every right to land the blow. Schooled in society’s rules, Jackson knew he’d been out of line. She’d been out of line too…Christ almighty, miles out of line…but that was in her nature; it certainly wasn’t in his.
A heavy hand clamped around Jackson’s upper arm to stop him. Oury’s face twisted into a scowl, his lips drawing thin. “I suppose you’ll want us to bring our own rifles?”
Jackson narrowed his eyes. Already he didn’t like this bastard. Dillon stepped forward, and the Texan dropped his hold. “I’ll go check with the colonel about weapons if you’d like, sir?”
Thankful for the intervention, Jackson slid his attention to the scout. A quick smile followed. “I’d appreciate that. And while you’re at it, Reed, ask him about additional ammunition.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“In the meantime…” Jackson’s gaze lanced back to Oury’s, “…let’s plan on using our own weapons until we hear differently.” The scowling Texan nodded, then melted back into the crowd, grumbling his displeasure.
Jackson turned in time to see Calli
e slip from sight out the front entrance of the hacienda. A heartbeat later, he surged toward the doorway to follow her.
Chapter Nine
Callie scrunched her forehead. If Jackson thought to unravel her by kissing her, he was sorely mistaken.
She had complete control of her emotions.
Didn’t she?
She compressed her lips and tried to refocus her thoughts. Each attempt smacked into the strong wall of Jackson’s chest, his warmth, his overwhelming presence. Even his scent lingered on her shirt. Everything she’d worked so hard to attain…her chosen isolation, her self-protection, the detachment from others…now seemed altered.
All because of this damn jackass.
Her thigh muscles clenched against the leather, the saddle beneath her molding to the contours of her body as Diego plodded through the night. At least the animal’s steady gait felt comforting and familiar.
Callie’s hands tightened on the reins.
As hard as she tried, she couldn’t quite muster the bitter animosity she’d relished before Jackson melded his body against hers. And that fact alone disturbed her far more than his bold and bracing kiss.
When she had finally composed herself enough to stumble from the closet, she’d encountered a cheering crowd and the discovery that her partner would be organizing a local militia. He’d been here less than two months, yet the entire population of the territory now stood poised and eager to please the bastard.
Was there nothing the man couldn’t do?
The thrumming pulse in her throat squeezed tighter. Why hadn’t she heard before now of the recognition he’d received in battle? Good God, even the commander at Camp Lowell knew.
An hour passed in a maddened haze before Callie could force herself to relax. Jackson would be at the party for hours, no doubt. With militia plans to make, as well as a beguiling coquette to entertain, hell, he’d most likely be gone all night. If she never spoke to him again, it would be too soon.