by Cindy Nord
The arrogant toad.
A bone-deep weariness settled over Callie. She hadn’t needed him in her life before now, so what difference did it make if he slept with all the women in Tucson?
He’d be gone soon enough anyway.
No one ever stayed.
Callie sighed. Thread by angry thread, she allowed her wrath to fray. Her horse continued an ambling gait and Callie leaned forward, stroking the animal’s sleek neck. Even blindfolded, the trusty sorrel could find the way home.
Her grip on Diego’s reins loosened.
In silent purity, the moon skipped across the top of the mountains while she gazed at the craggy peaks. Silhouetted under a silver wash, the earthen giant more resembled a fortress whose shadowy ramparts loomed over her life.
Just like Jackson.
She tipped her head back and stared at the wash of stars, her throat constricting under a fresh surge of tears. Amid the whirlwind of such conflicting thoughts, Callie felt small and lost.
The pounding cadence of a galloping horse split the solitude. She stiffened her spine and then swiveled in the saddle to peer over her shoulder into the darkness. The thudding hooves confirmed one rider, and she was as sure as springtime the horseman wasn’t Apache. No Indian would gallop through the darkness with such reckless abandon.
Her gaze swept past moon-drenched cacti for any identifying signs. Within seconds, she spotted the unmistakable gleam of a white shirt, the horse beneath the rider as black as night. Her eyes widened.
A flush blistered her cheeks.
Jackson!
Swerving around, Callie fastened her gaze upon the Rincons. The blood in her veins bubbled, and then burst with…what? Anxiety? Delight?
Sonofabitch.
She didn’t want to confront this man so soon after his kiss. The impulse to outrun the stallion flashed through her mind before she shoved away the foolish idea.
Jackson would easily catch her.
A half minute later, he reined Salvaje alongside. The horse blew hard, shaking its massive head. The halter chain on the beast’s headstall jangled.
“Racing through the dark like that is a sure-fire way to get you or your mount killed,” Callie ground out, staring straight ahead. “Any hole in the ground and you’d have both gone down.”
“Why did you leave?” His voice was curt.
“Why do you care? You had Miss Peaches and Cream for company.” Her racing heart roughened her words.
“Let’s just leave Miss Talmadge out of this, and tell me why you left.”
Because your kiss scared the hell out of me…how ’bout that, you jackass?
Warmth welled over her at the remembered pressure of his lips. The knot in her throat increased as a chill collected in her lungs. “Let’s just say I was finished with partying.”
Jackson sighed. “Look, I allowed things to get out of hand back there…in the closet. And when you punched me, I lost my temper. For that, I apologize. Frightening you was not my intention, Callie. I was out of line, and it won’t happen again.”
For a thread-thin moment, disappointment zipped up her spine as the remembered taste of his kiss eased dangerously close to the hole in her heart left by her parents’ death. Callie turned to stare at him. The sincerity of his words twined around her anxiety. Her gaze dropped to the molded perfection of his mouth and the kiss replayed in her mind…the sharp bite of whiskey, his mellow cheroot, the tantalizing tang of something more. “I’m your partner, Jackson,” she said in her coldest tone. “Not some…dalliance.”
He, on the other hand, looked strangely pleased. “Nine weeks ago, you’d barely acknowledge me. Now, you’re proclaiming we’re partners. A colossal turn of events, don’t you think?” His smile widened, and a row of perfect teeth gleamed in the pale, polished light.
“Only because there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You’ve heard back from Reece, then?”
“Yes.” The single word, tasting odd and empty in her mouth, would get no further embellishment.
They rode in silence for several minutes until he again broke the quiet. “Why didn’t you tell me about the orphanage?”
Her breath caught as she reined Diego to an abrupt halt. Turning in the saddle again, she glared at Jackson. “How did you find out?” Her jaw tightened in childish petulance.
“I followed you.”
“That was a private meeting. You had no right to—”
“What you’re doing is admirable.”
“I’m not doing it for admiration.” But his unexpected kindness already had squeezed aside her resentment.
“That’s what I mean. You’re not forced to support them. You just do. It’s compassionate.” His gaze met hers and held, and the penetrating intensity she’d seen back in the supply closet returned. “You should’ve told me about Father Miguel when I asked you. There must be no secrets between us.”
Callie’s stomach dipped.
Her gaze fell to his mouth, his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest before rolling back to the mountains. “You mean like the secret concerning your battle awards?”
His deep chuckle splashed another bucketful of warmth across her heart, allowing the unwanted thaw to continue. “They’re called commendations, Callie. Not battle awards. And you never asked or I would’ve told you.”
“Well, I’m asking now,” she snapped, staring back at him. As quickly as her anger rose, however, it ebbed. How could she fight such a charismatic smile? Damn devil.
“All right,” he said. His words were as solemn as a sigh, and the saddle beneath him creaked as he shifted his weight. “I received the first commendation for leading an assault on the Confederate left flank during the Fredericksburg Campaign in December of ’62. Your brother had been promoted to temporary brigade commander, so I assumed control of the regiment.” His shirtsleeves billowed in the breeze as he readjusted the dark jacket laid over the saddle in front of him. “While the others were engaged in drawing the rebs with a frontal assault, I led our regiment around the side and swept into their trenches.” He paused to stare into the darkness. “And the other one I received for helping capture General A.P. Hill and his staff outside Petersburg in April of last year.” His fingers curled around the leather reins as brusqueness filled his voice. “All my men deserved commendations, not just me. But that’s not the way of war.”
Callie studied his profile, her heart thrumming. The war had taken her brother away from her, yet bewildering pride crept over her, inch by tenacious inch, until she finally sputtered, “The colonel says you’re a war hero.”
Another deep laugh embraced her.
“Not of my choosing, hellion, I assure you. A man does what he must to survive in battle. That’s why this militia I’ve been corralled into leading is so important, to help protect everyone from these Indian raids.”
The sudden memory of her family’s death displaced the warmth. Callie’s chest rose and fell as suffocating remorse followed. Her lips parted on a rush of air. “Well, my folks are already dead, so your militia comes a dozen years too late to make a damn bit of difference to me.” She forced all her attention back upon the mountain and covered the remainder of the ride in stony silence.
Chapter Ten
Dawn barely pinked the sky when a wagon rolled past the low adobe wall surrounding Dos Caballos. Jackson watched as Dillon Reed brought the four-horse team to a halt, slamming the brake bar into place. The scout hoisted himself over the side of the vehicle, then dropped to the ground in front of Jackson.
“Colonel Talmadge sent along a wall tent and some wedges, and a few other supplies,” Dillon said, motioning to the pile of tarpaulin-covered lumpy mounds heaped inside the wagon’s bed. “He also said to choose what mounts you want from your herd and send him the bill.” After reaching into the pocket of his canvas duster, the scout handed over a crum
pled dispatch. “Here’s the official order.”
Jackson scanned the document, then shoved the requisition letter into his back pocket. “Good. And thanks for showing up so early. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem. Anybody else here yet?” Dillon asked as they carried the folded canvas toward the adobe wall. With a heavy thud, the tent met the ground.
“Nope.” Jackson pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “I don’t expect folks to begin arriving until later this morning, after their chores are finished and all.”
“How many you figuring on?”
Jackson shrugged as he headed back to the wagon. “Maybe fifty. Depends on how fast word spread after the Eschevons’ fiesta.”
The scout gathered up a pile of iron tent stakes, and with a loud clank, dropped them into a metal bucket. “Well, someone’s already posted banners in every storefront in Tucson.”
Jackson laughed. “Then we better push that count up to seventy.”
Gus walked toward them from the bunkhouse, pulling up his suspenders. His faded green shirt and denim trousers had seen a dozen years of wear. “Don’t this fool know the birds ain’t even up yet?” He chuckled, stretching over the side of the wagon to extend his hand. “Name’s Gus Gilbert.”
Dillon smiled and slipped a palm into the man’s clasp. “Dillon Reed. Pleased to meet
you.”
“You the scout?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’ve heard stories about how you tracked down that renegade who killed those army teamsters last month.”
Dillon nodded. “The colonel brought me in from San Antonio specifically for that one. Just doing my job.”
“Your job? Hell, son, you tracked that sonofabitch halfway to El Paso from a stone-cold trail.”
The corners of the scout’s mouth kicked up. “Got lucky, that’s all.”
Jackson reached over and pulled out a few tent poles from the back of the wagon. “You two going to stand there gabbing all morning like a couple of hens?”
The other two laughed, then joined him, and within an hour, they had the wagon nearly emptied and the beginnings of a camp marked off. At the end of the double-row of wedge tents stood the ten-by-twelve-foot wall tent. The canvas structure would serve as headquarters while their local militia trained.
Jackson tightened the last strand of rope, then straightened in time to see Callie step from the doorway of the hacienda and onto the front porch. Her sudden appearance coalesced into a hard shove against his heart.
She leaned against a post of the overhang, her full-sleeved white shirt tucked into the waistband of her pants. A black leather belt cinched her waist. Jackson looked away, wishing he could shut her out of his mind. A now-familiar tightness settled in the pit of his stomach and forced his gaze back to her.
Good God, her pants were too damned tight, exposing long, denim-encased legs that seemed to stretch into next week. He nearly groaned aloud. Would he ever become accustomed to seeing a woman dressed like this? Their gazes locked just as the soft sound of the scout’s low whistle slid up Jackson’s already taut spine.
“Who’s the girl?” Dillon asked, sidling up to stand beside him. “Never seen her before. ’Course, I ain’t been in these parts long.”
“She’s my partner.”
“Well, shit. Ain’t you the lucky one.”
Jackson’s voice chilled. “That all depends on how you look at it.”
“Well, from where I’m standing things look pretty damn good.” Dillon chuckled as he moved toward Gus, who was busy settling an iron tripod over the campfire.
Jackson’s leg muscles tightened as he watched Callie step into the sunlight.
Just why she felt it necessary to move closer to him, Callie couldn’t quite say. What needed telling could’ve been hollered across the clearing. She came to a stop in front of Jackson and waited while he raised his foot to the hub of the wagon’s wheel and leaned forward.
“Morning, Callie,” Jackson said.
“Morning,” she quipped. “I’m expecting Banner back from Tucson this afternoon. I’ll be needin’ Gus by then to help him unload supplies.”
Jackson didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, yet somehow she knew he’d tensed. “Hey, Gus,” he hollered over his shoulder in a sarcastic tone. “You think we’ll have this wagon emptied by this afternoon?”
Callie glanced to the wagon’s bed. The only item left inside was a wooden folding chair. Her gaze cut to Jackson’s again. A heavy silence followed. Gus ambled over, his boots scuffling along the sandy soil to sever the mounting tension.
“Mornin’, suga’pie,” he said, wiping his sweaty brow with a faded, blue-and-white checked handkerchief.
She nodded, but her gaze remained locked upon Jackson.
The old wrangler stepped between them and peered into the wagon. “Well, looks like we won’t need a passel of time to figure that one out, will we?” He pulled the remaining chair toward him. “There. All emptied.” He braced it on the ground, then sighed, shaking his head as his gaze shifted back and forth between them. “You know, if you two young’uns just learned to get along, things would be a hell of a lot easier around here.” He pivoted on his heel, then sauntered back to the fire, carrying the chair with him.
Jackson leaned toward Callie, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Aren’t you tired of looking for trouble?”
His ruggedness wafted around her, kicking her already thumping heartbeat into a chaotic stampede. “I’m not looking for trouble. I was simply letting you know Gus won’t be able to play militia with you this afternoon.”
His brow arched. “Play militia? You think we’re playing at protecting everyone?”
“I don’t need anyone to pro—”
“Don’t even say it,” he snapped. His gloved finger pointed at her, the leather nearly scraping the tip of her nose. “I’m sick of hearing it.”
Callie’s mouth dropped open just as Pilar’s cheery voice rang across the clearing.
“Everyone. Come. Breakfast ready.”
Jackson lowered his foot from the wagon, then thumbed up the brim of his hat, his expression softening. He hollered toward the cook. “You got coffee ready, ladybug?”
“Sí, señor. Come. Come, everyone.”
“Gentlemen.” He directed his words to the two men walking toward him. “Let’s do as the lady bids.” He glanced at Callie, then swept his arm outward. “Shall we?”
Wordlessly, she turned and retraced her steps, a dull despair rolling around inside her.
Conversation had been sparse during the few meals Callie and Jackson had actually shared. Now, however, she had a feeling all was about to change with Gus and the tall, dark-haired newcomer joining them. Pent-up annoyance simmered inside her.
Control me, will he?
Jackson took his usual spot at the head of the table, and the other men chose chairs flanking him. She lowered herself into the seat at the opposite end. Heaping bowls of food covered the linen tablecloth: tortillas, mashed beans, and slabs of fried beef and eggs, potatoes and gravy. Curly-cues of steam rose from each dish, infusing the air with tangy aroma and clashing with her ever-growing frustration.
Gus reached for the closest bowl, but his hand paused in midair when Callie cleared her throat.
“I would like to say a blessing before we eat. I trust no one objects.”
The bowl thudded back to the tabletop as Gus nodded in agreement.
Callie bowed her head. “For the bounty we are about to receive, Lord, I thank you. And as always, I beseech your help and strength to endure this partnership. Amen.”
She raised her head, and reached for her napkin, unfurling the burgundy cloth with a flourish. She laid the material across her lap, then looked up at her dining companions.
They stared at her.
She smiled, motioning tow
ard the food. “Gentlemen, please. Begin.” Her gaze settled on Jackson. If his eyes had been twin fires, they would have seared her to the bone. A frown creased his brow and stayed there even as Gus handed him a bowl of potatoes.
Callie refused to blink. Her heart, however, was pounding so loudly she wanted to cover her ears. He deserved that, she reminded herself. After all, hadn’t he kissed her without permission?
“Nice to eat on a real china plate, miss,” the newcomer said, pulling her attention from Jackson’s grim expression.
“Why, yes. Thank you. It’s Havilland china. A rare pattern that was shipped all the way from Limoges, France—a gift from my father to mother for their wedding. I still own every single piece belonging to the original set of eighteen place settings.”
The young visitor offered a bewildered smile as he took a bowl of potatoes from Jackson’s outstretched hand.
“And I apologize,” she continued. “I’m afraid Mr. Neale hasn’t the manners to introduce us. With whom am I sharing my meal this morning?”
Jackson’s sigh reached her ears.
The young man wiped his hands on the napkin and looked at Jackson before offering her another lopsided grin. “Name’s Dillon, ma’am. Dillon Reed. I’m a scout out of Camp Lowell. I sure appreciate the invite to breakfast. Beats dried beef any day of the week.”
Callie glanced at his plate. Mounds of food covered the entire surface of her mother’s periwinkle pattern.
“Well, Pilar’s the best damn cook in the territory,” Gus said as he placed a generous portion of fried beef upon his own plate. “Yes, just the best ever.” He then handed the serving platter to Jackson, who simply passed it on to the scout.
“You’re not eating this morning, Jackson?” Callie tipped her head sideways as her brows rose. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’ve never felt better.” The bite in his words nipped at her all the way down the table.
Gus pushed another bowl of food his way, the wrangler’s voice now straightforward and matter-of-fact. “You just better let this go, and eat something. You’ve got lots of important things to do today.”