With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Pilar bustled in, a coffeepot in her hands. “Who needs coffee?” she asked.

  Jackson abruptly raised his cup.

  The cook moved around the table and filled his china mug. Then she slipped back into the kitchen.

  Inhaling deeply, Jackson lowered his coffee to the tabletop and exhaled a long, acquiescing breath. He reached for a bowl and stoically began loading his plate with food. “We’re expecting around seventy or so men to show up for training today,” he said, turning toward Gus.

  The wrangler nodded. “That’s a good number. Folks’ve wanted this militia for a while now. Had things been organized months ago, maybe they could’ve stopped some of the killings.”

  Jackson reached for a tortilla and sopped up some gravy. “I’m going to divide everyone into companies, like my command structure during the war. But with our numbers here, I’ll probably only need two or three.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Dillon agreed, shoving a forkful of beef into his mouth.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Because I’ve also decided you’re going to be in charge of one of them.”

  Dillon’s jaw tensed. “You sure? I usually just scout and interpret.”

  Jackson pointed with his fork. “I need someone I can trust, and I believe you’re that man.”

  “But I thought the militia had to elect leaders.”

  “Well, usually they do, but since I’m in charge, I’m electing you right now.”

  The scout shrugged. “That’s fine, I’ll do it. But who’s going to interpret?”

  “You’re going to do that too.” Jackson smiled. “I’ll leave the other captain’s positions open for the others to vote on.”

  Callie listened to their plans, her gaze drawn to her partner. He was ignoring her now, and she struggled to pretend it didn’t hurt. Conversations between the men flowed for another twenty minutes while Pilar refilled cups and cleared away their empty plates.

  “Hell, you two make me wish I was young again.” Gus chuckled, swallowing the last swig of his coffee.

  Jackson finally looked at Callie, though he directed his comments to the wrangler. “Even though I could use your skills, Gus, you realize I’ll need you to stay here and keep things running smoothly.” His mouth quirked sideways. “And though God and everyone else in this damn territory thinks she doesn’t need anyone…” he paused and lifted his napkin, “…keep an eye on her anyway.”

  Her eyes narrowed as Jackson swiped at his lips, then dropped the cloth beside his plate.

  He shot another easy smile her way and her throat constricted. This man radiated a frightening power over her emotions, and as infuriating as he was, she no longer could muster the skills needed to deflect the sensations building inside her.

  Jackson leaned sideways, picking his hat off the floor. Settling the Stetson upon his head, he stood, then said, “By the way, Callie. I enjoyed the story of your mother’s wedding china a great deal. Thank you for sharing it this morning.”

  He turned and crossed to the door.

  Right behind him tramped the other two men, leaving her all alone with a plateful of cold food and a burning, bewildering confusion.

  Chapter Eleven

  The militia consisted of Mexicans, Spanish, Indian and Anglo ranging in ages from sixteen to sixty. For five days, Jackson worked hard the sixty-five eager-to-please citizens into some semblance of an army. Though he damn well knew these men were nowhere near ready to face their enemy.

  With the election of officers completed on the first day, Jackson turned his attention to organizing and drilling his troops. He allowed no alcohol. And if the fine merchants of Tucson, the hacienda owners or the farmers fought among themselves, he forgave them once. If sparring happened a second time, Jackson thanked the perpetrators for their time, then dismissed them from the ranks. Just as he expected, Oury was the first to be escorted from Dos Caballos. Jackson was not sad to see the hothead go. For the most part, the remaining volunteers wanted to learn and worked hard to prove it.

  “Are you going to allow them any time off?” Dillon asked on the fifth night as he settled into a chair near the campfire beside Jackson.

  “Nope. I’ve got two days left with these men, and I intend to use every bit of time I’ve got.” He tossed the remaining cold coffee from his cup into the campfire, then glanced at his new comrade. “Their life, or the lives of their families, may one day depend on the skills they’re learning here. I want to work on their tracking abilities tomorrow. Think you can come up with something they can follow?”

  The scout laughed. “Now you’re talking my language.”

  Jackson nodded and swept his gaze across camp. Several men remained awake, some cleaning weapons. Others talked. He inhaled, allowing the pungent smoke of burning mesquite to curl into his lungs. For nearly a half decade, he’d lived this nomadic lifestyle, and the aromas and ambience of camp life brought him comfort.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, even these things could not help him relax—not when a real bed waited for him just across the clearing. He was bone-tired, and the previous nights’ sleep on a hard cot made for a restless mind. But Jackson knew he would never choose the comforts of inside when his men were sleeping on the ground. Even as he tried to refocus his wandering mind upon a training agenda for tomorrow, Jackson’s thoughts returned to Callie.

  Each sunrise, he watched her gallop away from the ranch, and concern for her safety began. Throughout the day, his worries escalated, until he finally saw her riding back at dusk. The more he refused the disquiet, the stronger his concerns for the maverick grew.

  Ever since that reckless kiss.

  Good God, what demon possessed him that night? He chafed, resettled his hat, then glanced toward the hacienda. A light glowed from her bedroom window. Was she asleep? Hell, she probably wore a chastity belt to bed secured by an iron lock. With such ease, the hellion sealed away her womanhood. The sexy image of a willing Colleen, swathed in translucent batiste and spreading long legs wide for him to crawl between, dispersed across his mind.

  With a muffled curse, Jackson thrust aside the annoying reflection and rammed his feet against the ring of stones around the fire.

  What the woman wore to bed was no concern of his. She was his partner, nothing more, but the heart-pounding frustration escalated when seconds later, the hacienda’s front door opened. Illuminated by the fire’s glow, Callie walked straight toward camp. And with each step, the restlessness inside Jackson billowed thicker than any fogbank rolling in off Virginia’s Rappahannock River. His heart slugged hard against his chest as she eased down onto a chair on the other side of the campfire from him. Above the flickering flames, her gaze met his, then darted away.

  Jackson never expected to see her tonight, and he looked her over, a habit he’d long ago perfected in order to control any uncomfortable situation. No longer captured in the restraining braid, her hair fell around her shoulders in a thick wave, shimmering in the fire’s glow like a candle’s wick touched by flame.

  A convoluted truth chiseled past Jackson’s anger.

  She’s so beautiful.

  He could no longer pretend otherwise. With a few choice words, this golden-haired shrew could blister the skin off any man, yet none around her seemed to mind. The few volunteers still awake moved closer, eager to share details of their day with her. Callie smiled and nodded, listening to every story with rapt attention.

  Jackson’s jaw wound tighter the longer he watched.

  What the hell are you up to now?

  She’d made her lack of interest in the militia obvious by her refusal to support him. And not once, in the entire time he’d been here, had they so much as shared a decent conversation. Yet here she sat, exuding more radiance than the damned campfire between them.

  The ineffectual, uncomfortable stirrings of envy enveloped Jackson. With each laugh she issued, w
ith each nod she gave, the discomfort inside him spiraled.

  His lips thinned as an awkward and unforeseen jealousy grew.

  She had no business sitting here with this motley collection of men, not at night and certainly not looking as fine as she did right now. A thousand times more dangerous than a bottle of whiskey, a lone woman flirting among a group of men promised nothing but trouble.

  With the decision to remove her from his camp made, Jackson climbed to his feet, drawing a half a dozen stares, including Callie’s. His heart hammered his ribs as he skirted the campfire in a couple of long strides. The volunteers scooted backward, allowing him into the circle.

  He reached her side and leaned down, leveling his mouth near her ear. “I’d like to speak with you in private, please.”

  “I’m busy.” She dismissed Jackson with a twist of her head, turning her attention to a young Spaniard sitting nearby. A small Stauffer guitar rested across the man’s lap and the brass tuning gears on the curved headstock caught the firelight, reflecting a taunting glint.

  Jackson slipped his hand to the back of Callie’s chair and thumped the hard pine. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Callie braced her foot against the fieldstones. “Need I remind you, Jackson, you don’t own me? I’ll do what I damn well please, and right now I’m going to listen to a song Jose has written.”

  Jackson glanced at the young man, who abruptly dipped his head in embarrassment and plunked the bottom string of the instrument. The tremulous note vibrated against Jackson’s last nerve. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Callie’s upper arm as he pulled her to her feet, the chair beneath her collapsing to the ground in a dull rattle.

  “Not tonight, you aren’t,” he growled.

  Callie stopped just short of making a scene. She allowed Jackson to pull her away from the campfire and out into the shadows. Despite her protesting struggles and balking steps, however, he kept right on walking, hauling her along with him toward the house. Several moments later, he ushered her back inside and slammed the door behind them to close out the rest of the world.

  She whirled to face him, at last jerking free from his hold. “How dare you embarrass me like that, you…you bastard.”

  “Listen to me carefully.” He towered over her by half a foot, glaring into her eyes. “I’ve a militia to organize. And the safety of each man, as well as their trust in me as their leader, allows no room for your coquetting.”

  “I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.” She leaned toward him on tiptoes, coming so close to him their noses nearly touched. “You reek of vulgarity.”

  “That’s clearly a pot calling the kettle black.”

  “You cannot control me.” Her arms interlocked across her chest as she issued a wafer-thin smile. “I’ll speak to whomever I choose, whenever I choose.”

  “Then it’s obvious you know nothing about men.”

  Consternation carved a crease between her brows. “I know all I need to know.”

  Jackson shifted, blocking the firelight filtering through the window. “If you did, then you’d know women do not visit men in camp at night with their hair unbound like this.” He lifted a curl from her shoulder. “Unless they’re selling. And while you are indeed many things, you are not a whore, as you so clearly stated once before. So I’ll not allow you to act like one.”

  Her mouth dropped open, then closed in a tight-lipped seam. The clock in the nearby room cleaved the silence that followed with unbearably slow ticks. When Callie had brushed her hair in preparation for bed, the idea to enter Jackson’s camp in a justified show of bravado seemed so perfect. She’d show him no man could restrain her. She’d stroll into camp, the same camp that was on her property and even allowed to be there by her unvoiced permission. How in God’s name had things backfired so quickly? Her fist curled at her side, then rose toward him in an overwhelming need to strike out at…something.

  Jackson deflected the blow. “Not this time,” he stated flatly, his dark eyes glaring through tiny slits as he held her fist in a vise-like grip. His other arm swept around her waist with the vengeance of a storm, slamming her body against his with all the force of a wave crashing upon a granite shoreline. “I was caught off guard once by your damn temper. It’s not likely to happen twice. You can carve that guarantee in stone.”

  Callie struggled to shove from his embrace, but he held firm.

  “Or what? You’ll kiss me again?” she huffed above the muted strumming of a guitar coming from beyond the closed door. “Suffice to say, I’ve already had a sampling, and I’m not one bit interested in a repeat.” The turmoil in her stomach had little to do with her escalating rage and everything to do with the delicious taste of the man.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth as his jaw clenched, revealing she’d hit a nerve. Callie flexed her free hand, bunching the fabric of his shirt beneath her fingers. Soft material contrasted sharply with hard-muscled perfection under the layers of dark cotton.

  Jackson’s lips drew sideways and forced her focus back to his eyes. “That’s the frightened child inside you talking, for you’ve yet to be truly kissed by me.”

  He released her fist, and then tunneled his hand into her hair. Long fingers slid through the strands until only one wispy curl remained between his thumb and forefinger. When the ringlet met his bottom lip, something flickered in his eyes.

  Her trembling lips parted, but panic stole her breath as the curl feathered from his hand back to her shoulder.

  Jackson released her. “Don’t enter my camp again with your hair unbound unless I’ve invited you into my bed.”

  “You are the last man on earth I’d crawl into bed with,” she hissed as he turned away. When the door opened, a tangerine glow outlined his profile, carving out sharp angles and a chiseled jaw. The scent of burning mesquite swirled in to join with her animosity.

  Jackson swept through the opening and slammed the heavy pine behind him. As he crossed the planked wood on the front porch, the boards creaked beneath his weight.

  Callie stared at the doorknob as something dark and dangerous heaved inside. Before she could stop herself, she flung open the door and dashed after Jackson.

  “Come back here, you sonofabitch,” she shouted toward his broad back as he strode across the clearing toward the encampment.

  Jackson spun to face her.

  Firelight outlined the incredible span of his shoulders as he stalked back. He stopped directly in front of her, and she faltered back a step, her head pounding with such intense rage she was nearly blinded.

  With a squinting glare, Jackson pinned her in place. “Lower your voice and get back inside.”

  “First thing tomorrow,” she hissed, trying to hide her escalating anxiety behind short, stabbing gasps of air, “I’m…ridin’ into town to secure a lawyer. I’ll get this partnership dissolved if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Jackson loomed so close she felt the heat emanating from his body. “Dammit, I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

  The blunt declaration severed her last thread of strength. She wanted him gone…yet, she longed to believe him. In a nauseous rush, horror stung her throat. His face blurred before her eyes. Dear God. No. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to stop the tears, but they slipped out anyway, cascading over her cheeks. She struggled to swallow, struggled to stop her lower lip from trembling, struggled even to draw her next breath. The mortifying signs of weakness fell faster than she could sweep them away, all of them so unfair, all of them uncloaking everything she had worked for years to deny. Grief finally broke the surface, her breath a shredded series of pants now.

  “You miserable liar.” The raspy words flowed outward from some agonizing place inside her soul. “You’ll leave me too. You’ll see. Sooner or later…just like everybody else.”

  The fury in Jackson’s eyes dissolved into something new…and Callie saw it smoldering in that fraction
of a second between him not understanding her anger and a total comprehension of her fear.

  Her hand clamped across her mouth to hold back the grief-stricken sobs. She shuffled sideways, then swiveled on her heel, bolting past him and heading straight for the stable. She wouldn’t wait for tomorrow to ride into town.

  Not now, not after what she’d just revealed. Run, Callie, run.

  But as fast as she flew across the clearing, she couldn’t quite escape the crunching sounds of Jackson’s rapid footfalls behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  A galloping horse stopped Jackson in his tracks just as Callie slammed the stable door behind her. He looked toward camp, where a lone rider dismounted beside Dillon.

  Long strides took Jackson to them.

  “There’s been another massacre outside Patagonia this afternoon,” Dillon said as Jackson came to a stop. “A small ranch. Four killed.”

  “How many in the raiding party?”

  “About a dozen, and the same group of Apache.”

  The volunteers gathered closer as the news spread through camp.

  Jackson glanced toward the stable just as Gus stepped out and headed in his direction. The concern etched across the old man’s face meant Callie had already crossed his path. As much as Jackson needed to talk to her, he didn’t have time to deal with her temper tantrum right now.

  His gaze shifted back to Dillon. “Send someone to Camp Lowell with the news, then muster the men. We’re riding out in five minutes, but first I’m going to bring Gus up to date on a few things.”

  Three hours later, the inability to sleep suffocated Callie. She kicked back the sheet, left the bed and crossed to the open window, her footfalls slapping against the tiles.

  Her fingers wrapped the windowsill and she leaned forward. Beyond the veranda, the moon struggled to hold on to night, spilling a hazy, silver-hued wash across the now-empty militia camp.