by Cindy Nord
Callie’s mind raced as a coyote’s desperate, faraway cries nipped at her. She had agreed to stay at the ranch tonight instead of riding into Tucson only because Gus begged her not to leave.
Her hands plunged through her unbound hair and jagged fingernails dug into her scalp. The earlier encounter with Jackson still chased through her mind, the ache left behind in the aftermath raw and disturbing. Gasps rattled deep in her throat as she struggled to deny freedom to the torment Jackson somehow had summoned back to life.
You’ve yet to be truly kissed.
His words rolled through her like the thunder did in the approaching storm hugging the horizon’s edge. The size of him. The mere presence of him in her life. The entire personification of disorder he’d wrought inside her world. Everything was unraveling at a rapid rate inside Callie’s mind.
“I don’t want you here,” she shouted to the thickening black clouds. “Do you hear me, Jackson? I don’t want you.” Rushing puffs of air fell from her mouth and lifted the wispy strands of hair brushing her face. Like some living, breathing creature, fear surged down her body and into her legs.
I…can’t…care.
She dropped to her knees as a wracking sob broke apart her lips, but the sound whisked away on the pre-dawn, rain-slicked wind.
Rust-colored buttes surrounded the smoldering ruins of the hacienda below as Jackson swept his field glasses to the right. Smoke coiled upward from charred remains, the intricate pattern stark against the turquoise sky. Pulsing anger climbed from his gut as he studied the carnage and death left in the wake of the attack. He’d seen just such grisly sights across a hundred different battlefields back east. Beside him, astride a black-and-white paint, Dillon waited in silence.
“Mr. Reed?” Jackson asked, his tone flat with impatience. “Folks keep reminding me you’re the best damn scout in the territory.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Well, I’m in desperate need of knowing which way these sonsofbitches went.” Jackson lowered the field glasses and locked his gaze on Dillon. “And I need the information soon.”
“I’ll find ’em.”
“Take the Second Squad and when you locate a solid trail, send someone back for us.” Jackson slid his field glasses into the black leather case hanging from his saddle.
This time, his enemy didn’t wear Confederate gray. There were no battle lines, no flags flapping above the advancing rebs. His adversary today was an unseen foe shifting soundlessly over the land. Behind him, a Papago Indian spoke soft, garbled words to Dillon, pointing west toward a gathering of black clouds just above the early morning horizon.
Dillon replied and nodded, then directed his words back to Jackson. “Let’s hope they didn’t head in that direction. Apache are damn good at hiding their tracks, but rain’ll wipe out what little they’ve left me to follow.”
“Do what you can,” Jackson said. “In the meantime, the rest of us will muster down here and start burials.”
The scout nodded and reined his paint around, then headed back toward the militia. Several minutes later, he and a dozen other riders galloped down the slope and out of view.
Jackson spotted the Apache as soon as he crested the hill. Ten Indians, their blue-and-cerulean-streaked bodies visible even from across the valley, drove a herd of three dozen cattle and horses southward.
“See where the creek spreads out beyond those rocks?” Jackson pointed to the right and Dillon nodded. In the distance, red boulders shimmered through swirling dust kicked up by a strong, prevailing wind. “I want to engage them right there, before they have time to cross. We haven’t been spotted yet, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Good plan. They’re heading the stolen herd for water anyway.”
“Once we contain them, they’ll be trapped in this valley.” Salvaje shifted sideways, and Jackson drew the reins tight. “Take a squad and circle around them. I want you on their right flank while I bring the rest of the men up from behind. You may start the engagement whenever you’re in position.” Thunder rolled overhead and lifted Jackson’s gaze. They had stayed ahead of the storm all afternoon, but the roiling black clouds finally caught up with them. A few heavy raindrops pelted the brim of Jackson’s hat. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
Twenty minutes later, the first rifle fire echoed across the valley and an Apache tumbled from his horse.
Another shot, and a second Indian fell.
Then, the clouds released their ravaging storm. Around deafening rolls of thunder, shots resounded off the canyon walls. Cattle and horses scattered into a frenzied scramble as the skirmish intensified.
Soaked to the skin, Jackson shouted above another crack of thunder. “Third Squad, move to the left and hold that area. Don’t let anything past.” He dug his spurs into Salvaje’s flanks and the powerful stallion plunged forward, kicking up water and sand with each strong stride. Behind Jackson, the column of men split. One group followed his orders as the second followed him. On his left, a rider cried in pain, then slumped from the saddle. Under a hail of Indian bullets, half a dozen men panicked and reined their mounts away from the main line toward cover.
Jackson sighted his Colt and pulled the trigger. Another Indian fell, but Mother Nature and his inexperienced militia had more to say about the outcome of this day than he did. The storm ensnared everyone inside a torrential fury. Jackson’s frustration grew as he watched an easy victory wash away before him. Horses surged past in a wild stampede as more and more militiamen panicked and ran.
“Hold steady, men,” he roared. “Take aim before shooting.” However, though well delivered to his men, his words no longer held weight. Fear now scattered the volunteers.
Several minutes later, above the gusting wind, Jackson heard the scout’s voice. “The Apache have escaped across the creek.” Dillon reined in beside him. “I tried to follow, but the water’s too high and fast to cross now. It’ll take hours to recede and by then the bastards will be long gone.”
“We should’ve had them,” Jackson growled.
“I agree, but my men broke rank and ran for cover behind the rocks as soon as I started firing.”
Jackson sighed. “Mine too. Rain and panic never make for good soldiers, especially with an untried army.” He turned back to the chaotic battlefield. Horses and cattle darted between frantic militiamen. “We’ll do better next time.” As the rain fell, Jackson scanned the area for dead volunteers, but saw none. Despite the mayhem of the past few minutes, relief filled him. “Looks like we’ve only got minor wounds.”
“And don’t forget, we took out several Indians and recaptured their spoils of war.”
Jackson urged Salvaje forward, hollering over his shoulder above another roll of thunder. “Let’s gather up the wounded. Give the task of herding the stock to the fort to all those who broke rank.”
By dusk the rain had ended and a soggy militia rode northward in two long columns, heading back to Dos Caballos. Horse hooves mashed against soggy ground and the sound sluiced against Jackson’s building dilemma. The militia would never become a coherent fighting force without more training. He flicked the stub of his cheroot into a nearby puddle.
“You know, I rode out here thinking I was finished with all this bullshit.”
“What do you mean?” Riding beside him, Dillon led the second column of volunteers.
“With war. And command. I’ve had a bellyful of these things already. When I came west, my plan was simply to seduce pretty señoritas, smoke cigars and raise a few horses.”
“Well, that’s a nice idea…for someone else.”
The scout’s irksome words underscored Jackson’s vexations. He resettled his hat over long, sodden hair. “I’m finding out you can’t run from a damn thing. That millstone called responsibility always finds you, and it’ll roll straight over your ass when you’re not watching.”
“You
just saw how these people need you, right? You’re good at organizing and command, Jackson. You can’t outrun those facts.”
“I’d damn well like to keep trying.”
“Bullshit. I ain’t known you long, pal, but even I know you’re not cut from a coward’s cloth. ’Sides, there’s no law that says you can’t raise some pretty señorita’s skirt while you’re being responsible, is there? Hell, even I find time to wrap a woman around me every now and then.” He laughed, then reached for his canteen and took a swig of water.
Jackson offered a clipped laugh. “Perhaps, you’re right, my friend. But I’ve still got a hell of a lot of decisions to make between here and Dos Caballos.”
Callie knew the exact moment Jackson entered the house. She lowered herself to the bed and waited, nausea swelling inside her like some torturous fire from hell. For a full day, she had paced the house waiting for this man’s return, but as soon as he headed for the back door, she ran to her room like a frightened child.
Would he dare to confront her so soon after arriving?
An hour before, she’d watched from the window of the front room as the waterlogged militia rode back into the stable yard, watched them break apart camp, watched as Jackson dismissed the weary volunteers to return to their own families earlier than he’d planned.
Her spine stiffened as the thud of his boot heels registered in the hallway. Callie’s breath caught, her fingers digging into the blue-and-white counterpane when he came to a stop before her closed door. Her gaze cut to the wood the exact moment her bare toes dug into the looped rug beneath her feet.
Did the knob turn?
Callie’s eyes burned, yet she didn’t dare blink.
Unfathomable yearning spilled through her veins and she bit her lower lip to stop the trembling…and again tasted Jackson. Tears pricked the back of her eyes. She’d spent the past five years facing danger head-on and riding roughshod over anyone or anything that stood in her way, but now her courage unraveled like a battered rope. She quivered like some frightened doe facing an intimidating wolf.
Her hands rose to her chest, fingers splaying wide. She pressed inward. What if Jackson heard her frenzied heartbeat? Would he kick open the door and provoke her again?
Do I want him to?
Yes… No!
The maddened scramble for answers ended when a heavy sigh came from the other side of the door. A heartbeat later, the sound of his footfalls continued down the hallway.
Callie’s whole body jerked when Jackson slammed his bedroom door. A long sob snaked out from her lungs as she fell backward across the coverlet, staring at the linen-covered ceiling. Tears pushed steadily upward.
Jackson pulled the chair out from under the desk and slumped onto the sturdy pine. His breath unfurled from his chest like the passing clouds and draped a deep moan into the room. Saddle-weary from head to toe, he rolled his shoulders and tried to work out the ache. Lamplight spilled over him in rippling waves, yet the heaviness inside his heart refused to budge.
An overwhelming urge to see the colonel’s daughter undulated through Jackson. He would do everything he could to escalate the process of breaking the mares and getting them ready for their move to Camp Lowell.
His pride had nipped at him all the way home this evening, and after the scalding encounter with Callie the night before, the eastern beauty was exactly what Jackson needed to regulate his mood. Besides, Miss Pamela Talmadge smelled of rosewater and unadulterated woman, not the nerve-wracking vulgarity and horse sweat Callie stacked around herself like some damned rampart.
Jackson wanted sweet and docile for a change. Something he could control. He leaned sideways and jerked a clean sheet of paper off a desk shelf, then slid the inkwell in front of him, removing the crystal stopper. The weight rolled heavy in the palm of his hand. He stared at the piece for a moment before laying the decanter top aside. Drained, and unwilling to think beyond this moment, he straightened his shoulders, then reached for a pen. The carved ivory implement rolled between his thumb and forefinger. This had belonged to Reece and reflected his friend’s good taste. Refined. Orderly.
So unlike your sister.
The truth was a quick-moving shadow across his heart. His sigh became a drawn-out moan as he raised his head and stared at the ceiling. He wished he could talk things over with Reece. But times were different now, and his friend was on the other side of the country…and far enough away from receiving Jackson’s hard-driven fist in his gut for even introducing him to such misery.
Relief warred with churning disappointment as Jackson lowered his chin.
The situation loomed much larger than just he and Callie, regardless of how much he tried to deny it. The citizens of the area needed protection, the young scout was right about that…and he was good at what he did.
Jackson dipped the pen into the ink and swirled the indigo liquid several times. Would time away from Callie help their situation? Probably not. No two people on earth were more opposite on every level that mattered. She was a damn hellcat who required daily mouth scrubbings. And he? The left side of Jackson’s mouth sunk into a halfhearted smirk. Well, he was a tired old soldier who knew nothing about running a horse ranch. Considering the circumstances, there was no other recourse at the moment. Before Jackson could change his mind, he leaned forward, put pen to paper and began to write.
Governor Goodwin,
I have enclosed a full report of a recent skirmish near Patagonia between the hostiles and my local militia. The Apache are indeed much more determined than I ever expected. After personally witnessing the horror inflicted upon our citizens, I now realize the safety of the many far outweigh any selfish desire that I, as an individual, may possess. After much consideration, I believe your plan to form a territorial militia is vital. Should Washington approve your proposal, I volunteer my services as commander of this force. Dos Caballos’ doors are open wide for you anytime you are in the area, or I will come to the territorial capitol if you would like to discuss this matter in further detail. On a final note, I also suggest that you consider the territorial militia be organized and trained at Camp Lowell in Tucson, rather than Fort Whipple near Prescott as this will put them much closer to the raiding Apache.
Until I hear from you again, I await your direction and remain your obedient servant,
—Jackson Neale
Chapter Thirteen
Dos Caballos
Three weeks later
Callie stopped just short of putting her foot in the stirrup when Gus entered the stable.
“Hold up, gal,” he said. “Have you talked with Jackson this mornin’?”
“No.” Her foot lowered to the hard-packed earth. “Haven’t seen him in a couple of days. He’s been spending his time out at the Angel with the vaqueros. Why?”
The wrangler headed across the stable to the closest stall, then lifted a gloved hand to scratch behind the ear of an eager Appaloosa. “He’s making plans to drive the mares to Camp Lowell.”
Callie’s jaw dropped open. “What?”
“Yep. He’s actually been in Tucson for a couple of days. Just got back last night and told me to get things ready. He’s going to move the herd out tomorrow.”
Her mouth went dry. “He can’t do that without consulting me first.” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Last I looked he wasn’t the damn king around here. Nothing happens without my approval, Gus, you know that. Everyone knows that.” She glared at the wrangler as he shuffled toward a nearby pitchfork.
“He said he was hopin’ to talk with you about this at breakfast today.” Gus buried the tines into a mound of hay piled high in the corner. Chaff danced in a shaft of sunlight that streamed through the window as sharp, grassy aroma swirled around Callie.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Well, I wasn’t at breakfast ’cause I was busy.”
“Doin’ what?” His patronizing chuckl
e floated toward her, causing her face to flush hot.
“None of your damned business, that’s what.”
Gus lifted the hay-filled pitchfork over the side of a wagon and dropped the load into the bed. “I’m thinkin’ your busy-ness has a heap more to do with steerin’ clear of Neale than anything else.”
Callie stretched the reins taut in her hands as she rasped, “What the hell’s that suppose to mean?”
Gus kept on shoveling. “Like right now. You know the herd is long past ready to sell, yet here you are getting all riled up again ’cause Jackson made a smart decision.” He turned and buried the tines into the hay again.
Callie stared at the man’s back. Faded blue cotton pulled taut across sweat-stained, sloping shoulders. The only thing missing was the word traitor stamped in black ink across the material. Her anger thinned as a lump climbed her throat. Her hands clenched around the reins as she snorted, “Fine, we’ll take ’em over then. Just because he’s deciding doesn’t mean a damn thing anyway.” She shoved her foot into the stirrup and pulled up. A split-second later, Callie plopped in the saddle, then regretted taking out her frustrations on poor Diego. But, she needed to put distance between Gus’s knowing chuckle and her own asinine desire to spill the conflicted feelings she had about Jackson with him.
Without another word, she nudged Diego’s flank and swept past the wide-open double doors.
Thirty minutes later, Callie arrived at the corrals along Angel Creek, spotting Jackson’s horse seconds before seeing the man standing with her vaqueros. Taller than the others, Jackson cut a daunting figure, but his boldness in taking matters into his own hands still grated across raw and frazzled nerves.
Worse…now she’d have to talk to him.
Several vaqueros waved, forcing Callie to nod back. After dismounting, she headed straight to the supply wagon. Her fingers wrapped the handle of a battered tin pot as she sloshed coffee into a nearby cup. She raised the mug to her lips and sipped. The acrid brew bit her tongue and she propped a foot atop one of the rocks that ringed the campfire.