With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Jackson bee-lined toward her and a moment later, his shadow fell across her face.

  “Morning, Callie.” His straight-forward demeanor clashed with her erratic heartbeat. “Waited for you at breakfast, but you never showed.”

  “I was busy.” She continued to stare across the clearing at the horses.

  “I rode into Tucson the other day and made arrangements to move the herd to Camp Lowell tomorrow.”

  She issued a harsh laugh. “So I heard.”

  “Once the horses are delivered, Colonel Talmadge will transfer payment into our account at the bank.”

  “Well perfect,” she rasped, her words an ominous whisper. “Looks like you’ve just taken care of everything.” Pressing the hot tin against her lips, she took another quick sip. “We’ve got nothing left to say.”

  Jackson issued an indignant huff, then shuffled the stones beneath his boots. “This bickering gets us nowhere, and you know it.” His arms crossed his chest. “And I can think of several things still left to discuss.”

  “Not with me, that’s quite obvious.” Her entire body stretched taut as she glared up at him. She brought the mug to her lips and took a full swallow. The liquid slammed against the back of her throat in a scalding rush, yet she refused to grimace.

  A deep furrow creased Jackson’s forehead as his eyes glittered back, their dark depths taunting her beneath a miasma of emotions. His nostrils flared. “Good God, must you always be so contrary?”

  His breath wafted across her heated face. “Look, I’m done talkin’ with you.”

  “I’ll tell you the problem here, and it’s got nothing to do with moving the stock to Tucson and everything to do with your damn attitude.”

  “My attitude?” Her eyes narrowed under the rebuking tone of his voice. “Ever since you arrived here, you’ve schemed to work things your way. First with my household staff and my finances, then with the way I break horses, and now with my hired hands and my decision-making.” Exhaustion enveloped her.

  Jackson stepped closer, crowding in on her unbalanced resentment. His dark eyes glinted coldly. “Every day we wait to sell this herd costs us money in supplies, food for the horses and wages for the men. Now if you think otherwise, enlighten me.”

  He was right…he was always right and the thought rankled. She compensated the irritation by tossing the coffee to the ground near his boots. “I’m not an idiot or a child and I don’t want you to treat me as such.” The tin cup followed with a clatter upon the stones.

  A tight smile flattened Jackson’s lips. “I’d like to treat you like a valued partner, if you’d let me.”

  Her head whipped up and she stared at him, his statement a screeching fingernail across her anger. Her gaze cut back to the Angel. Clear water tumbled over small stones, reflecting sunlight back at her.

  A powerful awareness breathed to life inside Callie. The familiar aromas of burning wood and horses and boiling coffee teased her. Yet above all these, Jackson’s scent, his cool briskness and seductive spice, slammed against her steaming unease.

  She inhaled, and drew his unique scent deeper into her lungs.

  Jackson’s silence forced her gaze back to his face. She scanned his features, pausing on his mouth. The mustache rode above his lips, full and neat. Her mouth parted as her bottom lip pulled inward, inexplicably bringing the taste of him to her tongue once more.

  The left side of his mouth lifted into a knowing smile, which just as quickly disappeared when the crunch of footsteps registered.

  A small-framed Mexican stepped beside them, and Callie angled her gaze back to the creek. When Jackson turned to face the vaquero, she resettled her attention back to her partner.

  “We separated yearlings from mares as you request, Señor Neale.”

  “Good job, Ramero. Make sure the horses we’re keeping get branded while we’re gone?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “And one more thing, Gus’ll be out later this afternoon with a wagonload of hay. See that the herd gets a double helping before we head out tomorrow.”

  The vaquero nodded, then turned and walked back to the corrals. That he would defer to Jackson instead of her forced Callie to tighten her lips again. For a moment, however, she could not help but recognize Jackson’s leadership qualities. These vaqueros trusted him… Again, she found herself fighting an overwhelming desire to relax and express her gratitude for the way he eased her everyday burdens. Callie shifted her gaze sideways when Jackson turned back to her.

  He picked up where he’d left off. “And that arrogance you keep strapping on like a gun has lost a bit of its bite since I’ve seen your vulnerable side…so here’s my advice, whether you want it or not.” He stepped closer and brought his crisp, clean fragrance closer still. “Let’s move past what happened that night three weeks ago. We’ve got a job to do. During the drive to Camp Lowell, I don’t want these men to see us at odds.”

  She scrambled to control her wobbling emotions. “What they see is irrelevant to me.”

  Jackson’s brows drew together, dark wings over equally dark eyes. “Well it’s relevant to me, hellion, and that’s all that matters now.” A storm cloud of confusion rolled in but could not sweep away her ever-increasing and mystifying wonderment of this man.

  Their gazes held for several more seconds, until he abruptly turned and crossed the clearing to his horse. Shoving his boot into the stirrup, he mounted, then settled into the saddle. A moment later, he and the magnificent Salvaje disappeared from view.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Callie rode point position on the herd, leading them ever northward. Thirty-five miles of unforgiving desert lay between her and Camp Lowell. Dry this time of year, the Tanque Verde corridor served as the natural passageway to Tucson. Scoured from stone by centuries of swirling waters, the dusty creek bed ran for miles. Sun-bleached boulders littered the ground around clumps of brittlebush and cactus. On both sides of the natural ravine, spiny wands of ocotillo plant hugged the banks and arched over blood-red stands of mesquite. High atop the ridgeline, multi-armed saguaros stood like sentinels, ready to inflict their spines on anyone foolish enough to stumble into their embrace.

  Callie glanced up at the rocky crest where a pair of coyotes moved alongside her at a steady pace. The cunning little hunters probably would shadow them for miles in hopes the caravan might scare a jackrabbit or two out of hiding. Callie admired the tenacity of the grayish-brown pair whose sole focus in life centered on their ongoing struggle to survive.

  Just like me.

  Her gaze dropped. In the far distance, she could just make out the canvas-topped supply wagon lumbering at a steady pace along the old trail. In charge of the two-Percherons team pulling the vehicle, Gus knew every inch of this Tanque Verde corridor along the foothills of the mountain, and he’d always blazed the way. By the time they arrived at the midway point near the colossal cave high in the sandstone, he’d have the camp set up and dinner ready. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of the delicious stew Gus would prepare tonight. She clapped a hand across her belly, and lifted her gaze to the hard flatness of the afternoon sky.

  So blue. So unbelievably beautiful. How could constant danger lurk around such a magnificent day? Diego snorted, stepping sideways, and Callie dropped her gaze in time to encounter a gray streak darting from behind a large boulder. Several horses behind her also nickered at the sudden movement.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, little fella,” she said as the javelina announced his displeasure with a sharp squeal. The animal darted up the rocky slope, small stones and sand tumbling behind him. Giving a final grunt, the pig-like peccary vanished into a tangle of mesquite to continue foraging for food. “Prickly pear is your favorite,” she hollered, a smile lingering on her lips. For years, only the wild creatures of the desert had heard her woes. She knew them and their habits well.

  Callie turned in the s
addle and looked behind her at the herd. They moved in hypnotic symphony, heavy dust roiling over brown, black, white and chestnut in a vacillating display of shadows. Hooves struck rocky ground in rhythmic strides while reassuring words from the drovers kept the beasts calm.

  Warmth filled Callie’s soul as a recollection of riding beside her brother on her first drive returned, their conversation years ago rolling into recall.

  “They’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

  “And damn temperamental,” Reece snapped. “Anything can cause a stampede. You should’ve stayed home like Father insisted.”

  Callie fired him a petulant glower. “Pa wants me to learn to cook and be a lady, but I want to be like you.”

  “Little girls shouldn’t straddle a horse.”

  “I’m not little. I’m nearly ten.”

  “Ten or not, you should learn how to take care of men folk, not sweat alongside them.”

  “But y’all have more fun.”

  Her gaze locked with his, and a smile finally creased his face. She knew he couldn’t stay mad long. A wink from his dark brown eyes followed. “Yep, that we do.” He chuckled. “I suppose it’s all right for you to come along. Just listen and learn.”

  “I’ll do everything you say.”

  “I’m holding you to that promise. We’ve got a couple more miles before we reach the switchback. There’s a natural spring below the cave in the rock that’ll provide us water.” Her brother glanced at the herd behind them. “We’ve been at this all morning and by the look of ’em, they’re in bad need of a drink.”

  Callie pushed back the oversized Stetson and pointed westward. “Well, why don’t we just light out that way? Seems a lot quicker to me.”

  “Quicker? Yes. But safer? No. This is the only route with a mid-point of water year round. We’ll always come this way.”

  Callie’s thoughts returned to the present as she uncorked her canteen and took a long swig. Metallic-tasting and warm, the water slid down her throat to quench her thirst. The lessons she’d learned under Reece’s tutelage guided her onward now.

  Water waited for them at Maricopa Wells, and that was exactly where she headed the herd today, just as Reece had instructed those many years ago. With dozens of trail drives under her belt since then, she never again questioned her brother’s wisdom.

  Until Jackson Neale arrived.

  She turned and scanned past the slow-moving animals and vaqueros. Her gaze settled on the lone rider at the rear of the herd.

  Her brother’s replacement.

  Visible even from this distance, Jackson moved the powerful Salvaje in an ever-steady arch. Responsible for the stragglers, he stayed in constant motion to keep the herd together. And just like her brother, this man too displayed a strong confidence and a natural-born leader’s ability. Rugged, reddish-brown chaps covered his denims, and a pale blue shirt protected his upper body from the harsh sun. Pulled low over his eyes, a slouch hat threw his face into shadows, the lower half-hidden behind a faded bandana to keep out the dust.

  Callie squinted, trying to see the expression in his eyes, but he was too far away. Her partner now rode at the extreme edge of civilization—this Tanque Verde corridor a far cry from those rolling pasturelands back east.

  She shook her head in amazement. Somehow, the man had endured the desert elements without complaint, and having him share this drive with her forced Callie to see him in a new light. Before she could corral the sensation, a frisson of excitement shot through her.

  Exasperation tightened her lips.

  Sonofabitch, here I go admiring him again.

  Yet, three hours later, Callie shoved a steaming bowl of stew against the flat plane of his belly. “Eat this,” she ordered.

  Startled by her sudden appearance, Jackson stepped back and dropped Salvaje’s saddle beside the others on the ground.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching for the bowl.

  “You’ve got to keep up your strength,” she said, shuffling backward several steps. “Won’t do to have you falling off your horse back there.” She turned and headed toward the supply wagon as Jackson shouted at her retreating form.

  “You picking me up if I do?” A dismissive wave was all he got as she kept walking. He chuckled, joining the other drovers already eating.

  “Everyone did a great job today,” he said around a mouthful of cooked carrots. “Don’t believe we lost a single head.”

  The vaqueros nodded, some scraping their bowls, others acknowledging the compliment as they lounged against saddlebags. These men had elected to take second shift in guarding the herd, so they had settled in for a much-needed rest.

  Jackson finished his serving, then said, “That was just a starter. I’m going for seconds.” He headed toward an iron pot suspended from a tripod over the fire. Dropping onto a campstool beside Callie, he watched her shove a piece of cornbread into her mouth.

  “Mighty tasty,” he proclaimed, smacking his lips. Leaning over, he scooped another generous helping of stew into his bowl, then shot her a grin. “Don’t mind if I do.” Settling into a more comfortable position to eat, Jackson glanced toward the supply wagon. The backend of the conveyance lay open into a makeshift table suspended by iron chains. “You know, Gus,” he announced as he lifted another tasty spoonful. “If you sold this grub, you could make one hell of a small fortune.”

  The wrangler laughed as he reached for a Dutch oven. “Glad you like it. I’ve spent years on the trail perfectin’ it.” He picked up a knife with one hand. With the other, he reached into a blue ceramic bowl. A split-second later, a shiny red apple appeared and he tossed it into the air several times, before slicing the fruit into the pot.

  “What’re you working on there?” Jackson shoved another spoonful into his mouth at the same time Gus dropped a handful of flour on top of the fruit.

  “Cobbler,” he said as a glob of butter followed. “Figured y’all might want something sweet to end your day.”

  Jackson’s gaze slid to Callie. “Yum, that’ll be tasty.”

  She nodded, crumpling the last bit of cornbread into her stew.

  Jackson finished eating, placed his bowl and spoon on the ground, and then scanned the nearby vaqueros. Their muted conversations flowed around him. With a full belly now, he relaxed. A satisfied sense of belonging filled his soul. Unlike Callie, he didn’t like being alone, and here was all the companionship of his war years—without any of the killing. He felt damn good tonight and had done the work to earn it.

  Soft whickering from the dry creek bed carried to his ears. This was exactly what he needed, this kind of life. He enjoyed the outdoors. Always had. If only he could reclaim those banking years he’d wasted. A final argument with his father, and the bloody division of the country, had pointed him in a different direction. And now, thanks to Reece Cutteridge, he had a little piece of heaven to call his own.

  His gaze slid to Callie.

  Well…almost his own.

  Over her right shoulder, the ragged edge of daylight squeezed right up against the onslaught of night. Jackson settled his attention on the impressive spread of color. No sunset back east could rival the fusion of purple, orange and red flooding the sky tonight. The scraping sound of Callie’s spoon against metal pulled his thoughts back.

  “Nice time of evening, isn’t it?”

  She glanced at the setting sun and then back to her now-empty bowl. “Yep.”

  Jackson grabbed a tin cup and poured himself some coffee from a battered pot sitting next to the fire. Leaning back, he took a full swallow, enjoying the rich flavor that coursed down his throat. “I figure we’ll get to Camp Lowell sometime late afternoon. That sound about right to you?”

  Her dish dropped to the ground, the spoon rattling inside the bowl.

  “Most likely,” she said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Leaning sideways, she retrieved he
r coffee cup from the ground. Before the tin met her lips she said, “Nobody likes riding drag on the herd, Jackson, but you kept ’em together, nice and tight. Good job.”

  Her unexpected praise startled him, and a shadow of a smile skirted her lips.

  “What?” He chuckled. “Did I just hear a compliment?”

  This time she laughed aloud. “Don’t push it.” She took another sip of coffee, and for several minutes they sat in companionable silence watching Gus. Firelight flickered against the sides of the wagon’s canvas top, highlighting years of wear and tear. Gus pulled the Dutch oven off the back of the wagon and headed toward the campfire.

  Squatting down opposite them, he nestled the heavy iron cauldron into the smoldering coals. Embers popped and sent sparks heavenward. Using a small hand shovel, Gus scooped additional coals onto the pot’s wide lid, smoothing all the way to the raised edge. He lifted his head and smiled at his attentive audience. “Now that’ll need thirty minutes or so to bake. Too bad we ain’t got some of that ice cream they serve back east.”

  “Last time I had some was in ’62,” Jackson added. “We were stationed near Washington, and I’d accompanied Reece to a fancy dinner party honoring the president.” He smacked his lips, tipping his head. “Umm boy, best tasting thing I ever put in my mouth.”

  “Years ago,” Callie said, “I remember going with my folks somewhere over near the Rio Grande. We made snow ice cream along the way.” She paused and looked at Gus. “Where’d we go? I forgot.”

  The old man separated out more coals from the fire with a metal rod, then placed a pot of clean water on the embers.

  “Y’all went to several forts over there.” He glanced at Jackson. “Andrew was visiting the New Mexico forts to sell ’em horses. At the time, Lowell wasn’t much more than a presidio—”

  “That’s right,” Callie interjected, excitement filling her voice. “Fort Filmore, I remember now.”

  Jackson’s gaze cut to hers. Sapphire eyes sparkled in the glow of the campfire as a wide grin covered her face. “On the way we went through one particular mountain pass, and I’ll never forget the snowdrifts. Knee-deep in some places. Papa made us snow ice cream that very afternoon. ’Member me telling you about that when we got back home, Gus?” She leaned forward and poked the man’s shoulder while he shifted pots into better position on the fire.