With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Sold.

  Regardless how she felt about this man, he excelled at the taking charge part of their partnership. The tendril of pride once more shimmied through her. She swallowed an impulsive grin. Jackson had played a colossal role to ensure their profits. Happiness eddied alongside Callie’s discomfort.

  Payday again.

  Now Gus could buy his new wagon, and she could get the building supplies Father Miguel needed to add an extension onto the orphanage. And even after the vaqueros were paid, she’d still have plenty of money to buy a new saddle.

  Jackson’s laughter reached her ears and she narrowed her gaze. Oh yes…he’d also be getting half—this man who’d ridden drag all the way here. The same one whose kiss had forced her to feel things she’d been trying like hell to forget ever since…the very same man who promised to make her snow ice cream come winter.

  A tingle sputtered through her and her smile widened. From the corner of her eye, Callie watched Gus step from the livery and walk toward her, a wad of bills clutched in his hand.

  She pointed to the greenbacks. “Looks like you’ve made quite a killin’ on the sale of your horseshoes.”

  “Yep.” He waved the money in front of her like a fan. “I offered to share this with Jackson since he helped me make ’em up, but he declined and told me to just buy him a couple of them fancy cigars, instead.”

  Ah, yes…Jackson, again.

  “I’m headin’ over to the sutler now.” He shoved the bills into his pocket. “Wanna come along?”

  “Nope…I’m waitin’ on Jackson. He’s wrapping up details with the colonel.”

  Gus nodded. “Well, I’m glad he said we’d stick around here a few more days. I’ve got money to spend now, and I promised I’d pick up a few things for Pilar too.” He resettled his battered hat. “Well, suga’pie, guess I’ll be seein’ you at supper, then.” His laugh trailed off as he headed toward the closest merchant.

  Her gaze swept the area and stopped on a brand new, two-story wooden building…no adobe for this newest addition to the military post. Painted white, the structure served as both headquarters and hospital. A fine row of cottonwoods shaded the wide, dusty lane out front, and to the left of the trees, huge clumps of prickly pears clustered beside the parade ground.

  A flagpole stood smack dab in the center of the field. Several years ago, her brother helped bring the sixty-foot Ponderosa Pine mast in by mule-team from the Mogollon Rim country up north. At the top, a United States flag fluttered in the breeze, and even where Callie stood, she could hear the rippling snap of fabric.

  A soft, feminine voice reached her ears and Callie pivoted in time to see a woman glide across the stable area toward the men. A tiny parasol held aloft tilted ever-so-properly to keep the sun at bay. Rows of turquoise ruffles edged the imbecilic contraption, fluttering in the breeze like diaphanous butterflies.

  Her eyes narrowed into slits as she stared. Jackson had danced with this woman at the Eschevons’ party last month. Callie scrambled to remember a name.

  Patricia?

  Petunia?

  No…Pamela.

  Pamela Talmadge—visiting for the summer.

  More festooned for strolling the main streets of Boston than an army post, the woman nonetheless swished her elaborately draped Peterson walking dress through the dust with incredible elegance. Atop her bell-shaped skirt made with yards of turquoise taffeta ruffles and pleated frills, the form-fitting and boned bodice fit like a second skin. Tight and long, the sleeves drew the eye to a high, square neckline, and each step the eastern beauty took toward Reece oozed tribute to a pampered lifestyle.

  As Jackson bent, brushing a light kiss over the woman’s outstretched hand, Callie’s curled into hard knots at her side. Ragged nails nipped into calloused palms when the woman slipped her hand up Jackson’s forearm.

  A stiff huff blew past Callie’s clenched teeth as she turned, refusing to give a name to the green-eyed monster squeezing her heartstrings. Long strides carried her in the opposite direction toward town. She would probably be expected to dine with them later, but, if Callie had anything to say about it, she would find herself busy doing something else.

  The next morning, however, found Callie stepping into the Talmadges’ adobe dwelling on officer’s row after all. Frustration simmered inside her. She had far better things to do than waste time like this.

  Callie peeled her hat from her head, then tossed the Stetson onto a side table near the entrance. “Miss Talmadge? Are you in here?” A rush of impatience sharpened her voice as she shoved her heavy braid over her shoulder. An eloquent note requesting this visit, delivered by courier to her hotel room earlier today, landed on the side table beside her hat. Miss Prim and Proper wanted to share an idea with Callie. But just exactly what the idea was, the invitation revealed no clue.

  “Miss Talmadge?” Callie repeated, annoyance driving her to the closest door. She peered inside, and her eyes abruptly widened.

  A magnificent square piano monopolized the center of the room. Massive and elegant and shined to a high polish, the mahogany looked more like plate-glass than wood. Elegant, carved legs supported the Steinway, and scrollwork decorated its front and sides. Raised and braced, the lid beckoned her inward.

  Callie stepped across the threshold. Moving past horsehair stuffed chairs and a matching burgundy settee, she headed straight for the instrument. Lifting her hand, she smoothed it along the intricate scrollwork. And a moment later, she lowered her hand, then tapped her fingernail upon the closest ivory key.

  A single, crystalline note floated from the piano.

  Callie glanced over her shoulder, making sure she was still alone, then peered inside the Steinway. She pressed again, then watched the coordinating metal strand vibrate. She pressed once more.

  And another note filled the room.

  Like water soaking into sand, her soul drank in the sound. Widow King’s parlor in St. Louis appeared before her and she visualized the frail woman swathed in mourning bombazine, lemon verbena drifting through the corridors of Callie’s mind.

  “Curve your fingers, dearest. Like so.” Her teacher guided the eight-year-old Callie through the afternoon’s lesson. “Now we will try again.” A blue-veined hand rose to the music sheet, and she pointed. “Start right here.”

  Ever the dutiful pupil, Callie began…and this time, she finished the musical score without error.

  An hour later, with an oatmeal cookie clutched in one hand and a cup of peppermint tea in the other, Callie said, “I like playing the piano, Mrs. King.”

  “And I like teaching you,” the widow whispered, her words a soft embrace. “You’re one of my best students, Miss Colleen. One of my best, indeed.” At the corner of her faded blue eyes, crepe skin draped like curtains.

  As her thoughts returned to the present, the lump in Callie’s throat thickened. The untold hours she’d kept pace with the widow’s quavering instructions, the steady cadence of a metronome, everything from her early childhood leapt to the forefront of her mind.

  Callie jerked her hand back, a snort tumbling from her lips. “What’s a damn piano doing in this God-forsaken place?” she mumbled. Her hand brushed down her hip.

  You know you want to play.

  Again, she pressed the key. This time, her lips shifted into a smile.

  What the hell…why not?

  Callie dropped to the piano stool, being careful not to nick the scrolled legs with her spurs. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt one bit. After all, she was obviously alone in the house anyway.

  Stopping before the keyboard, she lifted her hands and spread her fingers into proper position. She pressed down, and the heavenly chord breathed life into Callie’s long forgotten and little girl passion. She glanced over her shoulder. Still alone.

  Callie giggled, her smile widening as the musical score from a childhood recital skittered into
recall. She envisioned the sheet music. Resembling tiny ants scurrying across a page, the notes of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” materialized. She began to play as her foot found the pedals beneath the piano. She worked them with ease, the instrument perfectly tuned. Giggles became laughter as she struggled through the piece, her hands stumbling over the ivories, a missed note here…another there. Callie’s eyes slipped closed.

  She visualized her mother listening to her play. And when the last note faded, Callie settled her hands into her lap, allowing another contented smile. She inhaled, imagining the unforgettable fragrance of her mother. Roses.

  Several moments later, Callie opened her eyes…and her gaze settled directly on Jackson Neale.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jackson leaned against the doorframe, his slouch hat held loosely in his hands. A black serge jacket nearly hid the holstered Colt strapped low around his hips. He looked relaxed and pleased, and for several numbing seconds Callie stared at the buckle that held the gun belt in place. Her gaze rose and met his, mortification burning her cheeks.

  A soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Beautifully played,” he said.

  Callie shoved back the piano stool and climbed to her feet. “I haven’t bothered with one of these things in years,” she said, scrambling for composure. “I’ve forgotten how silly they are.”

  Jackson straightened. “Yes, they can be, for folks with no talent.” He stepped over the threshold and dropped his hat onto the side table.

  An apprehensive thread twisted around Callie’s embarrassment. She still hadn’t forgiven him for coddling up to Pamela yesterday. “I was waiting for Miss Talmadge. She asked me to meet her here.”

  “I see,” he said. “And while you waited, you were able to entertain yourself. How nice.”

  He stepped closer, and Callie turned in the opposite direction and headed to the open window. The burn across her cheeks refused to subside. If she ignored Jackson maybe he would go away, then she could pretend he hadn’t heard her play.

  He followed, nonetheless, and a moment later, he stopped behind her. Every muscle in Callie’s body tightened when he leaned forward and whispered, “You’ve got lots of little secrets locked away inside, don’t you, Cal?”

  His breath brushed her neck and sent a scorching flush down her shoulders. Gone was their amiable bonding on the trail drive over here. Callie sucked in a lungful of air and focused on the soldiers outside on the parade ground. They drilled in perfect formation, a blatant contrast to the tumbling disorder inside her.

  “Everyone has secrets,” she said, angry with him for drawing closer—angrier with herself for caring. “Even you.”

  “True,” he said with a chuckle. “But now I know another one of yours.”

  Her eyes slipped closed as the tingling inside prickled clear down to her fingertips.

  A crisp, swishing sound accompanied Pamela’s entrance into the room. “I am so sorry to be late.” Her cheery voice fractured the tension. “Can you believe I was detained by the laundress, of all people? These locals are so difficult to understand. The language slurs something fierce.”

  Callie separated herself from Jackson by a wide step, then turned to face the newcomer. Copper-colored taffeta rustled with each step Pamela took toward her. A light-brown chip bonnet ruched with ivory silk covered the woman’s curls, and silk rosettes sprinkled across a matching ivory underbrim further brightened her youthful, symmetrical face.

  Callie swallowed. “You wanted to see me?” She took another sideways step.

  “Yes.” Pamela smiled, opening her arms. “I wanted to see you both.” A charming dimple puckered her cheek as her gaze lingered upon Jackson a trifle longer than necessary. “And thank you for waiting, Major Neale. I know how busy you must be with all your horse duties.”

  Callie’s breath stalled as the nip of jealousy returned. She felt like an outcast, her nose scrunched against the glass as she peered at something she’d rather not watch unfold before her.

  “And speaking of horses,” Pamela said. “I was visiting the stables this morning and could not help but notice your own strong mount. I believe you call him Salvaje?”

  Jackson nodded, chuckling. “The name in Spanish means wild, much like my partner hiding over there in the corner.”

  Callie pinched her lips, holding back a curse. She wasn’t wild and she sure as hell wasn’t hiding. She took a small step closer just to prove him wrong.

  Pamela pressed an embroidered hankie to her throat, just above a delicate, gold-rimmed cameo. “Well yes…” She hesitated, glancing at Callie. “I see what you mean.” She scanned the dusty denims and faded blue shirt, then cleared her throat with a quiet cough before turning her attention back to Jackson. “Anyway, as I was saying, while I was in the stable, I conceived the wonderful notion of organizing a horse race. I mean, wouldn’t you like to know who owns the fastest mount in the territory?” Excitement bubbled through her voice as her hands, gloved in expensive ivory leather, clapped together in muffled enthusiasm. “Now, tell me quick. What do you think of my idea?”

  I think your corset’s laced around your damn brain.

  Callie crossed chambray-covered arms over her chest and asked, “A horse race?”

  Pamela turned to face her again, the taffeta shimmering under a beam of late-morning sunshine that spilled through the narrow bank of windows. “Yes, sweetest. Everyone is so serious now with the Indian uprisings and all. I thought a competition might be just the answer for cheering everyone up.” Capricious charm illuminated her face as she fluttered a hankie in front of her. “Why, we could even have racing colors for each contestant.”

  Callie stared. This woman oozed a well-honed innocence that could force grown men to their knees with desire.

  I’m a waddling duck next to this swan.

  The truth of her shortcomings stung. She unfolded her arms and her hand rose, skimming over cheeks she knew were sun-darkened. Struggling with her own inadequacies, she shoved back a strand of hair, then snapped, “What an incredible waste of time.”

  “But, Callie dearest, this will be so enjoyable, and we haven’t had any enjoyment since the Eschevons’ party. Why, we could invite people from miles around. And of course, you could assist me with planning the soiree if you’d like.”

  Callie’s forehead tightened, her eyes narrowing. “I’m real busy, but thanks anyway.”

  The coquette slid her attention back to Jackson, her head tipping into a flirtatious tilt. A raven curl peeked from beneath the skirt of her bonnet. “But I’m most interested in knowing what you think, Major Neale.”

  Talons of possessiveness sank deeper into Callie’s heart. It took every ounce of strength she had not to stake a claim. But to what? A man I don’t even want?

  Pamela continued, “From the splendid qualities I see in Salvaje, I’m most certain your mount would win.” Her eyes widened. “And I just had a daring thought. Do you suppose I might bestow a kiss upon the champion?”

  The smile amplified across her face and Jackson chuckled at the woman’s ploy. Having grasped this game years ago, he knew the rules well. Unfortunately, the anticipated arousal he’d ridden over thirty-five miles to experience had yet to develop.

  With renewed focus, Jackson forced himself to play the role he’d mastered in a hundred parlor rooms back east. Despite his lack of interest, he nonetheless skimmed Pamela with a knowing eye, then cupped his chin, stroking his finger over his mustache in contemplation.

  A full five seconds passed before he anchored a grin. “My dear Miss Talmadge, how can I resist such a passionate entreaty? The anticipation of winning such a prize is the icing on a most delectable cake.” His hand folded around hers in a light clasp as he bent forward. He dusted a kiss across the creamy leather glove. “Of course, I agree with you,” he said as he straightened.

  His added wink sealed the deal, and he hea
rd Callie snort her displeasure.

  Pamela, however, giggled just as he expected, dipping her head as she rested her hand upon his arm. Her fingers squeezed the black cloth. “How wonderful, Major Neale. Then that settles things. I knew I could count on you. Now, I must search out Father and inform him of our plans.”

  A bronzed belle, Pamela turned and sailed out the door, yards of taffeta swishing softly behind her to toll her exit. For less than a millisecond, a suffocating silence filled the room before his partner’s voice careened toward him.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  His smile faded as he turned, his gaze reconnecting with Callie. “I’ve agreed to have a good time.”

  “A good time?” She stiffened. “We’re here to sell horses, collect our money and leave…that’s all.”

  Mockery clung to the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ve just changed our plans.”

  Her partner’s words skewed deep, reminding Callie she could sooner harness the wind than she could control this man. His insufferable flirtation with the colonel’s daughter rammed against a raw nerve. “We don’t have time for this idiocy.”

  “Why?” His eyebrows slanted over the bridge of his nose. “Oh, I forgot. You discount interaction with people.”

  She took a step closer, her chin jutting. “I fail to see how racing around a horse track constitutes companionship with others.”

  He walked across the room and peered down into her face, his gaze direct and unblinking. “Since you haven’t enjoyed living for quite some time, how could you possibly know?”

  “My idea of merriment may not match yours, but then again I don’t feel the need to seek pleasure from a bag of wind that preens around like a damn peacock.” Building anxiety pressed heavy upon her chest. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m going home.”

  She attempted to step around him, but he blocked her path, then eased back, his eyes narrowing. “You’re bothered over my continued affinity with Miss Talmadge, aren’t you?”