With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Everyone!

  She wasn’t some parasol-twirling ninny, who swooned at the mere sight of him. As soon as Jackson straightened, Callie curled her hand into a knot and buried her fist in his abdomen.

  The crowd erupted with laughter. “Give him what for, Callie… Give it to him good!”

  She wrenched free of his embrace and with each foot stomp across the platform, her pounding heart nearly stole her breath. Clutching her wooden statuette in shaking hands, Callie descended the stage in two great steps, then shoved her prize against Gus’s chest.

  “That was one hell of a congratulatory kiss, wasn’t it, suga’pie?” he hollered. His fingers gripped around the trophy as Callie stormed past. She pushed herself into the rollicking crowd, ignoring their affable slaps on her back.

  Callie jerked a dry saddle blanket from a wooden peg. “But, Gus…he kissed me! And right in front of everyone.” Diego swished a silky tail against the old man’s shoulder.

  “Neale was just havin’ a little fun. Ain’t no reason to head for home.”

  She lowered the Mexican blanket; the striped wool covered her boot tops in a pool of reds and yellows. “Don’t you realize what that sonofabitch did to me?”

  “He kissed you. So what? That’s still no reason to leave before the barbecue.”

  “Gus,” she screeched. “I don’t want to be kissed.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, kissin’ won’t hurt you none.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “What point?” He stepped closer. “That you were kissed or that Neale did the kissin’?”

  She glared at him, her eyes narrowing. “People are going to talk.”

  “About what?” He pulled the blanket from her gloved hands. “A harmless little kiss?”

  “It’s not harmless.” She paced before the man, her hands flinging wide. “You saw him, sauntering up there as bold as you please in that obnoxious way of his. Making the asinine assumption I’d be delighted by his…his…”

  “Kiss?” Gus said.

  She whirled to face him. “No. His assault! He’s so insufferably arrogant.” Callie stared at the man’s back as he led Diego back into a nearby stall. “Like I’m some addle-brained Pamela who swoons each time he draws near.” She snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Of course you aren’t,” he agreed, his voice monotone as he closed the gate of the horse stall. “Not one damn bit.”

  Her chin jutted. “I’m certainly not all slop-eyed over him like she is.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, bending to grab the saddle off the ground. He heaved the leather across the stall and turned back.

  “And he shouldn’t think I would be, either,” Callie groused, flinging her arms wide. Of course, she chose to omit Jackson had kissed her once before, which also involved a sound punch to his midsection.

  Gus chuckled. “Oh I’m sure he realizes how things work with you by now. Besides, Neale’s a man. And we men don’t think clearly at times.”

  “I had a right to punch him.”

  “Um-hum,” Gus murmured, looping the tack over the top of the railing near his elbow.

  Her cheeks burned. “Nobody takes advantage of me.”

  “That’s exactly right,” he repeated.

  She re-crossed her arms. “And—there’s something else.” Her voice spiraled down into a rasping hiss. “I think…he let me win.”

  The man retrieved the leather traces from the ground, then straightened, looking genuinely puzzled. “How’s that?”

  Callie dug her fingers into her upper arms, her breath a tight exchange of air. “He pulled up short on the final stretch and gave Diego the win.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Yes. Though subtle, he pulled back on Salvaje’s bit. I swear it.”

  A smile inched across the man’s face as he wound the leather ribbons into his hand. “Now why do you ’spose he’d do a thing like that?”

  Again she splayed her arms wide. “Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him to, that’s for damn sure.” She paced in front of him. “I only mentioned I was going to win to keep him from kissin’ Miss Talmadge.”

  The wrangler’s snowy white brows shot up. “He wants to kiss the colonel’s daughter too?”

  He dropped the reins on a nearby table as Callie’s frustrated sigh fell between them.

  “I don’t know if he wants to kiss her or not. But if he won the race, then she’d be kissin’ him that’s for damn sure. I mean, she was all but pantin’ for him. This whole race was her idea to begin with, just so she could lock her mouth on Neale’s.”

  Gus leaned against the stall, crossing his arms over his chest. His smile widened. “But then he kissed you instead, right? And in front of everyone else, to boot.”

  Callie nodded.

  “Yep,” he continued. “I’m beginning to see how things might be frustratin’ for you.”

  Her fists clenched at her sides as she resumed her pacing. Why in God’s name did she feel like crying? No worse, she wanted to vomit. Right here, on the brand new boots Gus had purchased this morning from sutler row.

  The wrangler nodded, cupping his chin. His discerning eyes never left hers. “So why do you think Miss Talmadge wants to kiss Neale?”

  “I guess she sees him as the most wonderful catch this side of the Mississippi. Hell’s fire, her corset’s laced so damn tight she’s delusional.”

  “And you don’t want that happenin’? Her layin’ claim to Neale, I mean.”

  “Hell no, I don’t want that to happen.” Callie stepped up, staring him dead in the eyes. “If she did, then the imbecile would marry her and bring her back to the ranch.”

  “Oh…I see,” Gus said. This time a broad smile illuminated his features. “If he wanted that kiss, then why’d he let you win?”

  Her shoulders slumped as her heart pounded so hard it actually hurt. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Gus. I don’t know why he threw the race. He was clearly in the lead and moments away from that silken windbag’s mouth.” Callie’s insides churned.

  Gus pulled in another breath, then stretched out his arm, gently resting a gloved hand on top of her shoulder. He leaned down, leveling his face with hers. “Because he wanted you to win, darlin’.”

  She stared into his sagacious old eyes. “But…why?” she whispered.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Well, I ’spose you need to go ask him. And when you’re askin’, don’t bite his head off. Go about it all soft and ladylike. He’ll probably tell you why, then.” Gus slowly straightened. “Now come on, let’s go grab some barbeque. I’m starvin’ near to death.” He tightened his one-armed embrace and pulled her toward the exit.

  Go talk to Neale? That was his big answer?

  Callie’s heart lurched. Gus made things sound so damn simple. How could she approach Jackson with this new conundrum when their friendship was still so…tentative?

  The wrangler led her through the double doors and out into the sunshine. Blinding light enveloped her and she narrowed her eyes. A swirl of afternoon wind kicked up a dust cloud as a breeze blasted warm across her face.

  She licked her dry lips and scanned the crowd for her partner. Jackson was nowhere in sight. Callie swallowed the great lump in her throat, her gaze faltering as she released a breathy grunt. Talking to that…man again wouldn’t hurt anything, she supposed. Then, a rush of panic seized her. She didn’t know one damn thing about how to be soft and ladylike.

  Callie groaned aloud. Gus had stressed the point so obviously being coy and flirtatious was important for a man like Neale.

  Damnation.

  She only knew how to manage horses and run a ranch—neither of which required one shred of softness or the worthless folderol of being a lady.

  Dread pitted her stomach, then a moment later a bizarre thought too
k form in her mind. Soft and ladylike, huh? She pursed her lips. Fine. She knew someone who lived and breathed those exacting, inane qualities.

  Well, two can play this damn game.

  Callie pushed from Gus and stood on tiptoes, searching across the throng of people for Miss Talmadge’s idiotic, peach-colored parasol.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Deep within the Dragoon Mountains’ granite labyrinth, Cochise’s eldest son, Taza, slowed his nimble buckskin into a walk as he headed toward the secret entrance. A band of sixteen warriors followed closely behind. A series of sharp chirps drew his attention to a rocky outcropping where several of his clansmen stood atop massive boulders, their broad smiles welcoming the warriors home.

  Taza’s answering whistle rose on the summer breeze. As he rode into the secluded valley, the small, pollen-filled leather pouch suspended around his neck thumped against his chest. The sacred amulet had served him well, providing strength and protection.

  The warriors galloped through beargrass and around thick stands of ancient Yucca, their victory cries swirling on the wind. Cattle and mules loped along behind, their hooves clattering across the rocky soil.

  A few battle-weary warriors kept the herd moving at a steady pace toward camp.

  On Taza’s left, astride a brown-and-white pony, rode his younger brother Naiche. With each triumphant shout, the boy of twelve winters shook a bloodstained lance high above his head. Fresh scalps, Taza’s trophies of war, dangled from leather strips at the end of the long spear, testimony to Taza’s courage in avenging the scalps bounty hunters had ripped from the People’s heads a full moon before.

  Taza smiled, knowing his father would be proud. This hunt of fifteen days had been a good one and being able to outsmart those who profaned Mother Earth was a source of great pride. He’d led the warriors westward to the Rio San Pedro and attacked a supply caravan bound for Yuma. With their booty of guns and ammunition, livestock, grain, and several dozen bolts of cotton and wool strapped to the backs of the mules, they turned and headed for home. Along the way, they attacked a settlement and killed the inhabitants, adding much-needed flour, cheese and fresh fruit to their cache. More importantly, they seized a dozen cattle and managed to herd them up the Dragoons’ rocky slopes without losing a single, bawling beast.

  High above Taza’s head, an eagle soared on the wind. The majestic bird had served well as his eyes in the sky. But this time, they’d been followed back to their mountain stronghold.

  This time, ndaa, the white-eyes drew closer.

  Shrill cries from the golden bird heralded the warriors’ return to camp. Villagers poured from their wickiups in jubilation. Soon, Taza would wrap his young wife Nah-dos-te in his arms, and together they’d enjoy the juice of the sotol. The fermented elixir burned the mouth yet gave him the words he would need to describe this latest adventure and his growing concerns.

  From the farthest dwelling, Cochise stepped into the waning sunlight. Six feet tall and broad across the shoulders, Taza’s father stretched his arms wide to welcome Taza home.

  Tonight, they would celebrate.

  There would be much dancing. Naiche had done well on his first successful raid. Everything they did depended on faith and prayer, and the Gift Giver had been kind, bringing glory to them all.

  Yes—tonight they would reap the rewards.

  Jackson hollered across the livery at the dismounting scout. “What did you find out?”

  Dillon handed the reins of his paint to the farrier, then pulled the worn saddlebags from the horse and tossed the leather over his shoulder as he scuffed toward Jackson. “I was right. The same band that attacked the Butterfield day before yesterday also killed those settlers outside Dos Nogales.”

  Jackson resettled his slouch hat, then tugged low the wide brim to shadow his eyes. “It’s damn frustrating, I tell you. These bastards seem to appear out of thin air.”

  Dillon nodded. “And the settlers along the border are sittin’ ducks. They haven’t even organized a local force down there.” Both men angled toward headquarters as the scout continued, “But the governor finally got his funding for a territorial militia.”

  The long-ago letter he’d sent, promising to command the militia at Governor Goodwin’s request, flashed into recall. Jackson tensed but kept walking. “You sure?”

  “Yep. The adjutant confirmed the news. Even better, the military agreed to send additional cavalry companies to the territory to reinforce the existing garrisons.”

  It wouldn’t take long for the organization to begin. Jackson tensed again. “That’ll surely make a difference.” Especially since I’m not a damn bit interested in leaving the ranch now.

  “I followed the war party all the way to the Dragoons this time,” the scout added, “but lost their trail inside those slot canyons. They’re up there somewhere, and I aim to find ’em.” Boot heels crunched over rocky ground. “Driving cattle slowed ’em down a bit, but the crafty sonsofbitches split the group, sending small parties along several paths, then they kept doubling back on their tracks.” Dillon straightened his shoulders and sniffed the air. “Hell’s fire. Did I miss the barbeque too?”

  Jackson shook his head. “They’ve just started serving.”

  “Good, ’cause that dried jerky I ate this morning barely filled my gut.” The scout pulled off his gauntlets and crumpled them in his hand. “I assume you won the race, right?”

  “No. Callie did.”

  Dillon scraped to a stop, his spurs chinking in the sand as he turned to stare at Jackson. “What the hell did she ride?”

  “Her horse—Diego.”

  “And that little thing outran Salvaje?” Dark brows slanted inward. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, she won.” Jackson resumed walking. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Dillon caught up and slapped the gauntlets against Jackson’s upper arm. “With a little help from you, I’m sure.” When they reached headquarters, the scout paused. “Tell you what…let me turn in my report to the colonel, then we’ll get something to eat while you share why you threw the race. How ’bout that?” Without waiting for a reply, he tromped across the planked walkway and disappeared inside.

  Jackson shoved his hands into the pockets of his denims, then leaned against the nearest cottonwood. Images tumbled around one another in his mind: The determination stamped across Callie’s face as she leaned forward in the saddle seconds before the race. Her tentative smile afterward.

  And…the kiss.

  Well damnation. The governor probably hadn’t forgotten about wanting him to lead the militia. But where did that leave Callie—who already believed everyone leaves? Heat rolled down Jackson’s chest to war with his churning gut.

  The Territorial Army needed his leadership skills, and yet…

  Things had now shifted between him and his little hellion.

  The spicy aroma of gingerbread wafted around Callie as she balanced the teacup on her denim-clad knee. A yard of bird’s eye linen draped her other leg. Over-stitching in gold-colored silk secured a half-inch fringe trimming the border of the napery. The corner closest to her elbow bore an embroidered flower bouquet stitched from the same elegant fibers.

  Who would wipe their mouth on such a frivolous item? She surely wouldn’t—not when a shirt sleeve worked as well.

  In the hallway beyond, the longcase clock ticked in a steady rhythm. Sweat slid in vexing prickles between Callie’s cambric-covered breasts while she waited for Miss Talmadge to arrange herself in the opposite chair.

  By comparison, the young coquette looked as tranquil as an early spring day in her Paris-made afternoon tea dress. The cool swish of silk sliced through Callie’s unsettled nerves. The bright blue outfit was decorated with matching braid and a green tint fringe, also in silk. And a ribbon belt with its two long decorative blue-ruched panels rested upon the front of the skirt. T
he woman resembled a peahen, albeit a breathtakingly composed peahen—and silent remorse grated against Callie’s earlier decision to endure the torture of becoming a lady.

  The image of a lumbering cow trapped in the middle of a china shop suddenly came to mind.

  Pamela smiled. “Now remember, darling, one neither clanks her spoon against the porcelain nor guzzles from the cup as if it were a tankard filled with demon potations.” A fawn-colored brow arched as she shot Callie a glance. “We are ladies. We are not Boston dock workers.”

  A melodic chime from the hallway tolled the quarter hour to emphasize her words.

  Good God, the woman even has her timepiece whipped into servitude. In dutiful acknowledgement, Callie nodded, though her lips pressed into a hard line of uncertainty.

  “And remember, valuable is the gift of speech.” Pamela lowered her cup to the saucer. “We must converse in gentle tones during our evening gathering. We say only kind and pleasant things while entertaining guests. Ladies never act in anger.”

  Callie longed to lean forward and flip the cup’s contents into the debutante’s napkin-draped lap, but the woman’s sincere enthusiasm eased the desire and bit off another chunk of the humiliation oozing through her.

  “All right, Miss Talmadge. I promise not to slug it out with anyone again.” More specifically Jackson, though he fully deserved the blow this morning for assuming I wanted his kiss.

  “It’s Pamela, dearest. Please call me by my given name now that we’re such close friends.”

  Callie ran a ragged fingernail around the cup’s flared rim. “All right, Pamela. So where does my spoon go when I’ve finished stirring in the sugar?”