With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  As Pamela settled the material around the crinoline, Callie stared at her reflection. The décolleté bodice dipped low and accentuated her breasts.

  Who is this stunning person? Surely not me.

  Her hair, though dry now after her bath, tumbled down her shoulders in a tangled wave, but somehow Pamela had transformed her body from a vaquero into…a woman.

  “Now, come here and sit. I’ll address your hair.”

  Callie didn’t move. She stared into the mirror.

  “Come along, dearest. Our guests will be arriving soon. We mustn’t keep them waiting.” Pamela patted the stool that occupied the space before her dressing table, then gently pulled Callie’s arm to guide her onto the bench.

  A rush of warmth crept up Callie’s neck. I wish Mother could see me now. She stared in the small mirror as her mentor worked the tangled mass of curls into place.

  “I’m going to suggest you wear a chignon low on your neck tonight,” Pamela said. “The waterfall coiffure is no longer in vogue, but I believe the Marie Antoinette style will be perfect for you. And I’ll also crepe your hair. It’s the trend back east.” With a flick of her wrist here, a tug of an unruly lock there and the application of a heated iron implement later, Pamela drew the disorderly curls into a stunning display.

  A half hour later, she finally pronounced her work of art complete.

  “Oh, Pamela.” Callie’s hands rose to her mouth. She mumbled around her fingers. “Just look at what you’ve done.”

  “Yes.” The woman stepped back and smiled, admiring her handiwork. “You look radiant.”

  Callie shifted her gaze, staring into the twinkling-eyed reflection of her mentor. “This is so much more than radiant, woman. Christ Almighty, y-you’ve made me into a whole new person.”

  With hairbrush in hand, Pamela leaned against Callie and squeezed her shoulders. “Nonsense, darling. You simply forgot how to be a woman. That is all.”

  A strange yet refreshing bond somehow had been forged this afternoon. Callie reached up and patted the hand still resting on her shoulder. A dimple flashed in the Boston beauty’s cheek. They lived completely different lifestyles, were worlds apart in their thoughts and beliefs, yet now they shared a friendship.

  Callie stood and glided over to the oval mirror again. Her lips kicked up into a huge grin. Indeed, this was exactly what she wanted. Soft and ladylike.

  On the outside.

  Her smile widened. How perfect. She dipped into a faultless curtsy.

  Oh yes…she was now more than ready to look that broad-shouldered, kiss-stealin’, sonofabitch partner of hers straight in the eyes and demand he tell her exactly why he threw the race.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Renaldo’s Cantina occupied a prime location near the entrance to Camp Lowell. Each time thirsty patrons entered and exited, the batwing doors thumped behind Jackson. An easy breeze swept the planked boardwalk beneath the building’s overhanging roof and brought welcome relief from the afternoon’s heat.

  With an unlit cheroot dangling from his lips, Jackson tipped back in a chair and elevated his legs upon the railing that ran the length of the cantina. At the moment, no horses obscured his view of Santa Catalina’s ghostly gray peaks shimmering in the distance.

  He appreciated this country more and more with every passing day.

  Dillon sat to his left in much the same fashion and looked equally as comfortable—an empty dinner plate near his elbow the only evidence of the barbeque he’d wolfed down earlier.

  “I knew I’d find you boys here,” Gus said, shuffling into view from the side. “Miss Talmadge gave me strict instructions to give y’all this invite to a get-together back at her place later on.” The old man waved an envelope in the air before him. Jackson tucked the cheroot back into his shirt pocket, then thumbed up his hat.

  “A get-together?” He took the elegantly scripted item from Gus’s outstretched hand. Memories of social gatherings back east crammed his mind as he broke the wax seal and withdrew the formal request. He scanned the paper before handing the invitation to the scout.

  “Yep,” Gus said, leaning against the railing. “Miss Talmadge proclaimed it was high time for Low Tea right here in the middle of the desert.” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the row of dusty storefronts next to the cantina. “Saw her over yonder at the mercantile not a half hour ago. She was buying ribbons and other gewgaws. Told me to make sure I brought y’all back to her place by five o’clock sharp.” He straightened and rocked on the balls of his feet, humor lighting his eyes. “She also sends her apologies for not allowing the usual two weeks’ notice.”

  Jackson brought a half-empty whiskey glass to his lips, then paused. “Well, I’m no longer interested in sampling any of her…tea. Besides, I’m going to turn in early since we’re heading back home tomorrow. You be sure to give her my regrets.”

  “Mine too,” Dillon said. He dropped the invitation to the table, and wrapped his hand around the neck of a nearby bottle. “I don’t do teas or any other high society bullshit.” He poured another shot into his glass. “And from everything y’all have told me about this woman, she already exhausts me.”

  Gus propped his foot on a stone mounting block and waited while a couple of drunken miners wobbled down the dusty street in front of them. “Trust me, boys. This here’s one tea party you don’t wanna miss.”

  Jackson elevated a brow. “Why’s that?”

  The man shifted his gaze to the scout, then back to Jackson before sliding a tobacco wad to the other side of his mouth. A wide grin broke the leathery surface of his face. “Well, for starters, Callie’s gonna be there.”

  “Callie?” Jackson’s chair hit the ground. Since his bold kiss this morning, he’d bet a shiny silver dollar the woman’s anger still ran deep. “What’s she aiming to do? Poison the tea?”

  Dillon snorted, shoving the cork into the bottle’s small opening.

  “Don’t know the details,” Gus said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the smooth wood. “All Miss Talmadge said was Callie’s gonna be lookin’ mighty fine and that it was vitally important y’all showed up.”

  What the hell you up to now, you little hellion? Jackson glanced at the scout, who immediately narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Forget it,” Dillon growled. “I ain’t going anywhere near her place.”

  “What kind of friend are you?” Jackson glowered at the man. “If the roles were reversed, I’d damn well go and watch your back.”

  “Christ a’mighty. Fine,” Dillon groused. “If you’re so damned determined to go, then I’ll tag along if only to make certain the hen doesn’t peck you to death.”

  Jackson smiled, then glanced at Gus. “We’ll be there. And since the invitation said I could bring guests, you’re coming along too, so forget about bowing out on us.”

  The old man widened his eyes, spit into the sandy soil near the walkway, then glanced heavenward. “Lord, give me the strength to endure.” His gaze locked with Jackson’s. “Me at some fancy folderol makes no sense a’tall.” Gus pulled out an empty chair and plunked down beside them. “But since we’ve still got nearly an hour ’til tea time, how ’bout you sharing some of that fortifying elixir you’ve got sittin’ over there? I feel I’m gonna need it to face the madness.”

  “Here. Use mine.” Dillon shoved his now-empty glass in the man’s direction.

  “I’ll pour.” Jackson sloshed in the tawny liquid. “And if you drink fast enough, you’ll have time for several more rounds to lend you strength.” He settled back in the chair and slipped his fingers around his glass.

  A buckboard filled with revelers rumbled past, stirring up dust. Like tattered butterfly wings, racing banners fluttered along behind them. The bacchanalian crowd spotted Jackson and hollered its congratulations.

  He raised his glass in a good-natured salute befor
e turning to his companions. “By the way, do either of you know a merchant in town who’ll place a special order for me?”

  “Cavanaugh can get anything you might need,” Dillon said. “But he no longer guarantees on-time deliveries since the Apache attacks. What’re you ordering?”

  Jackson tossed back the whiskey, then issued a soft hiss as the liquid settled. “Something we don’t have at the ranch.”

  “What might that be?” Gus asked, curiosity shining in his eyes.

  Jackson reached for the bottle and refilled his glass before reconnecting his gaze to the old man’s. “Well now, my friend—you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  A little over an hour later, Jackson stood alongside his friends in the entryway of the colonel’s home, hats dutifully in hand. The spicy aromas of cinnamon and ginger wafted around them.

  “Gentlemen, do come in.” Miss Talmadge swept him with a disapproving glare. “I’m so glad you could attend.” She led the way into the parlor where a glow from oil lamps illuminated the room. A few chairs had been arranged into a circle for conversation, so obviously the guest list was small. Relief flooded Jackson, because he’d broken the cardinal rule of appropriate garb. He’d stopped by the hotel on his way over to change his shirt, but his cutaway jacket and dress trousers remained in his duffle, along with his desire to keep pretending eastern society’s rules mattered out here.

  And his errant partner figured largely in his redesigned outlook. Jackson’s thoughts returned to Callie, a state that was becoming more and more frequent of late. He thumped his fingers against the Stetson’s felt brim, matching the heartbeat that banged inside his chest. When exactly had he come to accept her hard-boiled approach to life? When he’d discovered her support of the orphanage…or her skill with the horses? Or was it when he’d sampled the sweetness of her lips?

  He forced his hands to calm and met Miss Talmadge’s gaze. Another icy scan told him she had noticed his breech in etiquette. “I wanted to host a little soiree to help celebrate Callie’s win,” she said, recovering nicely. “Please. Sit. All of you.”

  Jackson settled upon a spindle-backed chair beside the piano, leaving the wingback for Gus. Dillon slid onto the nearby settee.

  Their hostess turned a softer smile upon the old wrangler. “And thank you for locating the others, Mr. Gilbert. I trust you found what you needed at the mercantile?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Bought me a shirt to go along with my brand new boots here.” He lifted his foot, then hiked a pants leg to reveal well-crafted black leather. “A Berringer-Shumway & Company original brought in from Philadelphia.” His leg angled to better display the heel and wooden-pegged sole, the topstitching on the geometric cutouts, and the puckers that rode the top of the rounded toe. “And this ain’t no Wellington either.” He tapped the leather. “This here’s the genuine thing worn back east.”

  A grin tugged at Jackson’s mouth. Before the war, he’d owned several boots made by the same designer, who probably had no idea when constructing the fanciful footwear that they’d be put to such extreme tests in the climes of the southwestern desert. Seeing them on Gus’s feet now, the boots looked out of place. His gaze swept the room again, disappointment swelling inside. No cart. No china cups. And no partner. Had she changed her mind about attending?

  “Well that’s just wonderful, Mr. Gilbert. They are indeed works of art.” The hostess glided toward the settee. “And it’s Mr. Reed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I work for your father…for the army, I mean.”

  “Yes, I remember him telling me about your bravery and excellent tracking skills. He also mentioned something about hound-dog determination, I believe.”

  “Did he now?” Dillon laughed. “I’ll have to thank—”

  “Where’s Callie?” Jackson interrupted, plopping his hat upon the piano. Pressure built inside his chest and he swallowed hard. What if she decided not to show up?

  “Oh, she’ll be along in a moment, Major. She’s just finishing up in the other room.”

  Relief rolled through him, but each tick of the hallway clock increased the anxiety hammering at his gut. “Finishing up with what? Plans for my demise?”

  Dillon snorted as Pamela settled on the settee. “Now, Major,” she scolded, arranging her dress to avoid the trail dust that clung to the scout. “You’re being silly. She has no intentions of harming you tonight.”

  Jackson leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “You got what you deserved, son, catchin’ her off-kilter this mornin’ with that brazen kiss.” Gus pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and rolled the fat cylinder between his thumb and forefinger. “Mind if I smoke, ma’am?”

  “Not at all.”

  Dillon’s words rolled across the room. “You kissed her?”

  Jackson ignored the scout’s question. “What’s she finishing up with, Miss Talmadge?”

  The clock marked the passing seconds in steady tick-tick-ticks as the woman met his unwavering gaze. Vixenish humor illuminated her eyes as she tipped her head, then offered a coy smile. “Why, Major Neale…she’s finishing up for you.”

  Her words settled over Jackson like a sultry night, reminding him of summers spent in the forests of northern Pennsylvania—and she was a sprite cavorting in the understory of his impatience.

  A stream of smoke from Gus’s exhale curled in a fragrant haze across the room. Curiosity coursed the length of Jackson. “I thought we were here for tea.” Amusement was fast dissolving under an unbridled annoyance.

  “We are, Major. Callie will be serving.”

  Callie?

  Jackson leaned forward, locking his gaze upon the woman. Whatever was happening here, he’d bet his half of the ranch this little Lorelei was behind it. “Miss Talmadge, Callie serves no one. She barely serves herself.” If I’m not poisoned by midnight, it’ll be a damned miracle.

  Gus puffed out another aromatic curl. “Now this oughta be good,” he said and Jackson cut the man a scathing glance. The wrangler simply shrugged, but the mirth sparkling in his old eyes compounded Jackson’s frustration. “Now don’t go lookin’ at me like that, son; I’m only here for tea. I don’t know a damn thing ’bout what’s going on.” Gus issued an apologetic glance at their hostess. “Pardon my cursing, ma’am.”

  Miss Talmadge smiled and nodded.

  The cotton wick inside the lamp flickered, and ripples of light scampered up the walls.

  Across the room, the door swung wide.

  Jackson drove his gaze toward the opening, and his heart vaulted up against his ribs.

  Callie stood in the doorway holding a tray. Lamplight caught in the folds of emerald silk, wrapping her in an evocative display of light and shadows, curves and sensuality—the embodiment of pure elegance.

  His breath locked up deep inside. If he had known what to expect this evening, he would have been better prepared. If he had known this woman would lay claim to an enormous chunk of his heart, he would have been better prepared. If he had known his life would never be the same after tonight, he would have been better prepared.

  And yet…had he known, Jackson realized, he never could have prepared himself for the exotic goddess who stood in the doorway now.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Callie said. “I am terribly sorry to be late, but I wanted the water hot for our tea this evening.” Rustling silk whispered to Jackson as she passed. He stared, transfixed. She glided with an angel’s grace and placed the tray on the side table.

  Jackson tightened his throat muscles as he searched for anything to center his world. He swallowed, releasing his breath in a silent, shallow exhale.

  “We were having a little chat about you, darling.” Pamela rose from the settee and moved toward Callie, patting her hand. “Now I’ve changed my mind. This is your celebration, so you go sit and let me serve your guests.”

 
“At least allow me to help,” Callie insisted, then accepted the spoons and napkins. She spread them across the table. “You were all talking about me?” She looked at Jackson. Wickedly delicious—in body and manners, her infinite blue eyes bewitched him. A diminutive smile lifted her lips before her gaze flicked away.

  His heart ramped into his throat.

  “We were just wonderin’ where you were,” Gus said with a chuckle. He laid his cigar in a nearby ashtray, then took the teacup she offered. “And you look real nice tonight, suga’pie. Yes indeed, real nice.”

  “Why thank you, Gus.”

  “I—I’ve never seen you in a dress before, ma’am,” Dillon stammered. “You do look real nice.”

  Jackson sucked in much-needed air. Real nice? The words came nowhere close to describing the enchantress standing before him. In all of his thirty-four years, he’d never seen any woman more beautiful. Not even Michelangelo could have painted such a provocative smile; her lips displayed such sweetness he nearly begged her for another taste.

  “And thank you, too, Mr. Reed.” A becoming blush stained her high cheekbones. “I’m so pleased you were able to attend this evening what with your scouting duties and all.”

  Jeezus Christ…who is this glorious angel?

  Ringlets of spun gold called to Jackson, begging him to sink his fingers into her resplendent curls. He flexed his hands against the pulsing ache, then pushed his gaze down the column of her neck. Diamond earbobs brushed against sheer perfection, sending a twinkling glint his way in silent invitation.

  His gaze halted, caught on the unbelievable luxuriance of this ethereal vision he never knew existed. Then, his eyes dipped lower. And again, he failed to breathe. Lush, sumptuous curves above the bodice of Callie’s evening gown drove a stiffness between his legs the likes of which he’d never known.

  Mother of God…she’s wearing a corset!

  Heat flushed his face as blood surged in waves through him. Employing enormous effort, he dragged his gaze away from her voluptuous form. Confusion warred with desire. Nowhere in the flawless beauty holding court before him could he find his hellion.