by Cindy Nord
Jackson dismissed the frantic expression clouding the man’s face. “Things have changed since I wrote the letter.”
“Well nothing’s changed as far as I’m concerned,” the politician countered, his chest puffing out. “You gave me your word, Neale, and out here that means something.” He lifted his hand and shook a finger in Jackson’s face. “I trusted you. Hell, even extra provisions are on their way from Fort Whipple to Camp Lowell, per your request. Within a few months, we’re moving the capitol down Tucson. You can’t let me down now, not at a time like this. Things are only getting worse. In fact, just before I arrived, I received word there’s been another attack near Dry Springs. More lives lost. We don’t have the luxury of options any longer.” The man shifted backward, lifted his hat and ran a palm through his thinning brown hair before resettling the Derby. “The army’s doing what it can with the military resources they have, but this territorial militia is my major line of defense now. And whether you like it or not, it’s too damn late to change your mind.”
Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “Find somebody else. You found me, didn’t you?”
The governor shook his head, jamming his hands into his trousers pockets. “There’s no one more qualified than you, at least not at this short notice. And you know it. You can’t leave me in the lurch just because you’d rather bed some wench. For Christ’s sake, Neale, people’s lives are at stake here.”
Jackson clenched his jaw, his lips tightening. And there it was again. Responsibility and all its insufferable weight. He damn well knew he couldn’t abandon innocent settlers, and it was obvious the governor wouldn’t listen anyway. Nor would Callie. Jackson was over a barrel of his own making…stretched good and tight.
“Sonofabitch,” he hissed. “At least give me a few minutes to talk to her, try to get her to understand the situation.”
Goodwin shifted his shoulders and adjusted his frockcoat. Relief etched across his features. “Take whatever time you need, but the sooner we’re on our way, the better I’ll like it.”
Jackson glanced to Gus. “I’m not leaving like this, not without talking to her.”
“I guarantee you, she ain’t up to chatting,” the wrangler drawled. “And I told her I’d make sure you got on that rig, which is exactly what I aim to do.” He slid his gaze to the hacienda. “So you might want to use this time to pack your gear.” He paused briefly and reached into his shirt pocket, retrieving a tarnished silver pocket watch, then tapped the glass face. “’Course, my timepiece ain’t workin’ quite right. Can’t tell how many minutes are tickin’ by.” A wry smirk lifted the old man’s face. “Well…get your ass a-movin’, son. You ain’t got all day.”
Jackson nodded, turned on his boot heel and headed toward the house.
The cool interior enveloped him the moment he shoved the front door open and stepped across the threshold. He scanned the entryway, searching for Callie. His gaze came to rest upon a wide-eyed Pilar standing in the arched opening of the dining room. Sunbeams sifted through the bank of windows behind her, silhouetting her in a wash of morning light.
The cook lifted a shaky hand, pointing down the hallway.
Jackson nodded, then turned toward the bedrooms, his footsteps clipped and determined. Several seconds later, he stood before Callie’s closed door. Heart-wrenching sobs emanated from within and carved a path to the center of his soul. Even through the wooden panel, he could feel her pain. He reached down and tried the latch.
Locked. Just as he knew it would be.
Her weeping instantly stopped.
He rapped upon the dark pine. “Let me in, Callie.”
No reply.
He clenched his jaw. Sonofabitch. A shove with his foot would kick down the door. He could barge in. Try to make her listen. Try to make her understand what happened and why. With other women, the weaker ones he’d known before her, that might’ve worked. But not with this wounded hellion whose sapphire-blue eyes long ago had blazed a trail to his heart.
He swallowed and knocked again. Harder this time, his knuckles scraping the wood. “I wrote the letter weeks ago. And as soon as we got back I was going to write another to let John know I wasn’t taking the position—that I’d changed my mind.”
No crying. No words. No sound.
“Come on, Callie.” His plea, carried on a taut breath, hit the barrier and fell. Without blinking, Jackson waited for any noise, any sign indicating she was willing to talk to him. He stared at the grain patterns in the wood, a masterpiece of textures and design.
Just like my hellion.
An aching tightness blossomed in his throat, the dryness forcing him to swallow again. He waited several more seconds before he spoke. “Please, Cal, let me in.”
Still nothing.
Jackson’s eyes drifted closed, and he flattened both palms on the door. He leaned his head against the wood, his stomach constricting into a hard knot.
He’d rather she curse or throw something. Tell him to get the hell away from her door. Jeezus, he’d even welcome another punch in the gut. Anything would be better than the damnable silence tangling his heartstrings now. His palms slid down the wood until his hands fell limp at his sides. She’d barely trusted him before; she’d likely never trust him again. She’d barricaded herself away from him as if last night had never happened.
And the door between them didn’t matter one damn bit.
The thumping inside his chest pulsed in edgy rhythm. He’d received the only answer she would give him. Silence. His fingers curled into his palms. He ached to touch her again, to see her smile, to smell her skin. The sweet beginning, which had breathed such hope into his heart with their precious coupling last night, had evaporated in the mournful sound of her tears.
Bile rose into the back of Jackson’s throat. He stifled gritty tears that clawed their way into his eyes. His heart ached. Hell, his whole body ached. He rolled his shoulder against the niggling reminder of where a reb’s saber had nicked him at Chancelorsville.
Slowly, he turned around and leaned against the door, gulping a deep breath. He’d kick his own damn ass, if he could reach it. He couldn’t undo the damage he’d done. His teeth grated together, echoing in his ears as anger with himself undulated through his veins in scalding waves. Regret followed, cleaving a path through a heart as hollow as a dried gourd. He’d finally found the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life, but ice would glaze hell’s chambers before Callie would welcome him back to her arms.
The ache inside him churned as Jackson spotted Pilar at the end of the long hallway. His gaze dropped to the raven-black braids draping the cook’s shoulders. The thick plaits resembled exclamation marks underscoring his futile attempts to try reaching Callie. A mournful expression creased the woman’s sun-darkened face, and she shook her head. Without so much as a word, she stepped from his view, leaving him alone in his misery.
Jackson’s pain grew—new and fearsome and raw. For one magical moment he’d reached paradise, found that wondrous place inside Callie where no man had ever touched. And then, he’d lost everything. Her rejection broke him when nothing else had—not the nightmare of Antietam or Fredericksburg or any of the other hellish slaughters he’d endured.
He pressed his hands against the cool pine until his fingertips became numb. The thought of begging her to open the damned door, begging her to listen, to believe in him again, coiled his gut tighter than a copperhead. He blew out an oath and then shoved from the door. He stalked to his own room, the spurs on his boot heels chinking across his misery. It took five minutes to jam his belongings into his saddlebags, another five to say goodbye to Gus, Banner and the vaqueros. Five minutes beyond that, Jackson sat beside the governor in the carriage, Salvaje saddled and hitched behind the vehicle.
As the entourage rode away from Dos Caballos, Jackson faced forward in silence, staring at the rocky buttes puncturing the
horizon. Late-morning sun spilled in rusty red streaks across the peaks he’d grown to love. He had everything he would need to meet the governor’s expectations: his guns, his military skills, his horse.
The only thing he left behind was his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Six months later
The ever-present wind peppered Callie’s face with sand the moment she stepped from the stable. Drawn outside by the clatter of an approaching wagon, she raised one hand to shelter her eyes and peered toward the road. Just as she had for weeks, she again wondered if this newest interruption in her now monotonous life meant Jackson Neale had returned to the ranch.
Of course she didn’t mention this to her two companions inside the stable.
Callie pressed her lips together, remembering that painful dinner when she had all but screamed her new rules at everyone. Standing at the head of the table, she glared at them, her eyes swollen from tears. “And I don’t ever again want his name mentioned in this house. Are we clear on that, too?”
Gus stared down at his half-empty coffee cup. Banner gripped a fork so tightly the knuckles on his ebony hand flushed white, and Pilar, whose coal-black eyes usually gleamed with adoration, glistened with intolerable sorrow.
In silence, they all nodded.
“He’s gone. It’s over. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay,” Callie snapped. “We didn’t need him before—and we sure as hell don’t need him now.”
They obeyed her demands, or at least while she was in earshot. And she hadn’t spoken his name aloud since. Not once in the sixv months since he’d left her. Thankfully, most of the vaqueros were gone, having been dismissed during Dos Caballos’ slow season. And their absence made enduring Jackson’s that much easier to bear. The men had admired Jackson’s skills and easy-going nature. They surely would’ve questioned his sudden disappearance. She wanted nothing to remind her he had left their lives as swiftly as he had entered. Only that hollow place where her heart still beat carried his imprint. With each passing day, the ache inside her grew…along with her list of regrets.
Thudding hooves and the jangle of halter chains drew Callie’s thoughts back to the moment. A six-mule team rode the distant wavering haze.
“We got company,” she hollered over her shoulder. Several seconds later, Gus and Banner ambled out of the stable.
Callie headed toward the side of the hacienda, then slumped against the pink adobe. Heat radiated into the shoulder she pressed against the wall. She crossed her ankles and jammed the toe of one boot into the sand. At least she could watch from the shade as the team maneuvered around the boulders near the entrance posts.
“Looks like a freighter,” Gus said, shielding his eyes from the glare. Under the noonday sun, his white hair clung to his scalp like melting snow.
“We’re not expecting supplies, are we?” Callie asked, glancing at Banner.
“No, ma’am.” He mopped glistening sweat from his closely-cropped black hair with a blue-checked handkerchief. “We got all dat last week.”
She shifted her gaze, scanning the area. Everything was brown—sucked dry by the hellish heat. Just like me. Callie wanted to blame her current temperament on the weather, but she damn well knew better.
She swallowed and tightened her lips. Every single day that passed, she wanted to curl up and die all over again.
Gus took another step forward as the wagon rolled past the stacked stones that marked the ranch’s entrance. “Looks like Cavanaugh’s freighter out of Tucson. See that lead mule on the right? The one with half his ear lopped off?” He tugged his gloves from his hands and jammed them into his pocket. “It’s definitely Cavanaugh’s. But he don’t roll his big rig ’less they’re delivering heavy goods.”
Callie crossed her arms over her chest and worked to tamp down the frisson of excitement gasping for life inside her. “Either of you order something this month you ain’t told me about?” As one, the men shook their heads. “Well then, the driver’s probably lost. Give him something to drink, then get rid of him. We’ve got work to do.”
She pushed away from the wall. Pivoting on her boot heel, she headed back inside the stable. She wanted the day to be cooler. She wanted the chores to go away. She wanted to be anywhere but here, facing a lifetime of loneliness created by her own asinine fears and God-awful stupidity. Snatching up a bucket of water, she headed toward Diego’s stall.
“I can always count on you not to leave me, can’t I, boy?” She dumped the tepid liquid into the trough. “You don’t require a damn thing from me but sustenance.”
Callie dropped the bucket and laid her head against the gelding. Diego’s hide was cool and smelled like a grassy, rain-washed field. She raised her arms, wrapping them around the horse’s neck.
Even breathing hurts.
“I should’ve just opened the damned door,” she whispered, knowing the animal had heard the same confession a dozen times or more since Jackson’s departure.
Callie pulled in a ragged breath, incredibly tired of replaying in her mind the events of that miserable morning. Phantom whispers of its previous night reached out to torture her with a reminder of Jackson’s masculinity. Helplessly she gave in, her eyes slipping closed. She recalled the prickling sensation of his day-old scruff against her naked flesh…his warm, calloused palm sliding along her inner thigh…the thrusting strength of him between her—
“Might want to get out here, suga’pie.” Her eyes flew open at Gus’s gravelly rasp. With a display of energy she was far from feeling, she broke her embrace around Diego and turned to face her old friend.
“What’s wrong now?” she asked flatly.
“Come take a look.” Gus crooked his thumb over his shoulder, motioning toward the house. Callie’s gaze followed. The wagon had angled up to the hacienda’s back porch. A canvas tarp covered a large object tied in the center of the vehicle’s bed.
“What is it?”
“Head on over.” Gus nudged her shoulder as she pushed past. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” Her eyes widened, her forehead crinkling in the process. “What the hell is it?” Her heart tripped faster than it had in weeks.
He rustled a shipping form in his hand. “Been freighted all the way from New York.”
“New York!” Callie headed across the clearing toward the wagon. Nodding to the teamster, she locked her gaze on Banner. “Go ahead,” she ordered. “Pull off the cover. Let’s see what it is.”
Banner jumped into the wagon. He fumbled with the heavy knots. The driver slipped over the seat to help him complete the task, and together the men tossed free the cords.
Gus’s footsteps crunched across the gravel, stopping at her back. Papers rustled again, and then she heard the low rumble of his chuckle.
Without turning to look at him, she asked, “Who sent this?”
Just as the canvas slipped aside, revealing polished mahogany, Gus announced in a gritty voice, “Steinway & Sons, New York City.”
“Oh my God…” Callie gasped, her hands rising to her cheeks. She stared at the opulent square grand gleaming in the bright sunlight.
“Yep. Steinway & Sons,” Gus repeated. More papers shuffled, and then he added, “‘To my hot-tempered, little hellion for years and years of enjoyment. Jackson.’”
Banner dropped the tarp and shuffled backward. “Jumpin’ Jeezus, Miz Callie…it’s…a piano!”
“She knows what it is, you jackrabbit,” Gus rasped, laying the paperwork on the seat beside the teamster who’d scrambled back to his perch. “Now get outta the way so she can have a better look.”
Banner hopped from the wagon to stand beside him.
Callie couldn’t move. Disbelief hammered inside her skull as a throat-clogging and bewildering joy snaked out to shred her breath. Her mind whirled around the memory of the day in the Talmadge parlor when Jackson had caught her playing with wi
ld abandon.
H-He’s bought me a piano?
Unable to stop herself, she slowly dropped to her knees. Her hands fell limp at her sides. She couldn’t take her gaze off the breathtaking instrument, let alone move forward to see if it was real. Tears welled in her eyes so quickly she hadn’t even had time to stop them. The back of her throat stung.
He’s bought me a piano!
Her bottom lip began to quiver. Forbidden feelings unraveled from the darkness of denial at a startling rate. All she wanted to do was climb into Jackson’s arms and tell him how sorry she was for not believing him, beg him to forgive her for not opening the door that day, thank him for this amazing gift.
He…bought…me…a…piano.
The tears she’d held at bay for so long finally spilled from her eyes, coursing in heated streaks down her face. She stared at the hand-rubbed Chippendale lacquered finish, at the dark, rich craftsmanship of the amazing instrument. Her lip quivered faster and faster, and like rain rushing down a dry gully, old wounds ripped open. Images bled out. Jackson breaking Salvaje with compassion. Jackson laughing about homemade ice cream. Jackson making love to her while the whole world beyond the little cabin fell away.
A sob erupted from her lips like a hiccup. Another followed. And another. She shook her head side to side. “It’s the m-most beautiful thing I’ve ever s-seen,” she sputtered, rubbing her hands up and down the front of her denims. The depth of her anguish warred with the thrill of owning such a treasure.
“That it is, suga’pie,” Gus whispered, patting her shoulder. “That it surely is.” Several seconds later, he stepped around her and heaved himself into the wagon. “Well, come on,” he said, motioning to Banner and the driver. “This thing ain’t gonna lift itself out.” They worked to push the Steinway toward the backend of the vehicle.