With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  Callie sniffled, wiping her hands down her face. She steadied her bottom lip. One minute turned into two amid the grumbles and cursing of the men as they lowered the piano.

  “Well get off that ground, girl, and show us where you want to put this thing,” Gus groused, groaning under the substantial weight of the instrument.

  Callie scrambled to her feet and dashed the remaining moisture from her face. She whirled and headed for the house. Three steps took her across the back porch and she reached for the knob just as Pilar whisked open the door.

  “Qué pasa aquí?” the cook asked, her eyes widening.

  “Yes! Yes! And isn’t it wonderful?” Callie said, a wobbly smile pushing up her lips. “It’s a gift…from Jackson.”

  Pilar’s dark eyebrows shot heavenward at hearing the man’s name. Seconds later, a joyful smile erupted, plumping the cook’s already chubby cheeks. “F-From Señor Neale?”

  “Sí. Señor Neale.” Callie giggled, holding the door and stepping aside so the cursing, groaning men could shuffle through the opening. They inched through the rooms with their burden until they reached the front parlor room.

  Callie scooted through the doorway ahead of them, shoving aside chairs and tables and kicking away colorful Mexican rugs to clear a path. A few more vulgarities and the men finally positioned the Steinway against the wall between the two front windows.

  Callie jammed her hand into her pocket, pulled out several coins and dropped them into the driver’s hand. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “De nada,” the man replied, swiping a sleeve across his sweaty brow. He turned and followed Pilar and Banner back through the house.

  Callie and Gus simply stared at the Steinway.

  Sunlight spilled over the wood, drawing out the deeper tones of rusty red and black. Gus nudged her with his elbow, his head angling toward the exquisite piece. “Well. Go on over and try ’er out.”

  She rubbed her hands down her hips. “Should we keep it?” she mumbled, looking up at him. “I mean, h-he’s not here anymore.”

  “Hell yes we’re keeping it! If Neale didn’t want you to have this, dumplin’, he wouldn’t have sent it. Now get over there and play me something. I hate to see a good piano go to waste.”

  Callie hesitated. She should turn around and stomp away. This was so like Jackson to upstage her wounded… She paused. What? Pride? What exactly had he wounded?

  Absolutely nothing that I didn’t allow.

  The little girl she’d buried beneath eons of unhappiness begged her to forgive him, but Callie wasn’t ready to revisit the reason for her earlier tears. For the moment, she would just allow her feelings and obey Gus’s request.

  She took a deep breath and started toward the piano just as Banner dashed into the room. He clutched an elegantly carved round piano stool in one hand, a collection of sheet music in the other. “Dis all come wif da order too, Miz Callie,” he announced, positioning the items where they belonged.

  Shooting a broad grin in her direction, he stepped back.

  A wavering smile touched Callie’s lips. “Why thank you, sir.” Pretending she again wore Pamela’s beautiful evening gown, Callie swept up imaginary emerald material and then daintily lowered into place. A quick, impulsive spin on the stool brought laughter from all three in the room.

  She slowed to a stop and smoothed her hands over the warmed-by-the-sun mahogany. Carefully, she lifted the wooden cover and smiled. All eighty-eight black and white ivory keys had made the journey across country without suffering a single chip.

  Gus moved closer. “You do remember how to play this, don’cha?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I played a little bit back at the fort. The piano Colonel Talmadge had in his parlor.” She couldn’t contain a giggle. “Jackson caught me playing that afternoon and…” Her words trailed off. Jackson. She was so relieved to say his name again that her face actually warmed.

  “Well, go on, then. Get to playin’.” Gus leaned against the square grand, a proud smile anchored into place.

  Nearby, Banner eased down upon the settee. “Dat’s right, Miz Callie. Let’s hear you play.”

  Callie took a breath, lifted her fingers and spread them across the ivories. As it had in Pamela’s parlor, nervous anticipation flip-flopped in her stomach. She pressed down and a melodious chord filled the room. Although the instrument was somewhat out of tune from its trip across country, under the circumstances it sounded like a heavenly chorus.

  “You play mighty fine,” Banner said.

  This time Callie laughed. “I just pushed on the keys, silly.”

  “Well push on ’em some more,” Gus urged, an even bigger smile flooding his face. Pilar rushed into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Señorita Callie, puedo?” she asked, motioning to the space beside Banner on the settee.

  Callie nodded. “Yes, of course. Everyone else is here. You might as well join in too.”

  For the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening, Callie entertained her odd little family with classical selections as well as remembered tunes from her childhood. And together, they celebrated in the amazing gift from her absent partner.

  As an exhausted Callie dragged herself off to bed that evening, she finally admitted changes needed to be made in her sad and empty life. Tomorrow, when she made her monthly visit to Father Miguel’s orphanage with her donation in hand, this time she would require something in return.

  “Dinner was delicious, Sarita,” Callie said, laying the napkin across the center of her empty plate. She leaned aside as the young orphan removed the dishes and cutlery.

  “Muchas gracias, señorita. We make meal especially for you.” A coronet of raven-black braids wrapped the girl’s head, but a few rebellious wisps managed to escape and dance against her cinnamon-brown cheeks. “Father Miguel says you are an angel. And we agree with him.”

  Callie chuckled and settled back in the chair. “Believe me, darling. I’m no angel, but it’s my pleasure to help you all.”

  The child whisked away Father Miguel’s empty plate and the priest nodded with a warm smile. “Thank you, Sarita. Remember, you and Flora are in charge of the kitchen duties today, so make certain the boys collect fresh water from the well. And have the other children help you with the dishes.”

  Both girls dutifully bobbed their heads, then glanced at Callie. “Please come back soon,” whispered little Flora, who giggled as the two sprites scampered from the room. The rattle of dinner plates echoed behind them.

  Callie laughed and relaxed into the chair.

  “They’re quite outspoken today,” Father Miguel said, laughter warming his voice. The setting sun spilled through the long case window, laying tangerine-colored rays across his linsey wool cassock. He leaned back in his chair. “But what they say is true, Callie. Your gift this month will purchase McGuffey primers and a few additional writing slates for the children.”

  Callie smiled, remembering the colorful school books her mother had taught her from—spelling and vocabulary and word enunciations, all frustrating to a young girl who’d rather have been outdoors with her brother working horses. In spite of her slapdash approach to education, she realized the primers were probably her most important academic influence, although she’d sent more than one arithmetic slate sailing across the parlor during an especially vexing day.

  Callie eased her breath out on a long sigh. “I love helping the children. And besides, it’s what my family would’ve wanted me to do…since they’re not here anymore, I mean.” Leaning forward, she rested her arms upon the battered tabletop. The cuff on her right shirt sleeve still carried coffee stains from this morning. “But today, Father…” she paused and reached for her cup, “…I’m in need of something from you.”

  The priest’s forehead crinkled with concern. “But of course. What is it you need, my child?”
>
  Just tell him everything.

  “Well…I need…” she slumped her shoulders in surrender, “…some honest advice. Yes, that’s it. I need honest advice. And I figured, who better to ask than a man of God?”

  The padre’s brows pinched with worry. “Certainly, I am sworn to secrecy. What can I do to help you?”

  Callie slid her fingers in and out of the porcelain handle of the mug. She bit her bottom lip, then released the tender tissue with another solemn exhale. “Yes. And I appreciate that, Father.”

  Clearing his throat, he straightened in the chair. His features shifted into a calming expression as he folded his hands into his lap. “Why don’t you return to the beginning of what’s troubling you, my dear. Perhaps that might be a good place to start.”

  Her gaze lifted and momentarily locked with his before falling away. “Yes,” she replied, pausing again as Jackson’s image filled her mind. She missed him so, and the ache of his absence tightened inside her. Good God, I can’t cry right here in front of the good padre. She glanced out the window, pressing her lips together. Her focus settled on the boys retrieving buckets of water from the well in the center of the dusty courtyard. She swallowed, fighting to unknot her twisted heartstrings.

  Her gaze slowly tracked back to the priest. “Well, Father…it’s about my partner…”

  I was a damned fool to leave her.

  Jackson stared at the moon skimming the roof of the building across the dusty street. Behind him, music and laughter spilled from the cantina.

  A double-damned fool.

  In a slow, steady stream, he blew smoke upward, and then flicked the butt of his cheroot into the dirt. He’d spent the better part of the summer organizing the green volunteers into a solid fighting force. The men patrolled daily, and the number of Indian attacks had sharply declined. As a result, his responsibilities had eased, and along the way, he’d managed to garner a few commendations for heroic efforts.

  A smirk dug into the corner of his mouth.

  I don’t feel so damned heroic. He raised his glass in a mock salute to the ivory globe squatting in the sky. Yep, things were running smoothly with the territorial militia. They’d even moved the capitol to Tucson and now things were running just fine everywhere except inside his heart. He’d been away from Callie for one-hundred and ninety-five days, and every damn one of them felt like an eternity. The image of her playing the piano that afternoon in the Talmadge parlor flashed across his mind once again.

  She’s probably gotten hers by now.

  He wished he had seen her face when Cavanaugh’s wagon pulled up with the piano he’d ordered that day after the horse race. That would’ve been worth every damn dollar he’d spent to buy the gift.

  The aroma of fried beef carried on the breeze from somewhere down the street caused his stomach to rumble, reminding Jackson he hadn’t eaten since this morning. He’d done his share of drinking, of course, but eating hadn’t fit into his plans.

  In fact, nothing fit into his plans anymore.

  Dillon’s voice wandered out to him from the other side of the cantina’s batwing doors. “You’re missing out on the festivities inside, my friend.”

  Jackson shrugged without looking back. “They’ll get along without me.” The squeak and thump of swinging wood told him his friend had stepped outside.

  “Let’s see,” Dillon said, sidling up beside him, “you’ve been here for months, and you’ve yet to mention your hot-tempered partner even once.” The scout folded his arms across his chest and stared at the mountain peaks. “So I’m guessin’ that trying to ignore your feelings for Callie ain’t working out, right?”

  The clinking notes of the cantina’s out-of-tune piano pounded around the tight grip of Jackson’s heart. “What do you expect me to say about her?”

  “Well…she was a big part of your life. And, now she’s not.”

  Jackson tossed the last swallow of whiskey down his throat, wincing as the cheap swill hit his gut. He rolled the glass between his fingers, letting another flash of anguish subside. His point of inebriation finally pushed him to tell Dillon the damn truth. “I’ve made a big mistake, and I’ve hurt her.”

  The scout shifted, leaning a shoulder against the whitewashed post supporting the cantina’s overhang. “I see. Well, did you two ever try talkin’?”

  Jackson almost laughed aloud at the man’s simplistic solution. He and Callie were way past the point of talking. Ever since that night in the cabin, when words weren’t needed and few were spoken.

  Closing his eyes, he remembered all over again the exquisite feel of her.

  His grip around the empty tumbler tightened as his eyelids rose. Several horses ambled down the wide street, their riders nearly as inebriated as he was now. Moonlight glinted off spurs and brass bridle rosettes. Farther down the corridor, the braying resonance of mules settled into his ears like low-rolling thunder. “I tried talking to her. She wouldn’t listen.” Frustration oozed through Jackson, and he bit down hard on the words. “Everyone in her life has left her. One by one. They’ve all gone. Including me. And I’m the biggest bastard of all.”

  He glanced down at the tiny rainbows of light reflected in the glass he held. “After that local militia skirmish with the Apache this past spring, I sent the governor a letter telling him I’d accept his offer to train his volunteers, but then time passed and I forgot about it. And then Callie and I worked things out a bit.” He hesitated, staring up at the moon again. “Then the storm came, and I nearly lost her.” The knife of loneliness cleaved deeper. “And then things changed between us forever that night. But before I could let Goodwin know I was no longer interested in his command, the sonofabitch showed up at the ranch with my letter and a raving speech about home and country and God save the damn queen. Callie never gave me a chance to explain.”

  “But you did send the letter, right?” Dillon asked, never cracking a smile. “So she thought you were leaving her, too.”

  Jackson nodded, his gaze lifting upward. A thousand stars blanketed the night, but what he saw lay over twenty-eight weeks in the past.

  “This is not an irreversible mistake, my friend.” Dillon’s words worked like a vise across Jackson’s heart. The thump of the batwings again fractured the night as a pair of cowboys staggered out of the cantina. Teetering on wobbly legs, the vaqueros nearly bumped into Jackson before stumbling off down the boardwalk.

  Jackson glanced at them, but his mind focused elsewhere. “You don’t understand what happened that night,” he whispered.

  “Judging by the way you’re acting, I’ve a pretty good idea.” The scout levered away from the post, and Jackson’s gaze slid back to lock with his. “Look,” Dillon said, “I don’t usually mess in issues of the heart, but take a hard look around you.” Gone was his usual amusement. His mouth formed a straight, grim line. “This problem between you two is something you can fix. And it all comes down to whether or not you love her. The rest of the bullshit is just details.” He stepped from the walkway onto the street. Dust puffed up from beneath his boot. Glancing over his shoulder, Dillon stared at Jackson for a long moment. “A good woman is hard to find out here. If it were me, and if I’d had the privilege of bedding her, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing here holding an empty glass in my hand and nursing regrets. Not when there’s someone like her back home.”

  The scout disappeared into the shadows and Jackson listened to the crunch of his friend’s boots fading into the night. The warm breeze off the desert buffeted the mournful sounds of a bugler playing taps over at Camp Lowell.

  Jackson listened, the lump tightening in his throat. A moment later, he turned and entered the cantina. He had a glass that needed filling and a heart that ached for only one thing.

  Callie.

  Not until she stared up at the moon that night did Callie know what she was going to do. The opaque, velvety circle clung to t
he sky like a milky-white stone. Even the pinpricks of stars winked in agreement with her growing plans.

  Sharing everything with Father Miguel earlier had helped her recognize the unresolved torment that had plagued her life since her parents’ death. The conversation gave her a new understanding about how to face the new fears regarding her and Jackson.

  Loving doesn’t have to mean losing. Loving can mean trust.

  Callie leaned against the railing, raising her face into the breeze. Though it was well past midnight, she’d already gotten out of bed twice, just to sit before her beautiful piano.

  The instrument was a treasure…as was the giver. Why had she not realized this before? She sighed. Her absent partner hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she had made the grievous mistake. Jackson deserved an apology, and she would make certain he received one.

  Yes…she could make it to Tucson in less than a day if she pushed hard. She would bring him back if it was the last damn thing she ever did. Callie stared at the star-draped heavens. Fearful he might not want to leave his militia command—or even see her again for that matter—revived the anguish she’d held at bay all night.

  I’m such a damn fool for letting him go.

  Teardrops slipped down her cheek, tracing a cool path to her mouth. She raised her hands to swipe them away. She was finished with her spiritless existence, finished with sitting here doing nothing. She had to at least try to bring Jackson home. Raiding Apaches be damned.

  She owed herself that much. She owed him even more.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “And just where do you think you’re ridin’?” Gus asked, stepping into the pre-dawn shadows of the stable. He hiked up cotton suspenders over a rumpled work shirt. “It’s barely daybreak, gal.”

  “Tucson,” she said, leading a saddled Diego past the man. She stopped at the wide-open double doors, and looked back. “And you can’t stop me.”