With Open Arms

by Cindy Nord

  “All right,” he said, shoving the ends of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “But how about telling me why you’re really going, and don’t tell me you want to see the new capitol.”

  A heavy sigh left Callie’s mouth. She gathered the reins tighter in her hands and looked eastward from the open doors. The Catalinas held back the sun, and the mountains’ tenacious hold would continue for another few minutes.

  “I’m bringin’ him home, Gus.” Her words were barely a whisper and all she could manage, yet she knew he’d heard them.

  His voice lowered to match hers. “Suppose he don’t want to come back, dumplin’? Did you give that some thought?”

  She shrugged. “He’ll come back…or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  I don’t know…

  A movement across the corral caught Callie’s gaze. Pilar emerged from Gus’s small pueblo and headed toward the hacienda’s back door. From the furtive glances she and Gus had shared lately, Callie suspected they had become intimate. Seeing Pilar settle her clothes now as she slipped into the house only confirmed things.

  Not that Callie minded. Gus and Pilar seemed suited for each other. The cook’s quiet reliability balanced something inside the old wrangler. Callie’s gaze shifted back to the mountains. The dwindling darkness dissipated. Daylight crept over the ridgeline and spilled a weak shaft of light across her boots.

  What if Jackson doesn’t want me anymore?

  As quickly as she conjured the grim possibility, she shoved it aside. “I’m going regardless of the outcome.” Callie hesitated, took a fortifying breath and then added, “I was dead wrong, and I owe him an apology.”

  “An apology?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been nothin’ but crazy, and…I…I need to tell him I’m sorry for not believing in him.”

  “Well, you’re not going without me.” Gus’s words were firm and left no room for argument.

  Callie planted her foot in the stirrup and pulled onto Diego’s back. “You stay here with Pilar.” She eased into the seat. “She needs you here. I’ll be fine.” Reaching behind her, she rearranged the cloth bag that held her rations, then rested her hand on the cantle.

  Four steps brought Gus to the gelding’s side. Before Callie could react, he yanked the reins from her hand. “There’s Apache out there,” he snapped, all traces of warmth and understanding gone from his voice. “And you’re not going without me.”

  “This ain’t no leisurely trip, Gus. I’m riding hard and fast.”

  He coiled the reins in his hand and rammed himself up against Diego’s neck to glare into her face. “I’m coming along, or you ain’t going. And that’s my final word.”

  Callie had seen him angry only one other time—after her parents died. She sighed. Gus had been her only parent since then. And instinctively she knew she must obey him.

  “Fine. But you’re only gonna slow me down.”

  “You’ll get there fast enough.” Five long seconds passed before he eased back, his blue eyes softening again. “It’ll be safer with two riders. ’Sides, I’m good company.”

  Callie angled her leg over the front of the leather swell, hooking her knee around the saddle horn. Damned if the old man didn’t make sense. And besides, a day in the saddle would get tiresome all alone. She leaned forward and settled her hand across her leg, her finger spinning the rowel on the spur strapped around her boot heel. “Don’t you think you’d better run all this past Pilar first? I mean, you riding off into the sunset might not sit well with her. And don’t think I don’t know what’s going on between you two, ’cause I do.”

  Gus chuckled, and then, reins still in his hand, he led Diego to the back porch. Callie grabbed for the saddle horn and bobbled in the seat atop the beast.

  “Pilar,” he hollered. A moment later, the back door cracked open.

  “Sí?” she asked, glancing at Callie and then back to Gus.

  “Come here, punkin’,” he said, his voice gentled. She smiled and stepped closer. Gus slipped his arm around her plump waist, pulling her up against him. His snow-colored head bent and he whispered in her ear. Pilar giggled and nodded. Then Gus reared back and planted a kiss smack on her lips.

  A second later, blushing, the cook turned and scurried back inside.

  Callie sighed. “What the hell are we doing now, Gus? Playing patty cake?” Her fingers itched to pull the reins from the man and sink her spurs into Diego. I’ve got to go!

  “We’re waiting.” He slumped against the rough-hewed post and crossed his arms, the leather leads trailing from beneath one thick arm. “So shut your trap, and relax.”

  Callie bit back a retort and averted her eyes, her fingers impatiently spinning the brass rowel again. Several minutes later, Pilar re-emerged and handed Gus a satchel. The cook then stepped from the porch and headed toward the stable, dipping inside. Five minutes later, a sleepy-eyed Banner emerged, leading a fully-outfitted horse.

  A beaming Pilar followed behind.

  Jeezus, now everybody’s up…all that’s missing is a marching band.

  Gus stepped to the ground, flattening a palm against Banner’s rumpled shirtfront. “You take care of the place while we’re gone. Stay alert, the weapons loaded, and keep my gal safe.”

  Banner nodded.

  Gus turned, planted another kiss on Pilar’s lips and then climbed into the saddle. Only after he settled did he toss Diego’s reins back to Callie.

  “Now we’re ready to go,” he said, grinning.

  A thin smile touched Callie’s lips. “You’re a crazy old dolt,” she mumbled, unwrapping her leg and tucking her foot in the stirrup.

  “That I am.” Gus laughed and his gaze slid to Callie’s. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  His gaze shifted westward to the distant mountain range bathed in sunlight.

  “Even with them bastard Apache hidin’ behind every one of the rocks out yonder?”

  Her gaze followed his. A full day of arduous riding lay between this moment and Jackson’s warm embrace and the only way to right the wrong she’d done and find out if he’d come back to her was to endure the perils that lay in the middle. She loved Jackson. That was all that mattered now.

  Callie straightened in the saddle. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m very sure.”

  Gus inhaled deeply, then pulled his battered hat low over his forehead. “Well then, since you’re sure, suga’pie, what’ya say we go bring your man home?” A nudge sent his gelding forward.

  Callie kicked Diego into a canter behind him.

  Jackson tossed the paper on the cluttered desk in front of the governor. The small-framed man glanced at the bold writing, then bolted up from his chair and stared through wide, bespectacled eyes. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s my resignation.”

  Goodwin opened his mouth to speak, apparently thought better of the idea, and then slowly leaned back, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “Now look, Jackson,” the politician all but purred. “Things are running smoothly. Cochise hasn’t been seen in a month, and every señorita this side of the border is begging to warm your bed. Why in the hell do you want to go and do a damn fool thing like this?”

  “Let’s just say I’m done soldiering, and leave it at that.”

  Goodwin looked up at Jackson through squinty eyes. A full moment passed before he placed a palm flat upon the resignation paper and leaned forward. “But that doesn’t quite explain why you’re handing me this.”

  Jackson remained silent.

  The governor issued a deep sigh, straightened and then walked around the desk to sit on a corner facing him. The man’s expensive linen frockcoat fell to one side, revealing costly buff-colored britches. He matched the superior appointments of the plush office.

  All po
lish and brass.

  Heavy tapestry adorning the windows of the chamber held back the morning sun, darkening the room to a cozy haze. Acrid smoke coiled upward in a thin stream from a cigar burning in the crystal ashtray. The ember end of the tobacco glowed orange.

  “Do you want more money? Will that keep you here?” he asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “It’s not about money.”

  “How about a drink then?” The politician motioned toward a crystal carafe sitting on a silver tray near the bookcase. Jackson declined, but Goodwin slid from the desk anyway and walked to the cluster of glasses beside the decanter. “A little something, perhaps, while we discuss this.”

  He poured liquid into two shot glasses and handed one to Jackson.

  After raising his glass in a halfhearted salute to the statesman, Jackson brought the expensive brandy to his mouth. The first sip cut like a knife as it scraped a path to his stomach. The second emptied the amber contents and slid down his throat. He placed the glass on the desk and picked up his hat.

  “The militia’s running fine, John, and Major Beckman is ready to assume command. I’ve trained him myself, so I know he’s able.” Not that he owed the governor any explanations. Nor was he legally bound to the position. Jackson nonetheless skimmed across the only answer that mattered. “I’m returning to Dos Caballos after the review on Saturday, and I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for the chance to serve the territory.”

  The governor downed his drink in one gulp. He coughed once, then stared at Jackson. “I assume there’s no stopping you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  John studied him for several seconds, his lips tightening in obvious defeat. Finally, he extended his hand. Their palms slid together and they shook.

  “You’re the best damn leader I’ve ever known, Neale. The volunteers respect you, the Injuns are afraid of you and that black beast you ride, and the women…hell, the women adore you.” He laughed, patting Jackson on the back as he walked him to the open door. “If I was a worrying man, I’d be afraid you’d take away my future votes. So you be sure to let me know if you ever have any grand illusions of running for office, will you?”

  “Rest easy, Goodwin. I’m leaving the politics to you.”

  The broad smile returned to the man’s face. “I appreciate your hard work, Neale. I sure do.”

  Jackson nodded, settled his hat and strode from the office, closing the door behind him with a firm tug. A smile sunk into the corner of his mouth as his heartbeat kicked up another notch. “I’m coming home, hellion,” he said out loud as he headed toward the militia headquarters. “Whether you like it or not, I’m coming home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The desert heat shimmered in undulating waves, settling over the Apaches like a heavy hand. Straddling their ponies, the twelve exhausted braves endured the soaring temperature in stony silence.

  Taza scanned his companions as they rested their horses beneath a stand of ironwood trees. Army scouts tracked them with relentless vigor. Bows and arrows were no match for the powerful weapons of the military.

  A subtle motion caught Taza’s attention. He pulled himself straighter. Was that human or wildlife slipping in and out of the shifting shadows?

  He leaned forward, staring past the craggy outcropping of stone, across individual clumps of sage grass and wide-armed saguaros, centering his focus on the images wavering in the heat.

  Human.

  Better yet, white-eyes.

  The muscles in Taza’s neck tightened. He searched for additional horsemen, but saw nothing.

  He eased back. These were not the skillful scouts of the white man’s army. These two rode alone. With amazing proficiency, they melded into their surroundings, seemingly floating across the sandy valley. But as good as they were at blending into the desert, they were not good enough to hide from his eyes.

  He issued a bird-like chirp, drawing the attention of his companions. In silence, he indicated the prey.

  Taza allowed a grin to shift his dry lips. Gone from their mountain home for more than two weeks on a desperate search for provisions, the hunting party seemed destined to return empty handed. Usen had now interceded, bringing him the gifts of saddles and horses.

  He wanted so much to please Cochise.

  Taza watched in silence as the riders maneuvered their mounts down a shale incline, one following in the other’s tracks.

  His lips shifted into a smirk. Skilled, these two. But not skilled enough to avoid him.

  His gaze again swept the arid terrain. In the distance, serrated rocks jutted upward and in between, the ground rose higher. Taza turned his pony toward the swell, motioning for his comrades to follow.

  He maneuvered around a cluster of saguaros, guiding his pony over several exposed roots near the base of the soaring, sixty-foot giants. Several small birds poked their heads from cavities carved into a massive arm of a nearby cactus. Taza hoped the feathered creatures would not chatter their displeasure as the group rode past. As quickly as the birds had emerged, however, they retreated, and Taza breathed a sigh of relief.

  He reined his pony to a stop and waited for the two unsuspecting riders to draw closer, waited until they crossed into the shadowy silhouette cast by the ridge behind them, waited until he knew his aim would be true, then he reached over his shoulder into the leather pouch strapped across his back. Carefully, he withdrew a slender willow and notched the arrow against the taut strand of his bow.

  Inhaling, he stretched high from his waist and readied his weapon of death. The rays of the late-afternoon sun warmed his skin, yet Taza paused, his patience ingrained—learned from a lifetime of watching.

  His eyes narrowed with concentration.

  A single bead of sweat trickled down his face, tracking over his cheekbone, and down into the spill of hair that fell over his bare shoulder. And still he waited, mimicking the bold form of his father, the warrior leader he hoped one day to become.

  Just as the sun sizzled into the sand, Taza let the arrow fly, barely feeling his callused fingertips release the bowstring. Only the snap of sinew against the silence confirmed the deed.

  The willow struck the front rider. The shock and impact heaved the body upward from the saddle, forcing the ndaa’s arms into a cradling motion in a feeble attempt to hold on to life.

  Another smile traced Taza’s parched lips. A heartbeat later, the old white man with hair the color of snow tumbled sideways from the saddle and fell to the ground.

  Yes!

  The trap he’d set had been sure; the location he’d selected would offer no sanctuary to these two. He’d learned well from his elders.

  He reached behind him, withdrawing another arrow. This one he would send into the smaller rider who’d bolted from the saddle to hunker beside Taza’s first mark.

  Raising his readied bow, he again stretched tall from the waist. His elbow rose as he angled his shot. A shaft of amber light fell across his mark, and he caught sight of the rider’s long, golden plait.

  Startled, he lowered his bow.

  Though cleverly disguised beneath her layers of man’s clothing, her shape was more rounded—her outline female. Taza’s forehead creased with his momentary pause. He’d killed white women before, but never at such close range.

  Taza lowered back to his horse and narrowed his eyes. He stared at her, watching as she struggled with the weight of the old man, attempting to pull him up against a cluster of rocks.

  She ripped away the man’s shirt to view the penetration point where the arrow had embedded. She broke the shaft. Though he could not speak their language, he recognized the distress in her garbled words, understood the hand gestures.

  The wounded man wanted her to flee.

  She refused to go.

  Regardless, the woman would never outrun Taza. His resolve strengthened. Barbaric inv
aders such as these had slaughtered his family, invading his home and life, ripping away his happiness and forevermore replacing it with an unquenchable drive for revenge.

  He raised his bow again, sighting down the slender willow shaft. He’d send this deep into her chest, spreading the mark of death across her breast as surely as her kind had torn his own mother from him.

  “For shima,” he whispered.

  The harsh shriek of a hawk shattered the fury raging inside Taza. The sound forced his focus up. His fingers loosened their grip on the bow. In stunned silence he stared at the great soaring bird riding the air currents just above his head.

  Chéek’e. Let it be?

  Why had those words run through his mind? An omen? Reluctantly, he lowered his weapon.

  Taza returned the arrow to the pouch and stared at the circling bird. Did the Powers know something he did not? Perhaps this woman would be of more value to him alive than dead.

  He acknowledged the creature, issuing a sharp shriek in return. Seconds later, the magnificent hawk glided away.

  Taza spoke to his comrades, sharing with them his plan. And several moments after that, they began their slow approach to the woman.

  The circling birds caught Dillon’s attention. He pulled back on the reins of his paint and issued a heavy sigh. He’d seen the telltale sign of death so often it rarely unsettled him. He knew something unpleasant waited over the rise.

  The Papago Indian riding beside him muttered something along the same lines, and Dillon nodded before nudging his gelding forward. The sand made soft sucking noises beneath the animals’ hooves.

  What would it be this time? A dead freighter? Another destroyed homestead? Hell, the Apaches didn’t give a tinker’s damn whom they killed. They just killed.

  Dillon had seen it all. But like a tincture, the need to continue scouting swirled inside his veins, making him hard and bitter and perfect for the job. Truth be told, deep down inside his heart, he didn’t care what bodies he stumbled across because no one alive mattered all that much to him—except Jackson Neale.