by Cindy Nord
Hell, the only person he could say he liked probably was making plans right now to saddle up his horse and return to his ranch.
Lucky bastard.
At least Jackson had someone to care about. As strange as she could be, Callie Cutteridge was a woman, and a beautiful one beneath all her animosity. Jackson loved her—an emotion Dillon had never quite understood or experienced.
Nor had he wanted to, for that matter. He’d been alone for so long he rather liked it that way. He preferred isolation, and that pathetic quality was what made him so damn good at his job. He only rode with a handful of scouts—all handpicked by him. Though not as skilled as he, they were nonetheless adequate. And their presence provided him the additional eyes he needed.
He passed the back of his hand over his bristled face to wipe away the sweat.
They’d been trailing this band of Apaches for nearly ten miles. A small party, no more than a dozen, but the sonsofbitches were too damn close to Tucson to allow the good citizens any comfort.
A shout pulled Dillon from his musings. He glanced up and spotted one of his outriders galloping fast toward him.
“You’re a damn fool for riding like that in this heat, Ronnie,” he snapped when the boy pulled up hard beside him.
“A b-b-body, Reed. J-Just over yond-der.” Dillon ignored the boy’s heavy stutter. Despite the affliction, the young buck could sniff out a mountain lion if he’d been asked to.
The boy gestured toward the slope of rocks behind him. “I d-don’t know if h-he’s still alive th-though.”
Dillon nodded, easing his Colt from its holster. The sun laid a silver glint across the barrel. “What do you say we all ride over and take another look? If he’s dead, then we’ll drape the body behind your saddle for the ride home since you found him.”
Dillon didn’t wait for the reply; he simply nudged his gelding into an easy canter toward the rocks.
Jackson heard the heavy thump of the scout’s footfalls before he saw the man. He wanted to buy his friend a drink since dawn would find Jackson heading for Dos Caballos.
He shoved back the chair opposite him with the toe of his boot and waited for the scout. A moment later, Dillon pushed through the saloon’s batwing doors.
The man made a lean, lethal-looking silhouette against the smoking oil lamps. Another heartbeat passed before Dillon’s gaze connected with Jackson’s. Worry etched the wind-scraped face.
The scout headed toward him, then eased down onto the spindle-back. The chink of his Mexican spurs brushing the wooden chair rowels sounded tinny and cold.
Jackson pushed the shot glass filled with whiskey toward his friend. “How’d it go?” He knew something was wrong when Dillon refused the liquor. Jackson leaned back, raising the front legs of his own chair in the process. “What happened?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. As of this morning he was no longer in charge of problems, but his voice filled with a calm authority out of habit.
He waited while the scout drew a sustaining breath, obviously searching for words—so unlike the other times when he’d shared scouting reports with amazing glee.
“We found a rider an hour or so out,” Dillon finally replied, his words falling out in a flat whisper. “West toward the Tanque Verde corridor. From what I could tell, they were skirting the ridgeline, trying to make it into Tucson before nightfall. He’s with the doctor now, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Jackson waited, nodding. The physician had honed his skill on the battlefields back east and could speak five languages. Whoever the poor bastard was who needed medical treatment, at least there’d be no language barrier.
But Jackson knew Dillon well enough to know the scout was heading into unpleasant territory. Uncertainty about why he’d present bad news like this sent an uneasy chill up Jackson’s spine.
Dillon slid his right hand around the drink. Dirt ringed the fingernails gripping the shot glass. He raised his head. Their gazes locked. The creases carved into the corner of the scout’s eyes deepened. “We just got back a few minutes ago. The wounded man with the doc is your friend, Gus Gilbert.”
The chair dropped to all fours with a slam so loud Dillon closed his eyes. He opened them in time to see Jackson unfolding his arms.
“What the hell did you say?” His friend leaned forward and stared across the scarred tabletop.
This was the worst part. The part that would hurt. The part that he didn’t want to say.
Dillon dropped his gaze to his drink. “He took it low in the shoulder. Damn arrow sunk deep into his muscle, glancing off his shoulder blade. She tried to break the willow shaft, to push it out and stanch the blood. But there wasn’t enough time.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Jackson growled, climbing to his full height to tower over Dillon. The chair clattering to the floor only emphasized the horror. Nauseating fear threaded through each one of Jackson’s words. “Goddammit, are you saying—”
“Callie. Yes, Callie was with him. They were riding in to find you. She wanted to bring you home, to apologize to you. At least that’s what I got from Gus before he blacked out.”
Dillon didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what he would see.
He moved his hand in a tight circle, swirling the liquor in his glass, working hard to keep his own emotions in check.
When at last he raised his head, it was to see the back of Jackson’s large form pushing out through the swinging doors on a frantic course toward the doctor’s office.
Dillon brought the glass to his mouth and winced at the sting against his chapped lips. In one long pull, he swallowed the blistering whiskey, welcoming the stab that did a fine job of disguising the damn lump in his throat. He returned the emptied glass, upside down to the table, then pushed his chair backward.
Another reason why I’ll never fall in love.
The medical office lay three doors down from Renaldo’s Cantina, and as Dillon drew closer he could hear Jackson interrogating the surgeon. Heard, too, the doctor reminding in a gruff voice that his skills had been honed on the battlefields, and if anyone could save Gus Gilbert it would be him.
Dillon glanced inside as he surged past. Gas lights on the far wall illuminated the occupants within. He caught sight of his friend bending over Gus, his left hand gripping the shoulder of the old wrangler. Panic darkened Jackson’s face into a mask of sheer misery.
Dillon shifted his gaze back to the street.
If there was any hope at all of finding Callie, his friend would need the best tracker available.
And that’d be me.
He stepped from the boardwalk, his spurs chinking in stride. Crossing the dusty street, Dillon headed straight toward the stable and their waiting horses.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“She’s still alive.” Jackson’s voice was the thinnest of whispers. “They’ve got her trussed up pretty good though.” Two hundred yards below, a thread-thin flicker from the Apache campfire would offer little warmth to his hellion. He lowered his field glasses and demanded calm to the restlessness churning inside. The previous four hours had been a tortuous hell, not knowing what he’d find.
Fear for her safety had carved tight creases across his forehead. “I count twelve. They’re armed with bows.”
“And Gus and Callie’s guns,” Dillon added. “Looks like a food-scavenging group. They’re young. Less-experienced. Set themselves up for the night ringed by mountains, and there’s only one way out.”
“A foolish mistake for them.”
“But perfect for us.”
Jackson glanced toward his friend sprawled nearby across the ledge. Darkness draped them both. At the bottom of the rocky slope milled a dozen Papago and Navajo scouts. “You all did a good job finding her. I owe you.”
Dillon nodded and Jackson turned back to the Apache camp. Inhaling, he lowered
his head to his forearms. His heart ached for Callie, knowing how terrified she must be. He longed to hold her, to kiss away her fears, to tell her how he loved her. The gut-wrenching longings pushed for reckless action, for him to draw his Remington and shoot every red-skinned sonofabitch in the encampment below. But an ingrained restraint birthed on the battlefields back east cut straight through Jackson’s yearnings with a caution that needed no utterance.
She lived…for now that would have to be enough. His thoughts tripped one over the other as he grappled for a plan to free her—something that would place her in the least amount of danger. He raised his head. Peering through the field glasses, he again sighted his tempestuous partner.
Word of Callie’s abduction had spread through Tucson like a desert storm, but he’d been surprised at the number of volunteers who’d shown up. Half the state militia was only hours behind them and eager to kill more Indians for the fifty dollar reward each male Apache scalp would bring. In their anticipation, most would forget about the precious woman caught in the middle of the communal hatred the whites and Apache bore one another.
The silence of the sleeping desert pushed against Jackson, and his heart hammered with an intensity that nearly cleaved his chest. The heat of the day had not predicted the bone-chilling night to come. Despite the frigid bite, sweat streaked Jackson’s face. Callie possessed more courage than any of her captors, but her mettle was of little help in untying her bonds.
Jackson’s breath steadied as a plan began to germinate. Coiling inside his brain, the idea gained merit. It was a reach by any standard, yet killing them outright might get Callie injured in the process. He allowed his plan to grow. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jackson breathed in the calmness of the surrounding desert.
Yes, the concept might work.
Dillon’s low voice broke into Jackson’s thoughts. “We could wait for the militia to arrive and then spread them out along the ridge and—”
“A stray bullet could be disastrous.” Jackson’s reply scraped the darkness like a rusty blade. “I’m not willing to take that chance.” He pointed to the right. “You agree the only way out for them is through that rocky spur?”
The scout’s gaze followed. He nodded.
“Then we’re not waiting for the militia to arrive.” He dismissed the puzzled expression creasing his companion’s face. “Come with me.”
On hands and knees, Jackson pushed backward down the rocky incline, crushing brick-red petals of a honeysuckle vine that clung to the stony face. The sweet perfume trailed him. During his descent, his coat sleeve snagged a Staghorn cactus drooping under the chill of night. One of its barbs stabbed through the wool. Jackson disregarded the irritation and continued down the slope. He jumped the last few feet to the bottom, landing with a heavy thud. Dried seed pods dropped by nearby palo verde trees crunched beneath his boots.
The horses snorted when they rejoined the scouting party. Jackson moved close to the ancient trees where Salvaje was tied. He smoothed his hand down the stallion’s neck. “You’re a damn good horse. The best I’ve ever had,” he whispered. “And you helped save her life that rainy night. I’m gonna ask you to save her one more time, my friend.” The animal bobbed his head in the silvery light as if already knowing what fate awaited him. Eager to put his idea into action, Jackson climbed into his saddle.
Dillon pulled up onto the paint. The Indians followed suit, climbing atop their own mounts.
And a moment later, they all headed toward the rocky opening while Jackson told them of his plans.
Callie shivered as she peered up at the canopy of sky speckled with diamond-light. One by one, the stars winked out, marking an end to the miserably long night. Her gaze shifted to the horizon brightening under a smear of violet. For a fleeting breath the sterling light hovered, the silence of daybreak oppressive because it brought a reminder of her losses.
The throbbing pain inside her chest bloomed. Gus. He’d filled her father’s shoes and stepped in for her brother—he was her pillar of strength, and he loved her despite her odious ways. She should never have allowed him to ride with her.
Tears slid into the creases of her mouth. Her tongue slipped out to lick away the moisture, the salty taste reminding her she hadn’t had a drop of water in more than ten hours. A dull ache radiated down her jaw. She stared at the pockets of blue sky filtering through the emerging lavender. The striking color held the promise of another scorching, cloudless day.
She lowered her gaze to her hands. Rawhide strips bound her wrists, and the knifelike straps cut through her skin. The blood on the bindings had dried to a purple crust. She was long past caring. Her gaze moved lower. At least her denims and boots protected her bound ankles from the wicked rawhide straps.
If only she could constrict the ache inside her heart.
For the hundredth time, Callie replayed the scenes from yesterday. What could she have done differently? How could she have saved Gus? As the Apaches circled them, she’d sighted-up her shots, only to watch her bullets disappear into useless puffs of sand.
She’d even lain across Gus to protect him, ignoring his feeble protests that she save herself instead. Like ghoulish specters in the dying light, the Apaches descended upon them. Why they hadn’t scalped Gus mystified her. Regardless, by now the arrow would’ve already drained his lifeblood.
Her thoughts scattered along with the incipient dawn when the camp awakened behind her. She knew better than to look at the Apaches, having already discovered her insolence resulted in pain. Even cursing them in Spanish had brought blows. After repeated pummeling, Callie had stopped resisting.
She pulled her body into a tight curl beside the dead campfire. The agony she’d held at bay throughout the long night overwhelmed her. Maybe she could force herself to die, too. A life excluding her loved ones did not warrant living. Tears filled her eyes again, and she pressed her lips together to stifle a sob. Jackson would never know of her love, never hear her apology and never hold her again.
If she could do everything differently, she would start by writing her brother and thanking him for delivering such a strong man into her lonely life. In sending his best friend, Reece had shown her his love, his understanding of needs even she had never known she’d harbored.
Hollow inside, Callie shifted her gaze to the rocky opening through which they would leave this hidden place. A silver object caught the morning light, producing a glint. She blinked and refocused. So deep was her grief, perhaps she’d simply imagined the gleam.
Then she heard the sharp whistles of the lookouts posted near the entrance of the stronghold.
She eased upward, leaning on her bound hands. Blinking several more times to clear her vision, she stared at the point where the creamy light of the new day melted with the rocky opening. The glint was faint, but nonetheless visible. Callie’s despair subsided another notch. She pushed herself higher onto her hip.
Then she saw the two riders, their broad-shouldered outlines hazy in the pale light. They rode purposefully toward camp. Behind her the Indians moved into elevated perches around the camp.
Narrowing her eyes, Callie focused harder on the approaching riders as the seconds crawled past. The young Apache leader rushed forward and delivered a swift kick to her hip with a moccasin-covered foot. She angled upward, struggling onto her knees. Despite the Apache’s warning, her gaze remained riveted upon the riders. The Indian jerked her up by her arm, and she swayed on her bound feet.
The images set. Her parched lips cracked as they formed an O around her loud gasp. The rider in front astride his sleek-coated stallion carved a familiar profile. She didn’t dare blink for fear the sight would dissolve into the sand. Elation grabbed hold, breathing life into Callie’s dying heart.
Tears returned, slipping from her eyes to scald a path down her cheeks. The Apaches, the other rider—everything else faded from view. She tracked only the man who’d sei
zed her emotions from the moment he’d entered her life, the man who’d broken down the walls she’d erected around her pain, who’d claimed her for his own in a cabin near Angel Creek. On a rush of love, his name fell from her mouth in a raw and throaty whisper.
“Jackson.”
Chapter Thirty
Having heard the warning signals from the posted lookouts, Taza ordered his warriors to ready their weapons. Two riders emerged through a narrow cleft in the rocks and guided their mounts into the clearing that fronted his camp.
A curse fell from his mouth. For months, he’d used this secluded haven as a stopping-off point to refresh and gain strength. Now he’d be forced to find another site.
His lips compressed into a tight line.
White-eyes. He despised every one of them. And these two thought to taunt him by riding into his camp? Not likely. Soon they would be dead.
Taza snapped an order that sent several comrades scrambling onto rocky ledges. He tightened his grip on the woman’s arm and jerked her upward. By now she’d learned not to fight him.
The ndaa drew closer, raising their arms to indicate they carried no weapons. Riding into an enemy’s camp took courage; riding in unarmed was crazy.
Fools.
The woman gasped, then spoke a single, garbled word.
She knows them.
Taza narrowed his eyes, centering his gaze on the lead man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Determined. The ndaa didn’t look crazy, but still… Those who were not right in the head had been touched by the spirits. He could not take their lives until he first determined this fact. Another order to his men caused them to lower their bows and stand ready.
Dawn’s golden light crept up the escarpment as each passing moment brought the interlopers closer to the camp. Taza dropped his gaze to the impressive mount the ndaa in front rode. The animal’s ebony hide glistened under the brittle light. Recognition tightened his chest. Stories of this wild beast’s capture had spread throughout the camps of Cochise.