Only in My Arms

by Jo Goodman

  Although all the women were sought as partners, one particular woman enjoyed a surfeit of attention and accepted it as her due. Her presence was suffered by the officers' wives and despised by the officers' daughters. Florence Gardner was the only one who found amusement from her presence at the fort, though she kept it to herself.

  Anna Leigh Hamilton bore the stamp of Eastern sophistication that none of the other women in the room could rival, except perhaps the general's mother who didn't care to. It was not that the wives and daughters hadn't once enjoyed the same well-mannered polish Miss Hamilton wore as regally as elbow-length gloves, it was simply that the heat and hardships of the Arizona Territory, the daily threats of raids and uprisings, had worn away the pretenses and conventions. Practicalities were more important considerations in this harsh environment than polish.

  Anna Leigh Hamilton didn't expect to stay at the desert fort long enough to lose the radiance and refinement that drew so many covert glances in her direction. She looked forward to returning to San Francisco, then to Washington, with her widowed father. She would play hostess for him again, attend the theater and the opera, and choose from among the most advantageous of the invitations for dinner parties and carriage rides. She would entertain congressmen and judges and generals, sometimes in the parlor or dining room of their grand Washington home, sometimes in the even more intimate surroundings of her grand bed.

  * * *

  Ryder McKay casually flicked a cigarette into the dirt when he heard someone approaching. Turning, he leaned negligently against the wagon wheel he had been inspecting moments earlier. The woman's silhouette was outlined by the bright candlelight coming from the officers' hall behind her. Ryder recognized her immediately and his wary, guarded features faded. The posture that had looked relaxed now actually became so.

  "Don't you have enough partners in there?" he asked. His raised chin indicated the hall. "You're not going to insist on making me do a two-step with you?"

  Florence Gardner laughed gleefully. "And get my toes trampled in three different places? I don't think I'll risk that." She leaned a little heavily on her ebony cane as she came closer to the wagon and didn't offer any resistance when Ryder picked her up by the waist and set her on the back of the wagon bed. It was very like him to notice her discomfort and act to relieve it. Looking at him carefully, his strong features handsomely carved by star shine and firelight, Florence was moved to sigh. She tapped him on the chest with the curved handle of her cane. "If I were forty years younger..."

  Ryder smiled at that. "You'd still be old enough to be my big sister."

  "Ill-mannered lout," she said pleasantly. She made it sound like a term of endearment. "Why aren't you inside filling dance cards?"

  He didn't answer, turning to his inspection of the wagon again. It was a bone of contention between them, and Florence Gardner knew precisely how he felt. He wasn't an officer. That covered his end of the argument as far as he was concerned. Given the opportunity, the general's mother would have pointed out that neither was Ryder regular Army. He had never been an enlisted man. Though he preferred to think of himself as a scout, he was much more of a special agent, contracted by the Army for very particular assignments. He had as much right to be in that room as the senator from Massachusetts, the prospectors from the Holland Mines, or the surveyors from the Office of Land Management.

  "Humph," Florence snorted when she couldn't get a rise out of him. She smoothed the edges of her thick white hair where it had come loose from its combs. Her pale blue eyes sparkled a bit mischievously as she said nonchalantly, "I thought you might be encouraged to take one turn on the floor with the hussy."

  Ryder's lean fingers paused on the axle. "I don't think I heard you correctly."

  Florence rapped the cane on the wagon bed several times. The harsh tattoo made the wood vibrate. "You know you heard very well. There's nothing wrong with your ears. I'm the one who's older than dirt here."

  Ryder stood again and rested one elbow against the side of the wagon. He looked at her consideringly. She was a diminutive woman with pale skin and even whiter hair. Her mouth was too full and wide to ever be severe, but she made an effort to clamp it down hard when she wanted to appear disapproving. In confidence she had once told Ryder that she had seen too much in her lifetime to take anything too seriously. As a result, even at her most critical, most intolerant moments, Ryder saw through the grimly set mouth to the youthful laughter in her heart and in her eyes. Sometimes, when no one else was looking, she even dared a wink in his direction. It was their shared secret.

  "Well?" she demanded with some asperity. "Why aren't you—" Florence broke off as the double doors to the hall opened and closed again. Over Ryder's shoulder she saw the subject of her question come into view. "Don't look now, Ryder, but—"

  He nodded. "I know. I can smell her."

  Florence knew Ryder was referring to Anna Leigh's expensive Paris fragrance, but the fact that he gave it no more due than smelling cattle droppings tickled her fancy. She laughed so hard tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

  Ryder reached in his back pocket and extended his bandana. The older woman took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes. She stuffed it back in his hand just as Anna Leigh came upon them.

  "Help me down, Ryder," Florence said. "I'll go back to the ball. Even in this desert, three's a crowd." She smiled serenely at Anna Leigh as she was gently set down. Her parting smile for Ryder was a shade more coquettish. "Behave yourself."

  Not certain for whom the admonishment was meant, both Ryder and Anna Leigh watched her go. When Anna Leigh turned to Ryder he was already engaged in his inspection of the wagon. "Doesn't the Army have people who do that sort of thing?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said shortly. "Me."

  Anna Leigh laughed lightly. It was a trilling sound, sweetly melodious. She couldn't know that it served to remind Ryder McKay of a heartier, healthier laugh. "I thought I would see you this evening," she said.

  He didn't look at her, giving his full attention to his work. "You are."

  She was more intrigued by his rudeness than offended by it. She followed him as he walked around the wagon. "My father thought you'd attend the ball. It's in his honor, you know."

  "I know."

  "You were invited, weren't you?"

  "I was."

  "Then why—"

  "Personal." As far as Ryder was concerned the subject was closed. He had no need to explain his reasons to Anna Leigh Hamilton or her father for that matter.

  Anna Leigh's bow mouth was pulled in an attractive pout. It was a practiced expression, one that she had mastered in front of her vanity mirror. One hundred strokes to her silky, butter yellow hair gave her ample time to rehearse the nuances of expression that ran the entire emotional gamut from melancholia to madness. She had a slender face with high cheekbones, a wide brow, and clear blue eyes that could be both winsome and worldly. Her complexion was creamy. The few freckles on the bridge of her slim nose were due to nightly applications of lemon juice and morning applications of rice powder. Among her other attributes she numbered an hourglass figure, slender well-turned ankles, dainty feet, and delicate bones.

  The attention that Anna Leigh Hamilton accepted as her right was due in no small measure to the fact that she was a beautiful young woman. Most of the time she was skillful enough to conceal the fact that she knew it.

  "Don't you think it's a bit insulting?" she asked. "Not to come inside?"

  "You're not inside," he pointed out.

  She smiled now and wished he would turn in her direction to see it. When he didn't, she made certain the smile could be heard in her voice. "Touché," she said. Anna Leigh ran her hand across the rough wooden edge of the wagon, following the path of Ryder's own fingers as he rounded another corner. "What exactly is it that you're doing?" she asked, curiosity quelling her impatience. "It's a wagon, isn't it? Four wheels? A solid bottom?"

  More or less a solid bottom, he thought. "It's a wagon," he s
aid.

  "One of the ones you're escorting to the train station in the morning?"

  At first he was surprised that she knew about it, then he reasoned she could have heard it anywhere. The trip was hardly a secret among the men. Still, he didn't deny or confirm her suspicions or ask her what she knew about it.

  "I'm going along," she told him.

  Ryder stopped his inspection and turned on her. The night air was dry and crisp. The harsh lay of the land was no harsher than the taut features of Ryder's face. "No, you're not."

  Anna Leigh warmed to the look, thrilled by his concern. At the same time, she wasn't used to being told no. "Papa said I could."

  "And I say you can't."

  Her light brows rose a fraction. "I don't think this is your decision."

  "We'll see." He wasn't going to barge into the ball now. His argument with the senator could wait until they could talk privately. "Shouldn't you go back to the dancing?" he asked.

  She shrugged. The movement raised the half moons of her breasts a little higher. Anna Leigh noticed the motion drew Ryder's attention but did not hold it. "Is it because you're an Indian?" she asked.

  His entire body was rigid. It was an effort to be polite. "I'm not certain I follow."

  "Is that why you aren't joining the party, because the other scouts aren't invited and you're an Apache just like them?"

  "That's an interesting conjecture."

  Anna Leigh continued to stare at him expectantly. She only came to his shoulder, but she knew the angle at which she had to look up showed her throat to its long, slender advantage.

  "Who told you I was Apache?"

  Anna Leigh shook her head slightly as if she were protecting her source. "It's true, isn't it?"

  Ryder doubted that anyone had told her. More likely, it was her own assumption. She had seen him in comfortable conversation with the scouts, sharing a table with them in the mess hall, and had drawn her own conclusions. She was encouraged in her thinking by his physical appearance: the sun-beaten color of his skin, the thick mane of glossy black hair, his strongly carved features. She had ignored, as others had before her, that he stood six to eight inches taller than the other scouts and that his eyes were the color of early morning frost, or she had explained the anomalies away by further assuming his heritage was mixed.

  Ryder's smile was cold, his eyes penetrating. Anna Leigh didn't know enough to look away. She was mesmerized. Abruptly Ryder came to a decision. Taking her by the wrist he led the senator's daughter away from the row of wagons, away from the music and lights of the officers' hall, and toward the soldiers' barracks. He didn't take her inside, but skirted the adobe building until he had her at the rear. She made no move to resist him, not when he pulled her into the shadows behind the barracks and not when he pressed her against the rough mud wall. Her breathing was light, a little unsteady, but she was excited, not fearful.

  "Is this why you came out here?" he asked, the line of his jaw tense. "Were you hoping to have the savage's hands on you this evening?" He pulled at the puffed sleeves of her satin gown so her bodice slipped lower.

  Anna Leigh looked down at herself. Even in the shadows her skin was still paler than the hands that were on it. The contrast was startling, and Anna Leigh was aroused by it. "I've been watching you," she whispered huskily. From the beginning, she could have added. He was standing on the porch of the officers' quarters when the entourage from Washington had arrived. One of his shoulders had been braced against a timber that supported the overhang, and it was his indifferent, casual posture that she had noticed first. He didn't leap to attention or stiffen self-consciously as one about to come under inspection. Instead, he tugged on the brim of his hat to shade his eyes and disappeared just as the wagons were being unloaded. His insolence did not go unnoticed by other members of their party, but rather than being insulted by it, Anna Leigh was intrigued. "You're not like anyone else here," she told him.

  Ryder was not particularly flattered by her observation. Not only did it have the easy comfort of a prepared speech, but there were men at Fort Union he admired. Not being like anyone else wasn't always a compliment. A hoarse sound came from the back of his throat, part growl, part purr. His hands slid across her bare shoulders to her neck. The rough pad of his thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. He saw her mouth part and felt the catch of her breath. He lowered his head. "How sure are you of that?" he asked softly. "I want the same thing from you that they do." His mouth clamped over hers as his entire body drove her flush to the wall.

  Anna Leigh welcomed the pressure of his mouth. One of her legs rose against his flanks. Her body rubbed his. The bodice of her gown was pushed lower and her breasts would have been exposed to the cool air if it weren't for the protection of Ryder's coarse woolen jacket. Friction radiated through her tender skin, hardening her nipples and sending charged currents of heat from her breasts to her thighs. She felt her gown being raised and realized he was going to take her out in the open, standing up, her back pressed to a wall of dried mud. If she hadn't been clutching his neck for support, her fingers threaded deeply in his thick, inky hair, she would have lifted the gown herself.

  Suddenly Ryder stopped his assault on her mouth, raised his head, and let her see the glimmer of a smile on his face. It had the warmth of a sliver of light on cold, hard steel. "I'm as white as you are, Miss Hamilton," he whispered roughly. "If you're looking for a scalp to hang in your bedroom, you'll have to look—"

  Anna Leigh reared back and slapped him. "Bastard."

  "Wrong again," Ryder said pleasantly. He ignored the heat in his left cheek and made a gesture near his head, tipping an invisible hat to her. It was an absurdly mannerly touch given his behavior, and she did not miss the mockery in it or in his expression.

  "They said you're a half-breed," she called after him as he turned to go. Her tone was accusing, as if she'd been betrayed—not by the ones who told her but by him.

  Ryder paused long enough to speak to her over his shoulder. Anna Leigh had managed to right her bodice and was smoothing what had been a carefully coifed hairstyle. "If they told you that," he said, conveying something of his disbelief, "then it was because they were warning you away from me. Around here white women don't throw themselves at Indians or half-breeds."

  Anna Leigh's eyes widened. "What are you saying? Those bitches were trying to protect you? Save you for themselves?"

  Ryder almost laughed. He hadn't thought of it like that, but he supposed it could be true. The mothers didn't seem to know whether to be hopeful or fearful that he would turn his attention to one of their daughters. "I figure they're hedgin' their bets until I make up my mind. Truth is, though, I'm spoken for."

  "Spoken for?" she demanded crossly.

  Ryder didn't miss a beat. "Florence Gardner."

  The following morning Ryder reflected on the exchange between himself and Anna Leigh Hamilton as the company was preparing to depart. She hadn't been able to respond to his parting shot for almost a full minute, but made up for it later with a foul harangue that would have made the coarsest whore sit up and take notice. She was looking very demure this morning, he observed as Corporal Harding gave her a leg up on her mount. She handled the unfamiliar mare expertly, calming her quickly and demonstrating at the outset who was in charge. Ryder had never had any doubt that she could handle a horse. His objection to her joining the expedition had nothing to do with her riding ability and everything to do with the element of danger.

  Anna Leigh had a sweet, saucy smile for each of the sixty men accompanying the wagons, from the lowliest driver to the troop leader, First Lieutenant Spencer Matheson. It was calculated to brighten their day, make them forget the miserable heat, and encourage them to remember how she had looked the night before in her jade satin ball gown. Ryder McKay was not a recipient of that smile. For the troop scout, Anna Leigh reserved a look that was haughty and superior, a pointed reminder that in spite of his attempt to humiliate her, she had still won an important battle.
He could not have his way in all things.

  Ryder dismissed the look she cast in his direction by simply ignoring it. He had more important things on his mind than Anna Leigh's petty retributions. He didn't understand or agree with her father's decision to allow her to accompany the wagons. Senator Warren Hamilton had explained it to him, of course, but to Ryder's way of thinking it didn't make sense. It didn't matter to Ryder that the senator had already made a promise to his daughter, or that he thought Ryder was exaggerating the danger; as far as Ryder was concerned, any danger at all presented too great a risk.

  As soon as he realized the argument was lost, Ryder lodged a personal protest with the fort's commander. General Gardner listened, made his own attempt to dissuade the senator, and was met with the same stiff resistance. Finally the general had no choice but to order Ryder to take her along. "It's his business," he said. "And you're not the one in command."

  "I haven't forgotten my place," Ryder said. "But I'm the one charged with the safety of this expedition and I don't like it. She doesn't belong."

  General Gardner had held up his hand in a weary but firm gesture. The subject was closed and Ryder McKay was dismissed.

  When First Lieutenant Matheson moved his company out, Ryder stopped thinking about Anna Leigh and her powerful, but ill-advised father, and concentrated on his assignment. As an Army scout Ryder held no formal rank. His pay amounted to a little more than a captain's salary because his skills were in great demand. He carried a map of most of the great Southwest in his head. On long expeditions through rocky canyons or scrub desert, Ryder proved he could find water, forage for food in the brush, or hunt game if called upon to do so. He did not expect to be asked to fill any of those roles this time.