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  An Unlikely Hero

  (Book #3 in the 4-book The Cutteridge series)

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  DCT Associates

  Copyright 2016

  Cover by Lyn Taylor

  ISBN: 978-0-9976573-0-2

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and all characters within are a work of fiction and/or figments of the author’s imagination. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt any portion of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  Praise for Cindy Nord’s

  Cutteridge Family Series

  “You’ll savor every ounce of passion, adventure, and transformation in Cindy Nord’s exquisite debut novel. I didn’t want it to end.”

  ~ Cynthia Wright, Romantic Times and Affaire de Coeur multiple award winner on No Greater Glory

  “The love stories are fantastic, and the research done by this author is minutely perfect – right down to the clothing worn by her characters.

  ~ Katherine Boyer, Midwest Book Review

  “Cindy Nord writes powerful, well-crafted novels of complex emotions and beautifully drawn characters that explores the inherent risks of falling in love with one’s enemy.”

  ~ Laura Taylor, multiple Romantic Times Award winner.

  “The love scenes are steamy yet tender. Recommended for anyone who enjoys historical romance, as well as those who would find appeal in a steamier Gone with the Wind.”

  ~ Library Journal on No Greater Glory

  “Cindy Nord has written a beautiful love story set during the Civil War.”

  ~ Julie-Ann Ford, Reader

  “I’ve read my fair share of Civil War romances where the hero and heroine come from different sides of the conflict, but manage to find their happily ever after. However, it’s the characters and how they get to that ending is what makes No Greater Glory stand out. I was completely drawn in to this story and couldn’t put the book down.”

  ~ Romancing the Book

  “Cindy Nord’s With Open Arms…has lots of chemistry between Callie and Jackson no matter how much they try to fight it. I look forward to reading the rest of this series when the books come out.”

  ~ Romance Junkies

  “I was only 1% through the book, but I already knew I was going to offer this author representation. Cindy Nord’s writing blew me away!”

  ~ Louise Fury, Literary Agent, the Jenny Bent Literary Agency

  Dedications

  For Tom, the love of my life … ALWAYS.

  For mom and dad … Who gave me wings to fly.

  For Tex … Evermore, my bridge.

  For Di … Writing made Delightful.

  And, for Louise … Agent Extraordinaire.

  ♥

  Chapter One

  Washington D.C.,

  May 1873

  Who in the hell came up with this asinine plan?

  Dillon Reed grimaced at the stench of burning coal as he jammed the colonel’s telegram into his coat pocket. He cut his gaze across the station platform to the nearby locomotive. In a deluge of color, passengers descended the railcar’s iron steps; he kept his attention riveted on the opening.

  An exasperated sigh escaped from between clenched teeth. He’d delivered the governor’s territorial reports to Washington in just under three weeks, a remarkable time, and he looked forward to a swift, unencumbered return home. But, when he’d checked the telegraph office for messages before heading out, this newest malarkey of an assignment waited. He’d also been instructed to shave and freshen-up prior to meeting this train from Boston, but Hell's chambers would freeze solid before Dillon would make the effort.

  I’m an army scout, for Christ’s sake, not some damn nanny.

  A grating responsibility rolled into focus when a peach-colored parasol, the signal he’d been awaiting, popped open to fill the train's doorway. Dillon shoved from the depot’s wall and straightened, the crown of his slouch hat bumping a sign that read Washington, District of Columbia – The Capitol of Your Country. The plank swung back and forth on squeaky hinges.

  Heat fused with anger when his contact’s traveling boot glided to the first iron step. Good God, her entire foot could fit in his right hand.

  His gaze climbed a dark-green dress rigged with a ridiculous bustled contraption, raked over a fur encircling slender shoulders like a buffalo mane, then finally came to a stop on golden curls swirling upward into a tarnished knot. Atop the silken mass, a scrap of hat perched at a cockeyed angle. A dozen blue and green ribbons fluttered in the afternoon breeze with all the spectacle of a peahen.

  Dillon’s throat tightened as the woman descended to the platform, radiant among the other travelers. Her ability to stand out in a crowd added another sting to the onerous assignment. For a full minute, he waited while she scanned the throng, anxiousness shadowing her face. Narrow of waist, she stood barely five feet tall…a good stiff wind would blow her over.

  Another curse welled inside him.

  The urge to walk away warred against every ounce of military commitment he possessed. What did he do to the colonel to deserve such wretched torment? Dillon straightened, then stepped from the shadows of the depot to collect his damnable…assignment.

  Boots thumped against weathered wood as each stride echoed his resentment. How could this slip of lace endure the miles they’d have to travel, or the harsh sun of the desert? Christ Almighty, she’d end up sick or dead and slung over his saddle in no time. As his shadow darkened the woman’s diminutive form, he retrieved the telegram from his coat pocket, then tightened his jaw.

  “Alma Talmadge?” he snapped.

  She swung to face him, her eyes widening.

  Dillon thrust the telegram forward, his words cleaving the air. “Per these instructions from your uncle, I’ve been assigned as your escort on the trip westward to Fort Lowell.”

  A well-shaped brow arched with suspicion. Her mouth tightened as she abruptly scanned the words, her golden-tipped eyelashes raising and lowering with each haughty sweep. A moment later, her gaze lanced back to his. “I was told to expect a proper attendant.”

  “Proper?” he snorted. “I’m as proper as you’re gonna get.”

  Her attention riveted on his sweat-stained Stetson, then slid all the way down him to his scuffed-up cavalry boots. When their gazes reconnected, disgust dulled the spark in her indigo eyes. “But … you’re no gentleman.”

  “Where we’re going, lady the last thing you’ll need is one of those dupes who can’t find his ass with both hands.”

  Repulsion cascaded scarlet across her face. She pressed a dainty, lace-edged hankie to the column of her throat. “I cannot possibly travel with the unkempt likes of you. Y-You’re not even clean.”

  The insistent urge to walk away blistered deeper. “The job is to deliver you safely to the fort…which I intend to do. Cleanliness does not increase my skill.”

  Her gloved hand clenched the ivory handle of her parasol.

  And a streak of hope shot straight through Dillon.

  With God’s own luck, maybe she’d turn tail and scurry back aboard the train.

  Instead, her chin rose. Along with his disgruntlement.

  “When I left Boston, Father assured me I would be comfortable with the arrangements.” If she’d carved her words into a block of ice and handed them over, her obvious loathing of him could not have been colder.

  Dillon scanned her smooth forehead, the silken hollows beneath her cheekbones, her pale and
polished skin. He leaned down, his body dwarfing hers. “Did he also mention we’re not going on some afternoon jaunt here? And there’s no changing your mind once you start missing the lavish amenities of home.”

  He bumped the brim of his hat against the parasol’s silk ruching. “And once we’re past Fort Hays, there’s no more trains. No embroidered cushions. No luxuries of any kind. In fact, it’ll just be me and you and an unforgiving trail back to Tucson.” He narrowed his gaze. “We’ll be moving fast – by stagecoach, if we’re lucky, by horseback, or on foot, if we’re not. And the last quarter of the trip will be through desert, where the heat can kill even able-bodied men.”

  Confident he’d made his point, Dillon eased back. In fact, he’d surrender a full month’s pay without a moment’s hesitation to decline this idiotic assignment. “Now I’m not sugarcoatin’ this one damn bit so you still have time to reconsider.”

  He crumpled the colonel’s telegram into a tight wad, then jammed the paper into his coat pocket.

  The woman merely jutted her chin. “Lord Green assured me it would be an easy journ–”

  “Lord Green should’ve told you the damn truth,” he cut in. Whoever the bastard was, he needed his ass kicked clean into next week. Dillon grimaced. He just couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. “And to spare any woman from realism is neither admirable nor honest. I’ll be sure to remind the sonofabitch of this fact should we ever meet.”

  She starched her spine, straightening. “Lord Henry Smyth Green is the Earl of Lochnor. He is every inch a gentleman, Mister...”

  “Reed,” he growled, pulling his hat brim lower. His eyes narrowed. “Dillon Reed.”

  She lowered her hankie, and the fluttering pulse in the hollow of her throat caught his attention.

  “Well…Mister Reed, my father insists it’s safe, and others support his assessment. In fact, Lord Green, my fiancé, awaits my arrival. I’ve little to say in this matter, but if I did, I certainly would not have chosen the likes of you to act as my shield of protection westward.” She tilted her parasol to block the sun’s glare and scanned the crowd before reconnecting her gaze with his. “Regardless, if my family believes I am safe shackled with…you, then I shall sally forth in my adventure.”

  Dillon glared across the top of her hat, straight through the green and blue strands of ribbons that fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Good God, the obnoxious chit views our two-thousand-mile trek as nothing more than an inconsequential hitch in her otherwise lark of a life.

  “And in the future, Mister Reed…”

  His glare collided with hers.

  “You will do well to remember it is not your place to tell me where I can–or where I cannot go.” Her clipped words dripped with censure. “Your task is simply to get me there.”

  The muscle beneath his eye twitched. The desire to tell this arrogant, bustled-up sugartit exactly where she could go chaffed at him like a tick on a horse’s ass. But, he stifled the urge. After all, she was right: He wasn’t a gentleman.

  Gentlemen didn’t kill people.

  Anxiety uncoiled from the pit of his stomach. Miss Alma Talmadge embodied everything he despised in this world. Every. Damn. Thing. But he owed her uncle, which was the God’s truth. Without the colonel, he’d have no job. By now, he’d most likely be in jail.

  Or dead.

  Habits were hard to break. With an exaggerated bow, Dillon stepped back and motioned for her to proceed to the station house. Head high, parasol aloft, she walked across the wooden deck. As she passed, an elusive fragrance wafted from her person and reached out to stroke his senses. The scent blocked the stench of the locomotive and the crowd milling around him.

  And rolled back the pain-filled years.

  Roses?

  The redolence whirled through him, bouncing off his sanity. Jeezus. Did she have to smell like roses? He hadn’t relished anything quite so inexplicably woman in years, and he wanted to lose himself in the intoxicating pull. The aroma whispered of long-ago memories of contentment and happiness and love.

  He inhaled, deeply…just once, to quench the hellish thirst inside his heart.

  On a rough groan, he tightened his jaw. Christ Almighty, he’d rather track a mess of Apache any damn day than babysit this spoiled rotten debutant all the way to Fort Lowell.

  ***

  “Hell no, you can’t take them all. Good God, woman, have you no idea where you’re going?”

  Alma fought to ignore the sheer size of the man while she held her ground behind the eleven steamer trunks that lined the weathered walkway. She could scarcely tolerate him these past three minutes, how could she possibly be expected to endure him for the three-week journey? She swept her gaze over him. A long, mud-colored jacket topped an equally dark shirt and neither had seen soap and water in weeks. Beneath a wide-brimmed hat, dark hair tumbled well below his shoulders. And the thick, tangled strands hadn’t met a comb or a brush in at least as long. Stubble shadowed his angular face and upper lip, only adding a wicked distinction to his features.

  Worse, a disparaging glare radiated from his eyes.

  Dangerous and intimidating – both words perfectly described this filthy beast. Yet, Alma swallowed fast in an attempt to hold her emotions at bay.

  Fear was too strong a word for the feelings coursing through her. This man didn’t frighten her. Did he? A sense of isolation loomed ever closer as anger at this newest circumstance ripened inside her. Worse, she must now face all of these life changes in the companionship of someone completely unsuited with her station in life.

  “Mister Reed,” she snapped, praying the bite in her words masked her growing frustration, “these trunks contain everything I’ll need in this adventure westward. I certainly don’t intend to stand here in the blinding sun and squabble with you about this as if we’re common dockhands.” She waved him off with a flutter of her hand. “Just move along and make the proper arrangements for putting my belongings onto the correct train westward.”

  The heathen veered closer, dark brows slamming together. Again, the muscle beneath his eye twitched. With all the force of a raging storm rolling in off the sea, his voice rumbled over her, “Lady, we won’t be taking all of these.”

  Alma fought back another rush of tears as tightness pulled fresh across her chest.

  She blinked fast, several times, to staunch the ludicrous urge to weep. These trunks contained her Worth day gowns, her pantalets, petticoats, corsets, bustles and dressing robes, everything sewn exclusively for her by a half dozen exacting seamstresses. And this…this looming imbecile expected her to just leave them all behind?

  She swallowed back the bile as she caught the fan suspended from a pale pink ribbon around her wrist. Dropping open the slats, she fluttered the fragrant sandalwood before her in an attempt to catch her breath. What if someone she knew saw her speaking with this lummox? Her gaze dropped to the revolver strapped low around his lean hips.

  He probably shot people to death in their sleep.

  The soothing image of her diminutive Lord Green flashed through her mind. Her fiancé smelled of limes, not livestock. And in the seven months she’d known the man, she’d never once seen the Earl angry. Nor would he dare to curse in her presence. In fact, he indulged her every whim.

  Alma stared up at the heathen. The entire two-day trip from Boston to this Washington D.C. train station she’d envisioned a portly, white-haired escort greeting her. One of her uncle’s retired soldiers, perhaps. At the very least, a mannered companion to keep her well amused while she traveled westward to her new beginning. The moment this rawboned toad materialized before her, his eyes squinting in the sun like a madman’s, all those agreeable images shattered.

  He shifted slightly and crossed his arms. “Your behavior is not the cooperation the colonel’s telegram promised. Perhaps, I should wire him back and mention your defiance.”

  Her approach toward this ungainly reprobate, along with the idea of hiring a more suitable attendant, evaporated as quickly as they
had breathed to life. Her father would not approve of her disobliging behavior, and Uncle Thaddeus, the colonel at the fort in Tucson and the destination where she now traveled, might think her a reckless malcontent.

  Alma pressed her lips together and inhaled, drawing in much needed air.

  When her traveling companion had fallen ill shortly before the train departed Boston, her father still insisted Alma continue onward. The fact that she’d never traveled anywhere without Mrs. Butterfield obviously mattered little to her father, and his strange behavior confused her. The promise that he’d arranged a suitable escort through Uncle Thaddeus to meet her here in Washington consoled her so she agreed to continue. Think, Alma. Think!

  Surely a lifetime of garden soirees, society balls, and the finest of finishing schools that Talmadge money could buy would help her in this dreadful circumstance. After all, she’d honed her womanly skills to perfection.

  Alma again studied the lanky-haired man. Afternoon light played across his chiseled features and obnoxious stand. However, if she looked close enough, beneath all the grime, she could almost see a handsome countenance.

  Her lips curved into a soft smile.

  Oh yes, she knew full well how to manipulate even a grubby, gun-toting troll such as him. After all, he was only a man.

  “Mister Reed,” she said, her words dripping with sweetness. “There are many things a woman requires to attain a level of modesty.” She ignored his scowl. “Proper etiquette forbids me to speak of personal items, but even in your dangerous part of the country, women surely must have…unmentionable requirements. You know, essential feminine belongings men don’t quite understand.” She paused to press the hankie to her throat again, taking note of his downward glance. Perfect. “I’m to be married soon after arriving at your fort, and everything in these trunks is vital to my trousseau.” She gave a soft sigh as she twirled her parasol above her shoulder. “Even you can’t deny me my unmentionable womanly requirements, can you?”