Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) (15 page)

Twenty

McIntyre leaned forward in the saddle and watched with admiration
as Emilio studied the ground
. He
couldn’t see beneath the ragged tan hat, but McIntyre could tell he was
concentrating. Turned out, the boy was a fine tracker. He hadn’t lost Betts’s
trail once in two days. He was leading them right to the outlaw’s front door,
wherever that was.

“They’re still together,” Emilio said, squatting to better study
the ground. He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear and nodded. “One of
their horses threw a shoe.”

Beckwith nodded in approval of the boy’s skill. “They’ll have to
stop and fix that.” He studied the forest of aspens around them. “Any kind of
homestead or settlement nearby?”

McIntyre pointed with his chin. “Less than a mile. An abandoned
miner’s cabin. The trail forks in about half a mile.” He resituated the reins
in his hand, ready to ride. “If they went to the cabin, their tracks will turn
right. Either way, we’re about to catch up with them.”

It didn’t take long.

Long, eerie shadows stretched silently through the woods like the
fingers of dead men. Gun drawn, McIntyre peered through the underbrush and
pines at the small, dilapidated cabin. He heard no sounds except for the
trickle of a nearby creek and the soft song of evening crickets. No voices. No
clattering dishes. He noted, too, that no smoke puffed from the chimney and
there weren’t any horses in the corral. Frustrated, he studied the dark windows
for movement inside.

Nothing. Still as a graveyard.

After several minutes of waiting, he heard Beckwith shift
positions. McIntyre tried to smother his irritation. Here he was, sitting in
the woods, apparently on a wild goose chase, while Matthew was probably
enjoying the sisters’ gushing ministrations. He could see the man, sitting by
the fire, feet propped up on a chair and a pillow, Naomi handing him a cup of
coffee.

He bit back a growl.

Emilio said the tracks went straight to the cabin, but maybe the
men rode out the other side, aware that the determined posse was gaining on
them. Finding out could be downright dicey. Huffing softly, McIntyre glanced
quickly at the men on either side of him. One hard-scrabble marshal, two
brave—but untested—boys. He couldn’t keep doing this. The men in Defiance were
going to have to step up, despite being nothing but a bunch of tough-talking
blowhards. Always ready for a good lynching, their blustery chatter died to a
whisper if there was the possibility a real fight might be involved—

All at once, glass shattered, the earsplitting explosions of rifle
fire and a .44 reverberated over them, and a dull thump hit his hat. Reacting
to the shrapnel, McIntyre ducked behind a slender pine and aimed his gun at the
cabin. More glass shattered in the dwelling and guns blazed simultaneously from
both groups in rapid, thundering succession. Bullets and smoke filled the air.
Lead hit the pine next to McIntyre, showering him with bark. He changed his
position again, taking cover more to the right and behind a larger tree.

A white puff of smoke wafted away from the outhouse and he
realized that was the location of the .44. He yelled at Beckwith over the
gunfire, “There’s one in the outhouse!” Beckwith, revolver in one hand, rifle
in the other, nodded and charged for a group of aspens closer to the lone
building. McIntyre alternated shots at the cabin and the outhouse to give the
lawman cover.

A flutter of movement behind a bedraggled curtain tipped McIntyre
off. He fired and heard a scream.

First blood. A psychological victory for the posse.

“George Betts, this is Marshal Beckwith!”

McIntyre looked over. The marshal, standing behind a fat aspen,
holstered the revolver and shoved bullets into the rifle with smooth, unhurried
moves.

“I’ve got a warrant for your arrest for horse stealing.” Emilio
and Wade stopped firing and tucked in tighter behind their trees. The return
fire petered out and an eerie hush fell over the group. The outlaws were
listening. “And now I’ve got cause to bring in your friends.” Beckwith lifted
his hat and used his forearm to wipe away sweat. The determined set of his jaw
as he replaced the Stetson told McIntyre the marshal was through wasting time.
“Surrender now and I won’t press charges for attempting to kill an officer of
the law and his deputies!” Not even the crickets risked an answer. “I will not
make the offer twice!” Beckwith reached for his Colt, but a thoughtful
expression crossed his stern face. Changing his tact, he leveled the Sharps
Carbine on the outhouse.

In the pristine silence, McIntyre thought he heard, from behind
the outhouse’s plank door, the click-click of a rotating cylinder as an unseen
hand pulled back on a hammer. Beckwith reacted to the sound and fired the
Sharps. A deafening explosion like cannon fire rumbled through the woods,
rattling the windows in the cabin. The bullet ripped through the outhouse door
and shards of wood exploded out the back. McIntyre was sure he had seen a spray
of blood mixed with the shrapnel.

Silence followed on the heels of the fading shot. “That was
George,” Beckwith hollered at the cabin, “you boys next?”

The Sharps shortened the outlaws’ decision-making process
considerably. “We’re coming out, Marshal.” A rifle flew out the window,
thudding on the pine straw. “We ain’t wanted for anything and we don’t want to
make this worse than it already is.”

~~~

As Beckwith and Wade handcuffed the two men, Emilio and McIntyre
draped George Betts over the outlaw’s horse. A grim duty. The Sharps had left a
mangled, bloody mess of the man’s head. McIntyre needed to find a feed sack or
something to cover him. It was the decent thing to do.

“Mr. McIntyre … your hat.”

McIntyre glanced across the saddle at Emilio, puzzled by his
breathless voice and the shock reflected in his face. He realized the boy was
staring wide-eyed at his Stetson. He snatched the hat off his head. He turned
the Stetson around and poked his finger clean through a bullet hole, a perfect
circle not an inch above his scalp. A tremor shot through his gut.

The thump he’d felt.

Close calls had never bothered him before. But now, staring at the
empty space where black felt should have been, all he could think about was
Naomi. If things had played out differently, it could well be him decorating
this saddle and he’d kissed the woman a grand total of three times. Worse, he
had never even said
I love you
. Three words that, when spoken in earnest,
meant a man was willing to accept a permanent change in his life.

A fancy education doesn’t clean somebody like you up, though. The
kind of man you are.

McIntyre tried to ignore Matthew’s words as he placed the hat back
on his head and finished tending to Betts. Holding his expression still and his
reaction hidden, he passed Emilio the end of a rope. “Tie his feet. Pass the
rope back to me underneath.”

Why, I bet there isn’t a man in the West who doesn’t know your
name.

But not before you drag Naomi and maybe her sisters through your
mud?

As McIntyre secured Betts to the saddle, Matthew’s accusations and
his own self-doubt nagged at him. He hated wondering if he was really good
enough for her.

The bullet hole in his hat meant something. He had told Naomi once
that God had gone to a lot of trouble to bring her to Defiance, to him. And now
God had saved him from a bullet that had very nearly parted his skull. The only
reason he could think of was Naomi. To love her. Honor her. Share his life with
her.

He pondered Betts, dead as driftwood, and decided. Matthew
notwithstanding, it was time to propose.

~~~

The young woman marched with such purpose toward the doors of the
Iron Horse Saloon that Naomi drew up. Curious, she peered through moving,
bobbing shoulders on the boardwalk and watched. The girl grabbed the doorknob,
shoved against it. It didn’t open and she stepped back, dropping a hand on her
hip in obvious frustration. A pretty thing with strawberry-blonde hair piled
atop her head, she wore a faded but stylish red dress, tailored too tightly and
cut too low. In her left hand, she clutched a fraying carpet valise.

Naomi swallowed. A summer dove?

Jealousy turned her arms and legs to rubber, and made her stomach
churn. Feeling nauseous, she forced her feet to move her body toward the girl,
rather than across the street to the mercantile.

Dreading the conversation, Naomi slowly approached her. “Are you
looking for–?”

“Charles McIntyre.” The woman turned, her stance screaming her
irritation. “They told me he’d closed this place, but I didn’t believe it.” She
spoke with a heavy accent. French, Naomi guessed, and laced with displeasure.
“That doesn’t leave me no place but Tent Town now.”

“So, you’re a …?”

“Flower?
Oui
. Summers only. The rest of the year I prefer to
bloom in New Orleans.” The woman switched the valise to her other hand and
assessed Naomi top to bottom. Her expression, initially reserved like a bored
housecat, changed to disapproval. “You his current?”

“I’m sorry?”

The woman frowned, as if Naomi was stupid, and spoke more slowly.
“Are you keeping him company or is the position open? Anything would be better
than Tent Town.”

Naomi struggled to sort through her feelings about this woman and
her question. Stumbling about mentally, she said, “I am his special friend.”
The absurd answer made her want to crawl under a rock. “I mean, we are—”

“Whatever, honey,” the woman dismissed her with an impatient wave.
Turning to the street, she studied the traffic and tapped her fingers
restlessly on her leg. “I don’t care. I need to get settled for a few days so
it’s not a wasted trip. Broken Spoke still open?”

Jealousy and insecurities scrambled Naomi’s brain, but love nudged
her, insistently …
annoyingly
. She took a deep breath and raised her
chin. “You don’t have to do that.” The words nearly choked her. The woman swung
her head around, narrow eyes showing surprise and suspicion.

Oh, God, give me the strength to do the right thing, though it’s
as bitter as gall.
“I own a hotel. You could
stay there … for free. You wouldn’t have to do … that kind of work.”

The woman twirled slowly to Naomi and once again appraised her,
but with deliberation this time. Momentarily, her face lit up. “You’re one of
them Hallelujah Army people aren’t you? God, and Jesus, and all that? Well, no
thanks,
ma ch
è
rie
, I’ll stick with the
sinners.” She winked, “they have more fun.”

Finished with Naomi, the girl picked up her skirt and stepped into
the street.

Right and wrong, love and hate warred in Naomi. She didn’t want to
see this woman go, but at the same time, she was relieved she was going. The
guilt of such a selfish thought stung. What if she’d rushed Lily, Jasmine or
Iris out of town? Truth was, this gal had no idea what she was walking away
from. Why
wouldn’t
she want a chance to change her life? What made these
soiled doves so resentful of the gospel?

And how many times would Naomi have to go through this? Standing
up to the women who would reject her and her God, but not her man?

Would living as a believer in Defiance ever get easier? And if she
called herself that, then she had to put feet on her faith. If she couldn’t
stop the woman, she could at least pray for her. Frustrated enough to kick
something, Naomi called, “What’s your name?”

Throwing her arms out to the side, the woman whirled gaily between
horses passing in opposite directions. “Amaryllis!” Without missing a step, she
continued her march across the busy street.

~~~

Naomi tried not to stare as Matthew devoured his fifth piece of
fried chicken. An empty platter on her hip, she scanned the dining room. One
lone gentleman, a well-dressed representative from a mining conglomerate, and a
few scruffy miners, finished off the dinner rush. Slow enough for her to rest a
moment.

Smiling, she sat down opposite her clearly starving brother-in-law.
“I take it today’s menu meets with your approval?” The Miller boys had always
been able to pack in stunning amounts of food. Matthew had slept away one whole
day recovering from his wound, and now polished off his meal like a bear coming
out of hibernation.

“You have no idea,” he said, licking his fingers with enthusiasm,
“how I have missed Rebecca’s cooking.”

Naomi recalled more than a few church picnics where men were
almost willing to fight over her sister’s chicken. Here, they were willing to
fight over women like Amaryllis.

The cheerfulness of the thought must have shown. “What’s wrong,
Naomi,” Matthew asked gently. “Or is that a stupid question?”

She shifted anxiously in the seat. The last thing she wanted was
to tell Matthew that women had started coming into town to see Charles. She
didn’t think she could stand another sermon on the evils of pimps and brothels.
Forcing down her somber mood, she pasted on a weak smile. “We’re just a little
behind on the cooking is all. Seems we have some hearty appetites in the
hotel.”