Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) (21 page)

Twenty-Nine

Amidst the squeak of leather and wood, McIntyre leaned back in the
chair in the marshal’s office.
His
telegram requesting the Reverend’s presence for the wedding had been sent and
now he was committed. Sometime in the next few days, Charles McIntyre would be
a married man.

Married. Committed to one woman for the rest of my life. The right
woman.

Beckwith’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You come to tell me something
or just warm that chair?”

McIntyre blinked away images of a future he once had never
believed possible. Reaching into his breast pocket for a cheroot, he dipped his
head. “I’m a little distracted. I’m getting married.”

“That is definitely the sort of thing that can distract a man,”
Beckwith deadpanned.

McIntyre couldn’t be sure but the marshal’s mouth almost twitched,
as if he’d thought about cracking a smile. He doubted he’d ever know.

The lawman picked up the cold, half-smoked stogie sitting on his
desk. “And it does call for a smoke.” McIntyre lit his own then obliged the
lawman with the same match. As smoke swirled above them, Beckwith leaned back
as well and crossed a booted foot over his knee. “Mrs. Miller?” McIntyre
nodded. “Well, it’s good to see a man like you trying to become respectable.”

McIntyre’s jaw clenched.
A man like you.
Lately, he’d come
to despise that phrase. As, perhaps, Paul had? But that wasn’t why he was here
now. “Have you learned anything else about One-Who-Cries?”

“I’ve done a little homework.” Beckwith took a long drag on his
cigar and exhaled. “Mostly he’s been a lone renegade, hitting isolated claims
and folk who are foolish enough to let their guard down. Seems to pick his
targets carefully. No more than three or four victims at a time.”

McIntyre knew all that. One-Who-Cries was of the Uncompaghre
tribe, but had branched off on his own several years ago. His targets were
smaller because he wanted to kill white people in the most brutal ways he could
imagine. Men, women, children—it didn’t matter. He lived to rape, burn,
dismember. The warrior was determined to instill fear in the heart of every
white man in Colorado. One horribly tortured and dismembered body was better
than three with simple bullet holes.

Beckwith shuffled through the papers on his desk and settled on
one with several notes scrawled on it. He skimmed it, set it back down, tapped
it with his index finger. “The band he’s leading suffers from infighting. The
young men he managed to get off the reservation last year have mostly scattered
in recent weeks, but he picked up several more by rabble-rousing. The Indian
agent down there, a blockhead by the name of Meeker, couldn’t catch him. He
dispatched troops, but they lost the trail after two days.”

McIntyre realized that was the situation Chief Ouray had referred
to in his telegram. “Meeker is a disaster as an Indian agent,” he said. “He has
this turn-the-ponies-into-plow-horses idea and the Utes hate it. White River is
a breeding ground for angry, hot-tempered braves.”

“The Red Man will not assimilate.” Beckwith sounded supremely
confident in his assessment. “I agree that this Meeker is driving the Utes into
a corner. He’s pushing them into a fight. Only good thing to come out of it is
he’ll be the first to die.”

“I’m surprised One-Who-Cries hasn’t killed him already. The Indian
is …” McIntyre pushed away the stomach-churning images his nemesis evoked and
crushed his cheroot in the ash tray. “… unusually violent, to put it mildly.”

Beckwith shrugged, as if unimpressed. “Indians are a blood-thirsty
lot, in general. What you don’t know is that Black Elk gave Hannah some
information” Intrigued, McIntyre leaned in. “I’m trying to track down the
facts. She said he and One-Who-Cries attacked some folks at Horse Mesa. That’s
where he got his food poisoning and apparently One-Who-Cries abducted a girl.
Black Elk further stated that One-Who-Cries is going to spread death and
destruction between here and White River. Seems the savage has had a vision or
some such.”

McIntyre rubbed his neck and shifted in the chair. “One-Who-Cries
is not known for the accuracy of his visions, merely the bloodiness of them.”
The lawman grunted. McIntyre thought Beckwith sounded almost bored with the
situation and that worried him. Fighting Indians was not the same thing as
fighting outlaws. The difference was like night and day. Again, the image of a
dearly-beloved friend being skinned like a deer—a
live
deer—streaked
through his mind. McIntyre pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt
to block the memory. “I would urge you, Marshal, not to underestimate
One-Who-Cries. He’s been running wild for nearly ten years and we haven’t
caught him yet. We came close once … the last time, we got the jump on him.”
McIntyre flexed his fingers as the picture of One-Who-Cries’ hawkish face rose
in his mind. “I wasn’t any farther from him than I am from you. I raised my
rifle … and got clubbed from behind.” The Indian’s escape was still a bitter
disappointment, especially since they’d carried back three dead soldiers.
How
many had died since then?
“He’s a rabid dog, Marshal, in need of killing.”

“Just a matter of time. His range is getting smaller and smaller.”

“What about the girl? Is that true?” God, for her sake, he prayed
it wasn’t.

Beckwith fingered a thin stack of yellow papers with Western Union
printed at the top. “I sent out telegrams requesting information. The sheriff
in Ruby said a peddler and his family came through about a week ago. They sold
tainted food to a couple of miners and if Indians got ‘em, good riddance.”

“Black Elk’s food poisoning?” McIntyre said more to himself than
Beckwith.

“Most likely. The sheriff said the family was headed to Gunnison.
They haven’t been seen around there yet.”

“Maybe they’ve camped somewhere.” Entirely possible. There were
dozens of places to wash off trail dust and rest. Unfortunately, Horse Mesa was
one of them.

“Maybe.” Beckwith sounded doubtful … or bored. “The sheriff in
Gunnison is going to look for them. Said he’d let us know if he found anything.
What I can’t figure is if everything Black Elk says is true, why is he here in
town? You’d think he’d still be with One-Who-Cries.”

McIntyre ran his hands through his hair. Taking a deep breath, he
laced his fingers behind his head and wished he had the answer. “He’s a nomad
and mostly a loner. Maybe he decided he didn’t have the stomach for slaughter.
I know he hasn’t been in Defiance for over three years.”

The marshal crushed his cigar in a coffee mug, the creases in his
forehead smoothing out. “Well, either way, One-Who-Cries should be out of the
area by now. From what I’ve learned, he’s rarely seen in the same place twice.”

Troubled by Beckwith’s nonchalant attitude, McIntyre stood up and
grabbed his hat off the marshal’s desk. “That all the information Hannah got
out of him?”

“So far. Doc says he went through a bad spell, but seems to have
turned a corner. We’ll see. Maybe he’ll feel more like talking this evening.”

McIntyre slipped his Stetson on, dissatisfied with the lack of
solid information. If One-Who-Cries had any designs on Defiance or its outlying
settlements, they needed to know. Maybe it meant nothing at all that Black Elk
was here, but McIntyre didn’t like One-Who-Cries within a hundred miles of
Defiance. A thousand miles would be too close.

~~~

Startled by a yelp from behind her, Hannah nearly dropped the
heavy Dutch oven full of baked beans. Quickly setting it on the stove, she
turned as Mollie and a young Negro girl hugged and gushed noisily in the
kitchen.

“Amanda! Oh, my goodness,” Mollie squealed. “What are you doing
here?”

As the two friends embraced, Hannah raised a brow at Rebecca, who
had paused peeling eggs at the table to watch the reunion. She shrugged, at a
loss as well. Mollie quickly remembered her manners, though, and stepped back
to introduce her friend. “I’m sorry. This is Amanda. I worked with her for a
short time down at—I mean, we were both—that is to say, Flowers. We were both
Flowers.” Amanda dropped her gaze, but Mollie laughed and elbowed her friend
lightly. “It’s all right. They’re friends.” The girl raised her chin, buoyed by
the comment.

“So, if you’re here, I take it you’re not working at a saloon.”
Mollie wondered, sounding hopeful. “Am I right?”

“I’m
working
here.” She glanced at Rebecca and Hannah.
“Naomi hired me, and Mr. McIntyre says he is going to help me go to school.”

The girls’ mouths dropped open. Mr. McIntyre was going to send
Amanda to school? Hannah thought that was a much better idea than merely giving
his former Flowers cash.

“Amanda, you’ll have to catch me up—
us
—catch
us
up
on that.” Mollie grabbed the girl’s arm and the four settled at the kitchen
table.

“You could have knocked me over with a feather, I’ll tell you
that,” Amanda said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I went in, hoping to get a
nice, cushy job at the cleanest saloon in town, but he asked me, straight up,
did I want out?” She splayed out her hands on the table and tapped it nervously.
“What was I supposed to say, especially when I realized he was serious?”

“You mean you didn’t mean it?” Hannah asked.

“No, no. I meant it. I just didn’t think he’d do anything about
it. Now he’s working on setting up a scholarship for me, living expenses, and
Naomi put me on here as a cook. It all happened …” she snapped her fingers,
“just like that.”

“Hallelujah,” Rebecca said, raising her hands to heaven. “I am so
tired of working six days a week.”

“So what’s changed in Defiance?” Amanda asked Mollie. “Is Rose
still around?”

Mollie sighed. “How much time do you have? She’s in the new state
prison, but the marshal is still taking depositions—”

“Marshal? Wade’s gone?”

Mollie let slip a knowing smile. “That’s right, Wade was sweet on
you.”

“And I was a big fool. I ran off with Toby Johnson. He couldn’t
stay sober for more than two days at a stretch. It didn’t last a year.” The
regret thick in her voice, Amanda looked down at her hands.

“Amanda …” Hannah waited for the girl to look up. “
You
are
in the right place. We make mistakes. But they don’t make us. Mollie and I can
tell you all about that.”

“And we will.” Mollie winked at Hannah. “In due time.”

After a few minutes of friendly conversation, the urgency of
getting food ready for paying customers prompted them all to get to work,
including Amanda. Hannah liked the way the girl jumped right in and took over
the stew, but something nagged at her. She figured it was the way Amanda had
said
What was I supposed to say
. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Most
likely it didn’t. Who wouldn’t want out of that life? But the girl cooked and
moved about the kitchen with almost grim determination. As if she was fighting
an internal struggle.

Troubled, Hannah sat down beside Rebecca and commenced helping her
peel a dozen hard-boiled eggs. Mollie and Amanda chatted about their home
states and future plans. The kitchen bubbled over with the sound of sizzling
steaks, friendly conversation, and light-hearted laughs. The smiles, though,
didn’t quite reach Amanda’s eyes. Unable to put her finger on what was wrong,
Hannah gave up and turned the conversation toward wedding preparations.

~~~

Thirty

Billy talked in hushed, gentle tones to Prince Valiant while
Emilio scoured the lean-to for his medicine bag.
The walk back to the hotel had taken them much longer than they’d
expected, but they’d made it by sunset. Now, before he lost all the light,
Emilio said he had a treatment he wanted to get on the horse. He had draped
Cochise’s reins over the fence and jogged over to the lean-to.

Billy tied Prince Valiant to the fence and unsaddled Emilio’s
horse for him. It was the least he could do. The kid had been exceptionally
patient on the walk back, never rushing, and he’d checked the injured leg at
least a dozen times. Under different circumstances, Billy was willing to admit
he and Emilio might have actually been friends.

Though they hadn’t talked much on the way back, Billy had learned
that Emilio had hung with some pretty tough characters, his sister being the
worst of them all, apparently. Emilio had told Billy the story of what Rose had
done and his stomach rolled at the thought of a crazy woman threatening Hannah
and Little Billy.

Carrying a bottle filled with a golden liquid that had the same
tint as beer, Emilio quick-stepped back over to Prince Valiant. “We need to put
this on him a couple of times a day, for about a week.” He squatted down and
pulled a long, cotton dabber out of the bottle. It reeked with an odor like
camphor, menthol and a week-old corpse. Grimacing, Billy threw Cochise’s saddle
over the fence and watched Emilio for a moment. He removed the wrap and
slathered the liquid all over the horse’s leg, dipping the stick repeatedly.

Billy blinked, the stench so heavy in the air it brought tears to
his eyes. “What is in that concoction?”

In the fading light, Emilio grinned and his teeth gleamed.
Apparently he got this question a lot. “Peppermint oil, peppers, camphor,
herbs, a few other things. It works well.”

“Bet it keeps bugs away, too.”

“
Si
, it does.” Emilio capped the bottle, handed it to
Billy, and rewrapped Prince Valiant’s leg with great care. Billy swirled the
pungent brew around and chuckled. One minute, they were trying to kill each other,
and the next, Emilio was saving his horse.

“Thanks.” No, that sounded stiff and proud … like his father.
Billy knew he could be a better man than that and touched Emilio on the
shoulder. “I mean it. Thank you.”

~~~

Firelight flickered in the white girl’s eyes. They were wide with
fear. One-Who-Cries knew that look. He had seen it enough in his own people. He
enjoyed being the cause of it for her. His smile growing, he pulled his knife
out of his sheath and watched her expression as the light glinted off his
blade. With a soft whimper, the girl drew her bound hands up in front of her
and cowered deeper into the shadows.

“You’d better put that back,
amigo
,” an impatient voice
warned from the darkness. A man in a ragged sombrero and poncho stepped out of
the shadows and approached their fire. “Your temper has cost you three rifles
already.” Squatting, he pulled out his own knife and used the light of the flames
to inspect the blade. His hawkish features set like stone, he flipped one edge
of his frayed poncho over his shoulder and carved a piece of rabbit loose from
the spit. He snatched the steaming meat with the tips of his fingers and
quickly dropped it to the plate at his feet. Blowing on the burned flesh, he
warned One-Who-Cries, “You can’t keep killing the merchandise. If you don’t
hold up your end of the bargain, Sanchez will not trade with you again.
Comprende
?”

One-Who-Cries sneered at the man, wondering if he should kill him
or not. “This girl’s sister is dead only because
she
fought. Her death
is on her head.”

“You lost your temper. You should learn to control it.”

“She was a stupid white woman … and you should learn to keep your
mouth shut.”

The Mexican’s jaw tightened. “A stupid white woman worth
three
rifles.”

One-Who-Cries considered this. A full belly made it easier to put
the knife back. He had done enough killing for one day. “True, it would have
been easier if I had not killed her. But I already know where to go to get
another woman with yellow hair.” He ripped a piece of meat off the spit with
his bare hands. “I will have another woman before we make the trade. Maybe more
than one.”

Taking a bite of his rabbit, the man glanced at the girl in the
shadows. Tangled strands of molasses-colored hair hung in her face. “Good and
healthy like her, he will give you one rifle. But you don’t get the three
unless—”

“Unless she has yellow hair.” One-Who-Cries stared into the flames
and wondered if a roasting Mexican smelled like a burning white man. He would
have to find out another time. “Tell Sanchez to have extra rifles. I will have
extra women.”

~~~

McIntyre tied a blue silk cravat at his neck as he stood in front
of his mirror appraising his appearance. Neatly trimmed beard and moustache,
precisely tailored vest and pants, a new gray frockcoat, glossed black boots.
His wavy, dark hair, still damp, grazed his collar. He laughed inwardly at how
he used to dress to impress everyone, and now he only cared to impress Naomi.

The answer to his telegram resided in his breast pocket. The
preacher would be here on Friday’s noon stage.
Please set the wedding for
some time Saturday.
McIntyre was sure the wheels were in motion for an
enchanting event. He wanted to believe he could make the wedding
night
magical, but there was a finger of concern that poked at him.

Would she think of John? It was only natural if she did. But would
she compare the two—? Perhaps she would wonder if McIntyre was comparing her.

Frustrated, he snatched the cravat out and tied it again.
Ridiculous thoughts. It didn’t matter. In time, both their pasts would fade.

He heard the door downstairs squeak, followed by the tromp of
boots. Brannagh’s husky voice floated up to him as his right-hand man greeted
someone, and then the boots, more than one pair, headed up the stairs.

A sharp tap on his door and Ian’s lively Scottish accent. “Are ye
presentable, mon?”

“Not until I get this cravat tied.”

His friend ignored the comment and entered, followed by two young
men who had clearly had a rough day. Cuts and bruises marred their faces, blood
and dirt spattered their clothes. “I’ve come to ask ye a favor,” Ian tapped the
floor with his cane and swept off his Balmoral bonnet, swinging it toward Emilio
and Billy, “for the boys here.”

“For what? A surgeon?” McIntyre assumed this had been the fight
he’d heard about earlier today. Fat lips, swollen noses, and black eyes.
Bruised and cut cheeks. Seemed it was a respectable fight. Emilio fared a
little better, but only a little. “You win?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably and strangled the hat in his hands.
“No, sir, I just cleaned up a little better.”

“Which is why we’re here,” Ian interrupted. “I should think these
boys could avail themselves of yer bath facilities, seeing as how Maude’s
Bathhouse could tempt them into trouble.”

McIntyre heard the humor bubbling in Ian’s voice, but didn’t get
the joke. Maude’s was fit for a preacher on
Wednesday
nights. It was
Saturday nights you needed to keep your pistol in the tub with you. Still, it
was a stone’s throw from the Lucky Deuce and they could definitely find trouble
there
. Emilio had proven himself a steady, focused lad. The other boy,
who must be Billy, was the big question mark. “Fine, boys. You’re more than
welcome. Emilio, you know where everything is and Brannagh should still have
water heated.” He checked with Ian to see if the instructions met with his
approval. The Scotsman nodded. “By the way,” McIntyre crossed the room to Billy
and offered his hand. “We haven’t met formally. I’m Charles McIntyre.”

“Billy Page. And thank you for the bath.” Billy took his hand
gingerly, and McIntyre saw the war wounds.

“You’re welcome.” McIntyre nodded, pondering the banker’s son.
He’d spent a few thousand dollars determining the boy’s whereabouts last year,
only to have Hannah reject the information. She’d never contacted him, yet here
he was.

Naomi might kill him for this, but these two looked like they
could use a drink, solely for medicinal purposes, of course. “Help yourselves
to a gentlemanly amount of whiskey, if you are so inclined. And the emphasis is
on
gentlemanly
. But I think you two could use it. And, Billy, when
you’re done, could I have a word with you?”

Nodding and mumbling their thanks, the two boys shuffled out the
door. McIntyre stepped back in front of his mirror, determined to tie the
cravat to perfection. “Now, what was that all about, Ian? Why are you here and
not back at the hotel with an apron tied around your waist?”

“The restaurant’s a wee bit slow tonight.” He settled into an
armchair near the window and gazed out over the mostly empty street, his
fingers dancing atop the wolf’s head on his cane. “I’m taking a much needed
break, as is Rebecca. The new lass—Amanda is it?—is cooking.”

McIntyre followed Ian’s gaze out the window. Prior to the Iron
Horse closing down, the avenue had flowed with scores of men, on foot and on
horse, going back and forth, spending their evenings in debauchery. From his
saloon to the ones in Tent Town they’d traveled, all night long. Drinking.
Gambling. Carousing. How had he ever been proud of his association with that?
At least now the activities were restricted to Tent Town.

“Do ye remember Defiance on a Wednesday night a year ago?” Ian
asked.

“A particular Wednesday night?”

“Nay, just the crowd and the traffic and the caliber of men?”

McIntyre fluffed his tie, finally pleased. “I’m not sorry things
have changed. Surely you’re not.” He snatched his hat off the corner of his
mirror and faced his friend. “So why did you bring those boys here? They could
have gone to the bathhouse without any trouble.”

“Perhaps ’tis true, but ye’ve got this building right down the
walk from the hotel. Besides, I hadn’t been by in a while.”

This is where McIntyre would normally pour them each a snifter of
brandy or a shot of good whiskey. He didn’t need it or want it now, though. He
just wanted to get to Naomi and tell her the preacher was coming. “Well, you
almost missed me. I heard back from Reverend Potter. He’ll be on Friday’s
stage. He’s asked that we have the wedding Saturday.” The slightest hint of his
self-doubts laced the last sentence.

“Aye, that is good news.” Ian inclined his head. “But …?”

“I still struggle with …” He shook off the lost sentence and
marched to the window. “It seems I’m trying to change everything about my life,
Ian, and sometimes I wonder if I’ve bit off more than I can chew. Reaching too
high, as it were.” He hated that thought. He’d never doubted himself like this.
But he’d also never seen his sinfulness with such lucidity. “Am I right for
her? Will I be good to her? What if I wake up one morning and I don’t want to
read the Bible?”

Ian pursed his lips and stared down at the Oriental rug on
McIntyre’s floor. “Scripture calls it a race, lad. Not a casual stroll.
Furthermore, we are admonished to fight the good fight.” He looked up then. “If
following Jesus was easy, we would not be told to put on the full armor of God.
I’ve no advice for ye, other than
persevere
. God has brought ye this
far. He’ll finish what He’s started.”

Good advice. Sound advice. And it did bring McIntyre a measure of
peace.

A little stiffly, Ian rose to his feet. McIntyre saw the troubled
contemplation his friend still wore and kicked himself for not being more
attentive. “What is it? Something else?”

Ian scratched the back of his head, causing a few strands of his
silver hair to point in various directions. “Rebecca. I’d like to ask the woman
to marry me, but now I’m thinking I should wait a bit.”

“What for?”

“Till ye and Naomi are married. I’m not sure how a woman would
feel about having such an event
shared
, so to speak.”

McIntyre sucked on his cheek. He was not willing in any way,
shape, or form to try guessing how Naomi might feel about this. In his very
limited experience with brides, McIntyre had noticed they tended to get a bit
irrational
about the smallest things.

He stuck his finger through the bullet hole in his hat and decided
Naomi wasn’t the irrational kind. She was quite pragmatic. “Ian, we’re not
guaranteed our next breath.
I’m
through waiting.”

Ian nodded slowly as if mulling over the advice, then he took his
friend’s hand. “I didnae tell ye congratulations. I hope ye’ll be very happy.”

“I’ve no doubt it will be interesting.”

“Aye, Rebecca and I, should she accept my proposal, will be like
an old, comfortable pair of shoes together. Ye and Naomi, I suspect, will live
a life of thunder and lightning.”