Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Read online

  Heather Blanton

  Hearts in Defiance

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  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  Cover DESIGN by http://ravven78.deviantart.com/

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE,

  KING JAMES VERSION - Public Domain

  A huge thank you to my editors and beta readers: David Webb, Kim VanDerwarker Huther, Vicki Prather, Heather Baker, Sally Shupe, Connie Bartley White, Carole Sanders, and Kimberly Buffaloe!

  Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death.

  Romans 8:1

  Foreword

  Dear Reader,

  What an amazing journey I’ve been on these last several years, but especially the last two. I self-published A Lady in Defiance in February of 2012 and, by the grace of God, it became a best seller. No marketing. No publisher. No PR. Just God and your word-of-mouth. I don’t have the words to express my gratitude to Him for His grace, or to you for picking up a book by an unknown author and then telling your friends about it. Oh, thank you, thank you.

  Against the advice of folks in the traditional publishing industry, I opted to write the sequel Hearts in Defiance for you, the reader. Aren’t all books written for the reader? Hardly. Just like A Lady in Defiance, this is an ensemble piece. Publishers are leery of those. The plots are too complicated. And while Hearts is a stand-alone story, it picks up where the first left off. Again, not what publishers suggested. They wanted a new storyline with only slight references to the first book.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I wanted to write the story you wanted to read. I hope and pray I have accomplished that. I’ve read your emails, reviews on Amazon, and comments on Facebook; then I evaluated your desires for the sequel and tried to work them into this new story.

  I also wanted to write a story that would show, no matter who you are or what you’ve done, God is waiting to forgive you, but you need to accept His forgiveness. Even after we take it to God, most of us hang onto our sin, letting it slither around us like an evil, constricting vine from the Black Forest. That’s an illusion. Once we’re forgiven, sin is only a thin, brittle piece of wood covered in dead leaves. Accept His forgiveness, raise your arms to heaven, and explode that vine! Rejoice as the dust settles at your feet. You are worthy of His love, you are redeemed, and you are free!

  I hope in this book, gentle reader, you will hear the Father bending down to whisper in your ear, “You’re a new creation, beloved. No more looking back.”

  Blessings, my friends!

  Prologue

  Never had the sound of galloping horses brought Chief Ouray anything but death and disaster.

  Though his dreams were haunted by screams and the echoes of rifle fire, the hoofbeats of unshod ponies roused Ouray instantly from his afternoon nap. He sat up in the rocking chair and squinted at the riders, emerging from the Ponderosa pines, coming hard. Dread squirmed in his heart. He rarely had visitors anymore, and when he did, they wanted only to argue and complain.

  Soul-weary, Ouray pushed himself out of the chair and trudged to the edge of his porch. Six braves thundered toward him. The sun glinted off their fine, lean bodies, highlighting the dancing feathers and bright war paint covering them in intricate patterns.

  Ouray recognized one of the riders and breathed a white man’s curse. The brave leading the pack, One-Who-Cries, lived to cause trouble. Always had. One-Who-Cries had tried to kill Ouray more than once for trading too much away to the white man. But Ouray had seen the strength of the white man, their fine cities, their soldiers numbering greater than pebbles on a river bank. They could not be defeated. Ouray had known early on that the best his people could hope for was mercy. But these young bucks would not accept this truth, and their blood burned with a killing fire.

  The six horses pounded up to his house and skidded to a stop, kicking up dust. But Ouray did not flinch. Their paint told him they had not come to kill him. Someone else was their prey.

  “How are you today, old man?” One-Who-Cries mocked him. “Do you rest peacefully in your house while the Utes at White River live in windowless boxes and use their ponies to pull plows?”

  Bones creaking, Ouray drew himself up to his still-impressive height, folded his arms across his chest, and waited. He’d heard such complaints many times before. Responding to this sharp-tongued badger would change nothing.

  Frowning, One-Who-Cries slapped his horse’s reins back and forth as if pondering the old man’s silence. His large nose and dark eyes had always reminded Ouray of a bear, but the child had always acted more like an ill-tempered porcupine. Much as Ouray loved the little ones, he had never found a place in his heart for this boy. And now the boy had grown into a dangerous warrior. It grieved Ouray that his only daughter had wed the hot-tempered renegade.

  Through wasting time, One-Who-Cries shook his head and attempted to wither Ouray with a disgusted glare. “I come to tell you there have been attacks. A village on the Yampa. Men, women, children, the white man spared no one.”

  Ouray waited. He knew the young man was getting to the point, though at a wearisome pace.

  “Three days ago, white miners came across a hunting party of Uncompahgre and slaughtered them, too. Took their meat, their furs, their weapons.”

  If Ouray had allowed himself a reaction, he would have spit on the ground and uttered another white man’s curse. Every time peace was close, a short-sighted Injun or drunken paleface set fire to it. There were bad white men just as there were bad Indians. The result was the same. The Utes gave up more land.

  “More gold has been found in the Uintah Valley.” One-Who-Cries knit his brows together as if he couldn’t understand Ouray’s lack of outrage. “Whites are flowing in like melting spring snow. They are overrunning our lands, ruining our hunting grounds, taking our women—”

  “You have not come to tell me this,” Ouray interrupted him, more than a little perturbed by this strutting rooster. “What is it you plan to do?”

  One-Who-Cries leaned forward on his black-and-white pinto, staring hard at the old man, dark eyes blazing with hate. “From this day forward, for every Ute they kill, I will kill two white men. For every squaw they steal, I will steal two white women.” The young brave’s voice dripped with venom as he hissed, “We will burn their camps, steal their horses, and shoot a hundred arrows into their backs. We will enslave their children, rape their daughters, and bury the white man on Ute land till they come no more seeking gold.”

  “Killing one white man is like dipping water from a rushing river.” Ouray spoke from deep, painful experience. The whites were a wildfire engulfing his people, one that didn’t know how to burn itself out. “The Utes are fading away, like the buffalo,” he reminded the young warrior, “like the great summer hunt
s, like the valleys where no man has stepped.” Regret for so many things tightened his throat. “What you do will only bring more misery upon our people.”

  One-Who-Cries’ face tightened at the warning, his lips curling into a sneer. “This time, the white man will have the greater portion.”

  ~~~

  One

  Charles McIntyre sat down at his desk in his saloon and stared at his Bible.

  He almost laughed out loud but in the silence, the sound would have been deafening. He knew plenty of people who would laugh. A former pimp, saloon owner, and gunman reading the Bible.

  Do you really think you’re worthy to come before Him?

  The subtle rebuke pricked his soul. But he was determined and reached for the book. Naomi had said several times during his convalescence that all the answers to his questions would be found there. Rolling mental dice, since he didn’t know exactly how to start, he opened the book and read the first words his eyes fell upon:

  Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth.

  Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe;

  let her breasts satisfy thee at all times.

  McIntyre’s eyebrows shot up. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Intrigued, he read on.

  And be thou ravished always with her love.

  And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger?

  He sat back and pondered the Scripture, chastised by it. He had spent a shameful number of nights embracing the bosoms of strangers, and it had never led to anything like what he felt for Naomi. Perhaps this was what God was trying to tell him. There would never be anything as passionate and pure in a man’s life as loving and honoring the one woman whom God chooses for him.

  That acknowledgement led him, unfortunately, to face a bigger issue.

  God, what is the matter with me? Why can’t I give You my life as willingly as I gave Naomi my heart?

  He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the question. A man who had once preferred to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven, McIntyre admitted that making Jesus Lord of his life—well, that stirred up resistance in him.

  Through his half-open door, he could see the length of his bar. Once full of rowdy, dirty, jostling miners, the place now was as empty and silent as Christ’s tomb. No bawdy tunes pounded forth from the player piano. No siren call of female laughter tempted men into sin. No shady deals simmered in his brain, and he hadn’t meted out any frontier justice in months. All of that was behind him. He was glad too.

  But something was still missing.

  Footfalls and a soft tap at his office door drew him back to the moment. Ian Donoghue slipped in, saluting him with his cane.

  “Good morning, lad.” The Scotsman tugged off his Balmoral bonnet, revealing a shock of unruly silver hair, and claimed the seat in front of McIntyre’s desk. His deep blue eyes shone with amusement when he saw the book open before Charles. “Well, looks as though ye’re starting your day off with the right priorities. I’m heartened to see it.”

  “It is …” Shocking? Unbelievable?

  “Aboot time.” Ian chuckled and laid the cane and hat across his ever-growing midsection.

  McIntyre smiled at his friend’s burr and its contrast to his own Southern drawl.

  “Of course, I knew all along ye’d come to your senses. No God,” he shook his head, “no path to Naomi.”

  Almost offended, McIntyre picked up the black leather-bound book. “Do you think I’m doing this just for her?”

  “No, no.” Ian patted the air with his hands, defusing the tension. “That’s not what I mean at all. Having that crazy Mexican wench blow a hole in yer shoulder would give any man his come-to-Jesus moment.” He smiled at McIntyre like a father approving his son’s behavior. “It was the way ye stepped in front of the bullet—for her, for love. I knew ye had it in ye.”

  McIntyre touched his aching shoulder, the sling still in place. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Aye, lad, ye’d run from God a long time, but I saw ye slowing down. Naomi was yer—”

  “Salvation.” The word leapt out of its own accord, but it felt right. One glance at the grieving widow last July had started McIntyre down this path to becoming a better man. He’d closed the Iron Horse Saloon and Garden, retired all his lovely Flowers, and made an effort to recruit legitimate businesses for Defiance. He’d even hired a marshal. All in a vain attempt to get Naomi Miller to love him. Nothing had convinced her Charles McIntyre might be the man for her until Rose pulled the trigger on the .44.

  He’d taken the bullet to save Naomi, not because he was a hero or because he was a noble man, but because he loved her. And for an instant, he’d seen the heart of God and understood that no sacrifice was too great to save the ones you love.

  McIntyre’s sacrifice had finally brought Naomi around. But it had also brought his wretched past into brutal clarity. “Ian, I have to tell her things about myself.” His friend’s face clouded with concern. “She has to know. I suppose, in reality, I never thought I’d actually win her. These past two weeks I’ve spent with her,” Charles laid the Bible back down on the desk and evaluated their time together. “She nursed me, body and soul. She’s tried to make me understand grace and forgiveness.”

  With infectious passion, she had attempted to make him believe his sins were washed away, that he was a new man, and the past was in the past.

  Only it wasn’t.

  He blinked and returned his attention to Ian. “My past only weighs heavier upon me. She deserves more than me, Ian, and she deserves to know who I was.”

  Ian leaned forward. “Exactly. Was. Ye’re not the man ye were.” He spoke with firmness and conviction. “I saw ye changing the moment Naomi and her sisters rode into town. I see no argument for parading all the skeletons from yer closet. They dinna matter anymore.”

  The skeletons that still had flesh on them might matter quite a bit. “There are some things I have to tell her. The passes are open, and the stages will start up again soon. I won’t have her ambushed by the truth.”

  Understanding and regret dawned on Ian’s face, and he nodded. “Aye, I suppose ’tis not so grand to be the cock o’ the walk now, is it?”

  ~~~

  McIntyre fanned himself with his coal-black Stetson as he stood waiting in the lobby of the Trinity Inn. Dressed in a tailored grey frock coat, matching pants, green silk vest, and polished cavalry boots, he could be mistaken for any Southern gentleman making a Sunday afternoon call on his lady. The sling on his right arm and the .45 on his hip did, however, muddle the illusion.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McIntyre.”

  Naomi’s greeting floated down to him from the staircase landing. He followed the sound, and his voice caught in his throat at the sight of her. Instead of the austere braid she always wore, loose golden waves of shimmering corn silk cascaded gently around her shoulders. The simple blue gingham dress hugged her curves and moved with her in beautiful, enticing ways.

  The welcome in her wide jade eyes warmed him body and soul. A new experience for him. No woman had ever affected him on such a deep emotional level.

  Naomi strode over to him, carrying a white lace shawl, her gaze unwavering and filled with determination. She always seemed to face things without flinching—but this was a bluff, McIntyre noted with pleasure. He could see she was nervous. Her flushed cheeks and the delicate mist of perspiration above her lip were signs a seasoned gambler like him couldn’t miss.

  McIntyre scratched his perfectly-trimmed beard in an attempt to hide a pleased grin. It took a lot to unnerve Naomi Miller. She had more grit than most men he knew.

  “You are a vision, Naomi.” He motioned to her hair, desperately wishing he could run his hands through it. “Are all of those glorious waves of spun gold just for a buggy ride?”

  Giggles from the top of the stairs drew his attention upward. Naomi’s sisters, Rebecca and Hannah, and his former Flower, Mollie, leaned over
the rail, their faces alight with curiosity.

  “She had assistance, did she, ladies?”

  Naomi blushed like a new bride. “I think they got a little carried away.”

  “Hardly.” He bowed in appreciation to the ladies above them and thickened his Georgia drawl. “I approve”—he inched a breath closer to Naomi and swung his gaze back to her—“wholeheartedly.”

  Her eyes widened, and she turned away. McIntyre savored the reactions she tried in vain to hide.

  “She’s a little out of practice, Mr. McIntyre,” Hannah, the younger of the sisters, teased. Fair-haired and petite like Naomi, she was as bubbly as a mountain stream. “This whole courting thing is new to her, but we’ll get her going in the right direction—”

  “Hannah Marie Frink!” Naomi stomped her foot in mortification. “Not another word!”

  McIntyre laughed, truly enjoying watching his spitfire squirm. If this afternoon’s ride didn’t go well, he’d just as soon walk off a cliff. In the meantime, he would revel in this familial teasing.

  “Don’t worry.” He slipped his good arm around her waist and pulled her closer, savoring the feel of her. “I believe I can provide skilled and enthusiastic instruction.”

  Huffing with indignation, Naomi pushed him off as she flushed the deep red of Colorado sandstone. “If you cannot curb your tongue, Mr. McIntyre, you can take them on the buggy ride.”

  Charles cleared his throat and took an almost imperceptible step back. The girls, well aware Naomi did not make idle threats, scattered to their rooms. McIntyre waited till all was silent, and then surrendered, showing Naomi the palm of his good hand.

  “You should learn to take a joke, princess. We all mean well.” Losing the battle to keep his hands off her hair, he reached out and slowly lifted one soft, glistening wave of silky sunshine, wishing he could take much more. “I truly appreciate their efforts. The first time I ever saw you with your hair down, you almost left me speechless.”