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

  Matthew returned the nod, almost imperceptibly, and inched a bit closer to Black Elk.

  “Black Elk, where have you been the last few days?” McIntyre asked. If the crazy Indian was carrying something contagious, they’d have to try to retrace his footsteps.

  The question set Black Elk to yelling. “I have been off killing white men and their women!” He shook his head and blinked again, as if trying to clear his vision. “One-Who-Cries is riding! War is coming with him!”

  “What are you doing with One-Who—” Before McIntyre could finish the question, Matthew leaped on the man. Instantly McIntyre dove into the fray as well, followed by Wade. Black Elk’s blade slashed crazily and McIntyre snatched a screaming Dolores out of the fracas. In a blur of blows, he and Matthew both landed punches to Black Elk’s ribs as all three scrambled to grab the knife. The Indian howled and roared, the men grunted as fists pounded flesh, and boots scraped across the floor. In the tangled scuffle, the steel of Black Elk’s knife flashed mere inches from McIntyre’s nose. McIntyre swiped at the man’s wrist but missed. The nauseating, muffled sound of a blade plunging into flesh brought a pained growl from Matthew. Like a crazed grizzly, he brought down a crashing blow from his huge right hand and Black Elk’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. As limp as a rag doll, he slid to the floor.

  Unfortunately, he then vomited violently at their feet. As the men jumped back, McIntyre caught sight of the blood seeping from between Matthew’s fingers.

  ~~~

  Thirteen

  Hannah lifted her hand for one final wave at the departing stage. Iris, her fiery red hair a beacon you could see from the moon, blew a kiss. With one last wiggle of her fingers, she disappeared into the coach. Hannah swallowed to loosen the knot in her throat.

  Please, Lord, she prayed, let Iris, Lily, and Jasmine have a future that’s brighter and more blessed than anything they can imagine.

  She sniffed back tears and told herself to accept the inevitability of change, of the way friends drift into your life, sometimes for only a season. Perhaps she would see those girls again one day. After all, Billy had come back into her life. Resisting the urge to think too much about him, she set her sights on the Boot & Co. Mercantile, a few buildings down the street.

  “I have to go check Mr. Boot’s ankle.”

  Beside her, watching the stage disappear into the dust, Naomi nodded. “Do you remember when they put gum in my hair?”

  Hannah stopped and smiled. The first several months in Defiance hadn’t been a cakewalk, to say the least. Now, here they were, nearly in tears over saying goodbye to women who had once mocked and teased them mercilessly.

  “Charles asked me the other day if I could forgive any offense. When I think about those girls, how angry they made me, and how I feel about them now, I can say yes with a lot more confidence.”

  “What about Rose?” Hannah asked with a smirk, knowing the woman gave them both nightmares.

  A stony expression settled on Naomi’s face. “Don’t you have some nursing to do?”

  ~~~

  Hannah kneeled beside Luke Boot’s outstretched leg, which rested on a stool, and proceeded to unwrap the bandage from his ankle. Her pale hair slid down across her shoulder, getting in her way, and she regretted not having braided it this morning.

  “I need to get this thing off me, Miss Hannah,” Mr. Boot whined, glancing around his mercantile and scratching his thick beard. “I can’t run my store from the flat of my back.

  “You won’t be running your store at all if you don’t stay off old, rickety ladders.” She glanced over at Mr. Boot’s helper, Freeman, a small Negro man who was setting out canned fruit on a shelf. “But it looks like Freeman’s handling things.”

  She set the wrap aside and studied Mr. Boot’s leg as she tied her hair up into a quick knot. His skin was as pale as the belly of a dead fish, except for a bluish tint down around his ankle. The swelling had decreased noticeably. “All right, Doc said if the swelling was going down, we could stop the cold compresses after today. I’d say you’re almost there. Maybe you can stand for a while tomorrow. You should get a cane or a crutch.”

  Mr. Boot wagged his head, unhappy with the news. “I need to be up and around today.”

  “Well, too much moving around and you might re-injure that ankle.” Hannah picked up the gauze and started wrapping the injured joint. “But suit yourself. It’s your leg.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his other leg bouncing and knew he was weighing her instructions.

  “You’re awful young to be giving such firm medical advice.” The bouncing leg slowed, eventually stopped. “Well, fine, one more day of sitting won’t kill me. ’Least I don’t have to have Freeman help me soak it in any more spring water.” He shivered. “That was cold.”

  “Yes, but that did more good for the swelling than anything, though snow would have been better.”

  Suddenly, Mr. Boot leaned forward, capturing Hannah’s full attention with his flickering, eager eyes. “Is it really true, Little Miss Hannah, what they say?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “That none of you gals is in the business? That even Mollie got Jesus?” He gaped longingly at the top Hannah’s head. “I sure miss her golden hair.”

  He reached out as if to touch the crown of Hannah’s head, but she abruptly rose to her feet. Mollie had warned Hannah about Mr. Boot. He had been a regular customer of hers at the Iron Horse and said he had no problem squeezing the produce anytime or any place he wanted. Hannah had better watch out and be prepared to move quickly.

  A patient who was all hands was a hazard of the job, but she wouldn’t let it discourage her. Trying to turn the tables, she donned a grim expression and touched Mr. Boot’s hand. “Yes, sir, the awful rumors are true. In fact, if you come by the hotel about ten, you can join us for church.”

  ~~~

  Rebecca poured the perfect amount of pancake batter into the frying pan and set the bowl down. Spatula in hand, she waited for the proper number of bubbles to rise before flipping the flapjack. Beside her, Ian scraped bacon slices into his pan, using a long fork to lay the sizzling meat flat.

  Rebecca had become so accustomed to cooking beside him, sometimes she felt they were an old married couple. Most of the time, she just wondered if this friendship was ever going to move forward. He’d asked once to court her, but at nearly forty, the very idea had sent her into a panic, and she had rejected him. Ian had understood and asked if they could be dear friends.

  “I have just finished Around the World in Eighty Days, Miss Rebecca. Another fine suggestion. Mr. Fogg was quite resourceful.”

  And that was their way. She and Ian could talk about books, religion, politics. Anything and everything. Still, there was so much more between them. She positively thrilled at his touch, and had danced on air in his arms the other night. Oh, but Rebecca wasn’t getting any younger. Her fortieth birthday was only a few months away and Ian’s presence brought home the realization that she still had a lot of living, a lot of loving, to do.

  So what to do about this rut that she and Ian had fallen into? Was there no way to prompt a change? He’d been nothing but a friend, at her very own suggestion, since her initial rejection. A measured, deliberate man, perhaps he was waiting for a signal.

  Maybe this delay is all my fault?

  “Ouch!” The bacon grease popped, hitting the back of Rebecca’s hand. She rubbed the spot vigorously, but Ian dropped his fork and took her hand in his. He bent his head to examine the spot and she studied the gray hair curling around his face. She lived for moments like this, to have him so near her, touching her. Ian made her feel safe. He’d even fought for her honor once. He respected her intelligence and always treated her with the utmost gentlemanly behavior.

  But she wondered if, maybe, he didn’t find her desirable after all. Maybe when they were together, he saw the lines above her lip or the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Maybe she was too plain and dark against her fair, beau
tiful sisters. Or maybe he thought they were both just too old for a silly romance.

  He looked up at her, through his rugged brow and a spark of mischief glinted in his deep blue eyes. “It occurs to me, Miss Rebecca, that I have been remiss in telling ye something.” His thumb moved slowly over her hand, caressing the skin. She held her breath and waited to hear more of his lovely Scottish burr. “Yer pancake is burning.”

  Flustered, Rebecca snatched her hand away and clumsily flipped the pancake. Black on one side, she huffed in dismay and busily set about tossing it aside and pouring a new pancake. She tried to focus on the cooking but her mind reeled with disappointment.

  Your pancake is burning? Is that all he could think to say? All these months of talking about books, and Scotland, and recipes, and family histories, and that’s it?

  Several minutes passed in silence as they worked on breakfast together. Part of Rebecca wanted to scream at Ian, beg him to notice her disappointment. Another part desperately wanted this chore over, so she could go upstairs and be alone to scold herself that forty-year-old women do not cry over ill-fated relationships.

  Ian made a few light comments about his Jules Verne book, to which Rebecca responded rather half-heartedly. Eventually, he noticed. “Miss Rebecca, is something the matter?”

  She wanted to tell him, but at the same time, she didn’t want to discuss her crushing disappointment. What was she supposed to say? Well, Ian, I’ve come to the fairly obvious conclusion that you and I are friends. Great friends. Life-long friends. You might even love me. But you are not in love with me. I’ll accept that and pack away my silly little school-girl dreams.

  She could only manage, “I’m fine.”

  They continued on with their preparations, but Rebecca could feel Ian watching her. She swung her braid out of the way as she bent down to check the biscuits, and when she stood back up, he was standing in front of her, waiting. Tall, a bit barrel-chested now because of her cooking, Ian was a very handsome man at fifty, even in a white apron. The lines in his face just added character and his salt-and-pepper beard a sense of security. She’d been dreaming of kissing those lines for months now. Could the man not see it every time they were together?

  He cleared his throat and Rebecca was surprised by his uncertain, nervous glances. “Rebecca, what I said a few minutes ago. I didnae think it came out right.” He cleared his throat again and shifted his feet. “I mean to say—that is, I need to say I’ve grown quite tired of being friends and hope you feel the same way. It would make this much easier.” Rebecca blinked, but didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to even hope. Sighing, Ian shook his head. “Aye, I’m making a bumbling mess of this. And it’s not going to get any better.” He grabbed her shoulders. “Now ye’ve set your dress on fire.”

  ~~~

  Fourteen

  McIntyre thought Matthew might live, but wouldn’t swear to it. Blood streamed from the man’s side, right at his ribs. Holding Black Elk’s bloody knife, Matthew tried to twist enough to see the slash in his flesh but couldn’t do it. Frustrated, he swore and eyed McIntyre. “Is it bad?”

  McIntyre peeled off his frock coat. “Doesn’t look too deep. I think you’ll live. Here, press this on it.”

  Matthew took the jacket, raising a skeptical brow. “Bit fancy, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, he crushed it to his side.

  McIntyre thought he did so with a little too much relish. To hide a disdainful curl in his lip, he squatted down and inspected Joseph Black Elk, careful to avoid the vomit. Too bad he couldn’t avoid the smell. The Indian had messed his pants as well.

  This just kept getting better and better.

  With the back of his hand, he touched Black Elk’s forehead. No fever, but his breathing was shallow and uneven. “Wade, run and get a wagon. We need to get these two to Doc.” Wade didn’t need to be told twice. The deputy bolted from the saloon. “And tell everyone to stay out of here!” McIntyre yelled after him.

  Still squatting, he rubbed his chin and pondered the Indian’s last words. One-Who-Cries is riding. War is coming with him. So he’s been riding with the savage? And what did he mean about another white woman? Had One-Who-Cries attacked somewhere near Defiance, or was the Indian delirious from whatever sickness he was carrying?

  The clink of glass drew his attention and he stood up. One-handed, Matthew poured himself a drink and raised it up. “One bottle survived.” He tipped the glass in a toast and tossed it back. McIntyre flinched. The Lucky Deuce had the worst whiskey he’d ever tasted in his life. Matthew hissed and whistled as the shot went down. “That’s poison if I’ve ever had any.” He shivered dramatically as the liquid hit its mark. Undeterred, he grabbed the bottle again and offered it to McIntyre.

  He waved it away.

  Matthew inclined his head, but shook off the rejection with a bored shrug. He changed his focus to Black Elk. “You don’t think he’s got typhoid or cholera or anything, do you?”

  “I don’t know. No fever, could be anything.” McIntyre studied the big man at the bar, drinking bad whiskey and acting as if the cut in his side was a scratch. If nothing else, he was tough. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Not necessary.” Matthew refilled the shot glass. “You know, family men and preachers don’t settle towns like this.” He tossed down the drink. “Men like us do. We’re up for it. It’s how we fit into this world.” He cut a mischievous sideways glance at McIntyre. “In other words, trouble becomes us.”

  In other words, men like Matthew—and McIntyre—were suited for towns like Defiance. Rabble. Scum. The thinly-veiled insult irritated McIntyre. Just because the town still needed law and order didn’t mean it wouldn’t shape up, he along with it. If he’d learned anything about God from the sisters, changing his ways was exactly what was supposed to happen as he grew in his faith.

  He almost argued with Matthew about this supposed fraternity of lawless men. He almost shared with him the timber and ranching businesses he was courting, the potential for change in the town when the railroad finalized the agreement.

  Almost.

  Because they were now rivals, he decided not to share anything more than necessary with Matthew, and that definitely included Naomi.

  Dolores stepped between the two and took hold of Matthew’s impromptu dressing. A pretty little thing with auburn curls, she offered the big man a sincere but shaky smile. “Thank you.” Over her shoulder, she added, “both of you.” Carefully, she peeled the coat away from Matthew’s side. “Why don’t you let me redo this for you? You can’t just smash it on there and expect it to stop the bleeding.”

  He obediently raised his arm to give her better access. “Thank you, ma’am.” His gaze boldly climbed every inch of Dolores. “Maybe it was worth it.”

  McIntyre’s jaw tightened. Watching Matthew watch Dolores set his blood to boiling. He surely acted like a man who had been in a cathouse or two. And he had dared lecture McIntyre about Naomi? McIntyre would be old, bent, and toothless before he let that happen again.

  As Dolores tended her patient, McIntyre tried to turn his attention back to the mess they may well have all gotten themselves into. Any amount of quarantine with Matthew, Wade and Dolores would be hell on earth. “Did Black Elk come in here alone last night?” he asked the girl. “Did he look all right?”

  Dolores nodded as she neatly folded the jacket and pressed it against her patient’s side. “He seemed a little foggy and grabbed his gut a time or two. He had coins, though. That’s the only reason Jude let him in the place.”

  So where did Black Elk get coins? They had to find out where he’d been, if there was any possibility the Indian was walking about spreading disease …

  ~~~

  Fifteen

  “Well, I don’t think he’s contagious.” Doc Cooke came out of a back room, wiping his hands on a towel and reeking of rubbing alcohol. “My best guess is Beaver Fever. He could have gotten it drinking from a tainted creek or from an infected person who prepared h
is food.”

  He tossed the towel over his shoulder and joined a shirtless Matthew sitting atop a metal examination table. McIntyre had never seen a man with that much muscle. Matthew’s arms were the size of McIntyre’s legs and a woman could wash clothes on his rippled abdomen. Tall and somewhat well-muscled himself, he felt like a scrawny coyote next to this man.

  “Well, let’s see what we have here,” Doc mumbled, sliding his spectacles farther up his nose. Matthew turned so the doctor could see his side better and removed the jacket. He grunted and jerked when the doctor probed the wound.

  A little tender? McIntyre noted with satisfaction. While he had no sympathy for Matthew, he did feel bad for the girl caught in the middle. “Dolores can go then, I assume, Doc?”

  She raised her head up at the question. Once the possibility of infectious disease had hit her, her shaky smile had fled altogether. Pulling herself into a tight ball, she had claimed a seat by the window and not uttered a sound in the last hour.

  “Yes, I think that will be fine.” Doc glanced at the girl over the top of his round spectacles. “You and Black Elk didn’t share any food or drink, correct?” She shook her head enthusiastically. “All right, just let me know immediately if you get to feeling poorly.”

  “Sure, Doc.” The girl scrambled for the door.

  “Dolores.” McIntyre stopped her as she grabbed hold of the door knob. “One last time, you’re sure Black Elk didn’t say anything that would tell us where he’s been the last few days?”

  “Nothing I can recall. If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

  He believed her, and the girl skedaddled like wolves were nipping at her skirt. McIntyre sighed and leaned against the wall, fanning himself with his hat. Beaver Fever. Indians were usually fairly skilled at avoiding that. “How long before symptoms show up, Doc?”