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

  “A house and a maid?” She thought Charles sounded less than pleased with that bit of news. He puffed on the slender cigar, pondering things, the soft thud of their shoes the only sound in the early light. “It sounds like he has a vested interest in this trip. Did you tell him about us?”

  Naomi’s step faltered slightly. “No. Not really.” Aware that her answer sounded evasive, she pulled away and locked her hands behind her back. “Our conversation didn’t really go that well. It was rather heated. For one thing, he knows who you are and heartily disapproves of you.”

  “A Miller who thinks I’m a scoundrel? How novel.”

  Naomi chuckled. “Yes, but maybe he’ll come around like I did.” Although, after the things he’d said last night, she figured the odds were pretty steep.

  “Just how does he know about me?” His eyes narrowed. “Personal experience?”

  “He said not.” What he did say proved Charles’ point about his scandalous reputation and her mood sank a bit. “He said everyone knows you.”

  Charles didn’t react to that, not that she could tell. Instead, he puffed on his cheroot.

  Naomi couldn’t help but wonder about life inside a brothel. What did it mean Charles was the best judge of female companionship, exactly? The implications disturbed her, but she couldn’t ask him. Based on his confession a few weeks back, Naomi had the impression he didn’t really want to talk about his past. Truth be told, neither did she.

  It would only remind her what a good, godly man John had been. She didn’t want to see his mirror image, so tempting and real, staring back at her, recalling in perfect detail the one man she’d been with, the one man who had loved and honored her, been her best friend from the time they were children.

  Old things are passed away; behold all things are become new.

  The Scripture brought her comfort. The past was in the past. It had to stay there. “I will tell him about us, Charles. I just haven’t had the right moment.”

  ~~~

  It grieved McIntyre to watch Naomi wrestle with things, things he might not want to know about. He’d almost popped the question when he’d found her down by the stream this morning, but something had held him back. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket, but Matthew’s presence and Naomi’s confusion over a ghost troubled him. McIntyre could understand it. He didn’t necessarily have to feel that Naomi would choose him over John if the man was still alive, but he needed to be sure she had let go. He had every reason to believe she had. Didn’t he?

  He supposed the doubts came from the way Matthew had looked at Naomi.

  Lost in the thought as he was, he didn’t see Henry Thatcher in time, though he should have smelled the stench of whiskey. The man staggered around the corner and bumped into Naomi. Owl-eyed and swaying on his feet, he stepped back, but as he did, he laid one eager hand on her shoulder and gave her an appreciative once-over. A lecherous grin revealed his lack of teeth and obvious thoughts. McIntyre moved to intervene, but Naomi’s temper ignited like a firecracker before he could speak.

  “Get your hands off me!” She shoved the scrawny, stringy-haired Thatcher away from her. “Honestly, the men in this town.”

  Swaying on his feet, Thatcher’s expression darkened. “Now, easy, love,” he slurred, the liquor thickening his Cockney speech. “No need to be so unfriendly.” His hand flopped back to Naomi’s shoulder as his gaze roamed over her again.

  Not sure if he was angrier with the men in Defiance or Naomi, McIntyre quickly inserted himself between her and Thatcher. Moving his fiery princess out of the way, he shoved Thatcher up against the wall of the drug store.

  Thatcher’s eyes rounded comically with surprise followed immediately by stark fear. “McIntyre?”

  “Why, Henry Thatcher. One of the snakes come crawling back to Defiance.” Thatcher was a cohort of Tom Hawthorn, the man who had nearly beaten Mollie to death last November. “And where is your partner in crime? Certainly not back in Defiance as well?”

  His fear shined brighter. “I-I ain’t seen the bloke in months.”

  Probably true.

  Now what to do about his disrespecting Naomi? McIntyre chewed on his lip, forcing down the anger that made him want to shove his burning cheroot into Thatcher’s eye. Such methods of justice seemed at odds with his faith. This gutless scoundrel standing before them, however, didn’t know anything about that.

  McIntyre leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’re lucky I’m on my way somewhere, Thatcher.” The man gulped, understanding the message. “Remove your hat and apologize to this lady for your unacceptable manners.”

  Thatcher licked his lips and snatched the dirty kepi off his head. It irritated McIntyre that the Cockney dog was even wearing the Confederate cap, but he stepped aside so Thatcher could offer the apology. “I am sorry. I thought she was one a your—” he bit that off and turned his attention to Naomi. “I am sorry, madam, for my unacceptable be’avior. I hope you’ll be forgivin’ me.”

  He didn’t wait for her response. He smashed the cap on his head and hurried clumsily down the boardwalk. McIntyre and Naomi watched him stagger off to his tent—or rock. McIntyre shook his head. Thatcher was a small-time crook, but he’d been known to man-handle women. If Naomi had been alone ….

  He put his hand on her back and sighed as they resumed their walk. With a great effort, he controlled the frustration in his voice. “Naomi, would it be within the realm of possibility that occasionally you could meet a confrontation without throwing kerosene on it?”

  “He was drunk.” She crossed her arms across her chest, which was the same thing as a mule settling its back hooves.

  McIntyre had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, he was in a fair state, to be sure. But a soft answer turneth away wrath.” He raised an eyebrow at her, pleased he could pull out a verse of Scripture to use on her. “It wouldn’t hurt you to learn to keep your head down every now and again.”

  Surprising him, she loosened her arms a little. “Turn the other cheek?” She deflated, dropping her arms to her side, and he felt a bit like a cad for scolding her. “He thought I was one of your Flowers.”

  McIntyre absorbed the comment that felt like a punch to the gut. He had hoped she hadn’t caught that. He tossed the half-smoked cheroot into the dirt, determined not to run from the situation. “He won’t be the last either, Naomi. Should I say I’m sorry? I am.”

  She didn’t respond to the question. Instead, after a thoughtful moment of silence, she said, “He was terrified of you.”

  A thousand illustrations as to why leaped to his mind, but he remained quiet. He had no wish to explain the dog-eat-dog world a man had to conquer in order to build a mining town in the wilderness. Show no weakness. Give no quarter.

  “And, he hates you,” she added.

  The observation surprised him because it sounded vaguely like an accusation. “Most likely.” He shrugged, wishing he could as easily shrug off his past. “Men out here only understand one thing, Naomi—strength.” He’d been arguably merciless when building the town because that was the way it had to be. “His fear will keep him out of trouble … and away from what is mine.”

  ~~~

  Twelve

  McIntyre held the hotel door for Naomi. The place was as quiet as a church on Saturday night, a sign that their guests were still asleep. The dining room was closed on Sundays, allowing the girls one leisurely day to call their own. McIntyre wanted to spend it with Naomi. It felt to him as if he had some ground to smooth over.

  She let her shawl slide into his hands. As she hung it and his hat on the tree just inside the door, she touched his elbow. “I’ll get the coffee and meet you in the dining room.”

  McIntyre nodded, and watched her go. Her completely natural gesture, a light brushing of her fingers across his arm, coupled with their walk arm-in-arm, warmed him all over and he chose for the moment to ignore his concerns over his sordid past.

  “How do you feel about pancakes this morning, Mr. McIntyr
e?” From the stair landing, Rebecca followed the trail of his gaze, her lips twitching with amusement.

  He bent his head, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring after Naomi with stars in his eyes. He couldn’t begin to fathom what this woman had done to him. Nevertheless, he returned Rebecca’s smile with a devilish one of his own. “You’re trying to put as much weight on me as you have on Ian.”

  She finished twining the braid in her chestnut hair as she descended the steps and winked at him. “Yes, it’s an insidious plot. Fat men can’t outrun us.”

  Chuckling from the banter, McIntyre stepped into the dining room, separated from the front of the hotel by a false wall. The laughter died on his lips when he discovered Matthew stoking the fire. Feeling like someone had just shoved a burr under his saddle, McIntyre pulled another cheroot and match from his breast pocket. A good smoke helped him relax. After the run-in with Thatcher, his patience was edgy at best and he didn’t want to show any agitation around Matthew. A desire based on his gambler’s instinct. That instinct told him not to turn his back on this man. “Good morning, Mr. Miller.”

  Matthew glanced over his shoulder and smiled, but not before McIntyre saw a flash of irritation. “Mr. Miller was my pa. Please, call me Matthew.”

  “All right, Matthew.” The two shook hands then McIntyre struck the match on the mantle’s river rock. He puffed on his cigar, bringing it to life. Exhaling, he asked, “So what is it you do in California?”

  Matthew rested a boot on the hearth and watched the flames build. As if to hide fidgety fingers, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Timber. Tell me, Mr. McIntyre, are you the same Charles McIntyre who owns the Iron Horse Saloon?”

  McIntyre stopped in mid-puff, but resumed quickly. Wary, he exhaled. “I am, although, it’s closed now, of course.” Matthew’s fingers drummed inside the pockets. He rocked on his heels and ran a hand through his chopped, blond hair. McIntyre knew the signs of someone spoiling for a fight. Wisely or not, he decided to oblige. “Is there something you want to say, Matthew?”

  “What do two men who want the same woman say to each other?”

  Masterfully hiding his surprise at the blunt question, McIntyre rolled the cheroot between his thumb and index finger for a moment. A year ago he would have started with No woman in the world is worth fighting for. Perhaps even added besides, there’s plenty more where she came from. Now, he couldn’t imagine those words coming out of his mouth, especially regarding Naomi. Instead, he had the burning desire to say something chivalrous like why don’t we step outside and settle this? Of course, that approach yet again seemed at odds with his new-found faith. Falling back on his honed skill of bluffing, he waved the cheroot. “If memory serves, I believe Victori exuviae would do.”

  Matthew straightened and turned his mass on McIntyre. Not a small man himself, McIntyre was taken aback by the towering wall of flannel that masqueraded as the man’s chest and shoulders.

  “I don’t know Latin, but I get the meaning.” Matthew’s lip curled as he sized up McIntyre. “A fancy education doesn’t clean up somebody like you, though. The kind of man you are.”

  That sneer rankled McIntyre, challenging his patience. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and fought to keep the bluff.

  “Why, I bet there isn’t a man in the West who doesn’t know your name,” Matthew mocked. “‘Charles McIntyre hires sportin’ gals with all kinds of talents.’”

  McIntyre inhaled on the cheroot, pondering how best to deal with this swaggering giant. Seemed his faith was getting tested every which way as of late. He almost longed for a time when he would have ruined the man at a game of poker merely for the insult. Now, however, something restrained him. He heard the echo of vengeance is Mine and tried to listen.

  Matthew cocked his head to one side. “We’ve got two of your girls in Red Pine. My men speak very highly of them.”

  “That is no longer my vocation. It’s true I have a reputation, but it’ll die down in time.” Which might be true, eventually. “I’m a legitimate businessman now and I plan on bringing industry into Defiance.”

  “But not before you drag Naomi and maybe her sisters through your muck?”

  McIntyre had to remind himself not to bite through the cheroot, but the muscles in his jaws turned to iron. “I’m not dragging Naomi through anything. And I don’t see how my relationship with her is any of your business.”

  “Hmmm. Seems you haven’t had any compunctions about dragging other women into your quagmire. All those gals you’ve corrupted. How do you sleep at night?” Matthew clutched McIntyre’s shoulder and raised his voice. “Sure, we’ll have to talk about some potential logging business. You’ve got pretty timber in these mountains.”

  A hard smile tipped his mouth and McIntyre knew Naomi was coming up behind him.

  Matthew’s gaze shot past him. “Good morning, little sister.” Matthew left McIntyre and hurried to meet Naomi.

  Her eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, good morning, Matthew.” McIntyre hoped she was disappointed as well. “I didn’t expect you to be up. I’ll have to get another cup from the kitchen.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated. Here—” Matthew took the tray of coffee from her. “Let me help you with that.”

  The pleasantries fell apart abruptly as the front door burst open and deputy marshal Wade Hayes, all six-feet-four of him, lurched into the lobby. Sliding to a stop in the center of the entrance, the long and lean deputy scanned the room. Chest heaving, he found McIntyre and rushed toward him.

  “We got a problem over at the Lucky Deuce, Mr. McIntyre, and Sheriff Beckwith is out serving a warrant.” He pushed unruly strands of copper hair off his forehead as he resituated his hat. “I could use some help.”

  “What seems to be the matter, Wade?” McIntyre wasn’t sure if he should welcome or curse the intrusion.

  “Joseph Black Elk woke up in a surly mood. He’s got one of Jude’s gals by the arm and is threatening to cut her.”

  Naomi gasped. McIntyre sighed. Life in Defiance. Tossing the cheroot into the fire, he motioned toward the door. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Hold on a second.” Matthew set the tray down. “Maybe I should go along. I could probably be a little help.”

  McIntyre barely stopped a sneer before it surfaced. “Those muscles won’t stop a bullet or a blade.”

  “No, but it’s been my experience that my size can have a calming effect on people.”

  Tension like a tight-wire hung between the two men, but McIntyre realized quickly they were wasting time for no good reason. “Fine.”

  ~~~

  From a hundred feet away, the Lucky Deuce sounded as if a randy buffalo had gotten loose inside. McIntyre could hear furniture crashing, glass shattering, and the booming voice of a man bellowing what sounded like gibberish. The terrified scream of a woman split the morning air, sending a chill skittering up his spine. He and Wade, guns drawn, pushed through the gawking crowd at the door and burst into the saloon, with Matthew on their heels.

  The place was indeed a mess. Not one table or chair sat upright in the ramshackle tent saloon. Dozens of shattered bottles and the dangling shards of a large mirror lined the one real wall behind the slab bar. The stench of cheap whiskey alone was enough to cause inebriation. Black Elk, a tall, broad-chested Ute Indian, had Dolores by the wrist and was whipping her around like a rag doll. Waving his eight-inch blade about and hollering at the top of his lungs in Ute, he froze at the sight of the men at the door.

  Black Elk’s eyes narrowed and he pulled Dolores to him, hooking his arm around her throat. Pointing the knife tip at her jugular, he warned the men, “Come near me and I’ll kill her!”

  “Joseph,” McIntyre spoke calmly, “you don’t want to hurt Dolores. Let her go and we’ll all have a drink together.”

  “Ha!” the Indian yelled, his nostrils flaring with rage. Shaking his head, black tendrils snaking around his face, he snarled and pricked the girl’s throat, drawing blood and a whi
mper from her. “I will kill her graveyard dead. Stay away from me!”

  Slowly, one careful step at a time, the three men started fanning out. Matthew inched his way to Black Elk’s left, Wade to the right, and McIntyre stayed in the center, trying to draw the man’s attention. “Joseph, what’s this all about? You haven’t caused this kind of trouble before.”

  The Indian blinked and then flinched when the action poured sweat into his eyes. “Put that gun away, McIntyre, or you’re going to have another dead white woman on your hands!”

  Another? McIntyre squinted at Black Elk. He saw the man flinch again and almost bend over, as if he’d been hit with a cramp. “You’re not looking well, Joseph.” Something about the man’s face struck McIntyre as odd, sort of drawn. His skin appeared thin and he was flushed. “You don’t look well at all, as a matter of fact.”

  Black Elk waved the knife at him. “I’ll kill her!”

  McIntyre tilted his head. Black Elk’s gaze was confused and wandering, as if he couldn’t focus. “Black Elk, you’re sick.”

  The Indian tightened his grip on Dolores. “Put your guns down and I’ll walk out of here.” He jabbed the girl in the ribs with the knife. “Otherwise, she’s dead—” His features contorted into a hideous grimace and Black Elk staggered. Dolores whimpered and kept him on his feet, clearly afraid he might accidentally stab her if he fell.

  Knowing this could go bad in the blink of an eye, McIntyre dropped his gun back into his holster and motioned for Wade to do the same. All three of the men raised their hands. “All right, Joseph.” McIntyre took a small step forward. “We want this to end on a high note for everyone. Now put your knife away before you cut her by accident.”

  McIntyre messaged Matthew with a subtle nod. Someone strong needed to subdue this man. Put him down with one punch, if possible. It was Matthew’s lucky day.