Courting me, she had started to ask, but her courage had back-flipped off the saddle. They trotted on for a good half hour. When they emerged from the trees, the horse slowed to an easy walk.
“I dig the yarrow here.”
He tugged on the reins and Cochise stopped. Emilio threw his leg over the saddle horn and slid to the ground in a fluid, natural move. Hannah scanned the sun-washed alpine pasture splashed with a vibrant palette of wildflowers. What did yarrow even look like? “So now will you tell me what it is?”
“Medicine.” He helped her dismount and then handed her Cochise’s reins. Spotting a plant, he bent down and plucked a long green weed with lacey blossoms in a bunch on top. He held it up for her to see, displaying it with pride as if it were a trophy. “Now is the time to collect yarrow if you want to stop bleeding. You can also use the leaves to make medicine for a cold and upset stomach. If you plant it in the garden, it will also make your soil better.”
Impressed with his knowledge of the herb, Hannah took the plant and studied it. The leaves were spindly, the flowers small and delicate. She’d been doing a little nursing for Doc and told herself she should ask him about this plant. It sounded like it had several uses.
“In late spring we can use it to make potions that will help heal skin rashes and make swelling go down. You can even make snuff out of it.”
Hannah realized her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “How in the world do you know all this?”
He hesitated. “Rose knows more than I do.”
The mere mention of his sister gave Hannah a chill. Rose knew about herbs because she used them in her witchcraft. Sitting in the state prison in Denver for shooting Mr. McIntyre, she wasn’t doing much conjuring right now, much to Hannah’s satisfaction.
Emilio’s chin dipped a little, as if apologizing. “Rose always collected the plants that made her customers see things or go to sleep. But I found the herbs that could help people.”
Hannah smiled. Emilio had to be about the nicest boy she’d ever met. Billy Page was a fading watercolor of a memory compared with him. Emilio’s stare shot past her and his face clouded.
“Get on the horse, Hannah.”
She didn’t miss the unease in his voice and swiveled to see what had alarmed him. She sucked in a breath at the shape of a man sitting above them on a ridge. Silhouetted by the sun, she could make out the long lance he carried and the movement of feathers in his hair.
“Get on the horse now.”
Hannah obeyed and hoisted herself astride Cochise.
Emilio followed immediately, sitting behind her this time, and kicked his mount into a gallop before Hannah could blink. She squeezed the saddle horn with a death grip, amazed at the animal’s speed.
“Emilio, what’s the matter? Who is that?”
They entered the woods and, from the safety of the shadows, he turned Cochise to take another look. The Indian still sat motionless on the ridge. “His name is One-Who-Cries. He won’t live on the reservation, and he has killed many white people.” He tugged on the reins and turned Cochise back toward the shadowy woods. “We have to let Mr. McIntyre know.”
~~~
Something about manual labor spoke to McIntyre’s soul. Or maybe it was just the thought of building his own home on his own land. He lodged the ax in the peeled log he was notching and stepped back. He wanted a moment to appreciate the beauty of his valley, surrounded by the towering San Juan Mountains. Ponderosa pines as tall as mythical giants ringed him on three sides, and the smell of evergreens and damp ground wafted to him. The Animas River, miles of it, wound through his land. The longest and calmest stretch rolled right past this spot—his home site. He watched the sun dance off the moving water and listened to the gentle gurgling as it headed off into the valley. Not so loud as to drown out approaching visitors, but a soft sound to accompany one’s outdoor activities. This was a perfect spot for fishing or splashing in the water with children.
He smiled. Children. He could almost see them, his and Naomi’s offspring wading carefully with their arms outstretched, slipping and squealing with shock as they hit the ice-cold water. Before Naomi, before God, he’d never dared think his life might take such a path. He’d thought he was too far gone, not fit to be a husband, much less a father.
The thud of hoofbeats intruded, snatching him away from the pleasant imaginings. He eyed the tree line and listened. An easy lope by the sound of it, nothing that should alarm him. Still, he moved to where his gun belt was draped over a tree stump, slid the belt around his waist, and faced the woods where the rider would emerge.
Moments later, Emilio, his pinto’s white mane and tail dancing in the breeze, shot out from the trees, and he waved at McIntyre. The boy slowed his horse and trotted over to him, the sound of squeaking leather rising over the gurgling of the stream. “Your telegrams came,” he said, pulling two folded notes from his pocket.
McIntyre all but snatched the messages from Emilio’s hand and read them quickly. He held one in each hand, contemplating the answers. One told him the circuit preacher was over in Mineral Point. Reverend Potter would be more than happy to perform the wedding anytime in the next three weeks. After that, he was headed to Pagosa Springs and wouldn’t be back this way for another six weeks.
The other confirmed his worst fears. After Emilio reported seeing One-Who-Cries in the vicinity, McIntyre had sent a telegram to his old friend, Chief Ouray, to determine the state of affairs at the White River Reservation. But Ouray knew that McIntyre was really asking about the state of mind of the renegade. The chief’s response burned like a volcano in McIntyre’s blood: Seven braves have left reservation. Now ride with One-Who-Cries. More death coming.
McIntyre lifted his gaze to the valley around them, struck by the different paths each telegram represented. One foretold of a peaceful life full of the things most men desire—a good wife, beautiful children, a fine home. The other drew him back to a hard life, one rife with violence and justice meted out without mercy.
The hate that he held for One-Who-Cries boiled close to the surface, and this disturbed him. But the screams still echoed in his head. The loss still lingered in his heart. He wanted justice from the renegade, to see the life drain out of him. Even more, he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. He shouldn’t want those things, he knew, not as a man of faith who left vengeance and justice to God.
But maybe some things, a man had to handle himself.
~~~
Hannah sniffed the yarrow Emilio held out to her. The flower had a sweet, spicy scent. “Mmm. It smells nice.”
He took the plant and laid it on the kitchen table in front of them. A week after their unfinished hunt, he had gone on his own and returned with several bunches of the aromatic herb. He said he hadn’t seen any further sign of the Indian. Not that Hannah was worried, but she was glad to hear it, just the same.
“There are different ways to prepare it.” He grabbed a plant and started tearing the fern-like leaves from the stem. “Depends on the time of year.”
His hands worked with skill. After watching him for a moment, Hannah reached out and grabbed a flower of her own to strip. He flashed a fleeting smile but concentrated hard on the flower. They worked in silence for a bit, but Hannah’s mind whirled. She was enjoying sitting in the quiet kitchen alone with Emilio, but something had definitely shifted in their friendship. Usually, they could chat up a storm. Now, though, she thought there were volumes of things being said without either one of them uttering a word. She found it maddening.
“Did you enjoy your ride out to the meadow?”
Emilio nodded. “Si, the weather was very nice.”
Again, more silence.
“Emilio, how old are you?” she asked, wondering how much more small talk she could manage.
He shrugged as he took a knife and cut the blossom off the stem he had just stripped. “I don’t know, seventeen, maybe eighteen.”
With his unstable home life, if one could use such a
gentle term, she wasn’t surprised that he didn’t know his exact age. A lot of people out West had lost track of such things. “Do you know when your birthday is?”
Emilio paused and stared off into space. “No, not really.” But then he smiled broadly, remembering a clue. “It is in the spring, though. I know that much.”
“Well, we’ll just have to pick a date and throw a party.” She laid her hand over his as excitement bubbled up in her like a fountain. The idea had just leapt to mind, and she was glad of it. “We’re way overdue for a party. What about the end of the month, before the Flowers take the stage out?”
He glanced at her hand and then back to her face. He was so close she could smell the scent of leather and pine on him, mixed with the tangy yarrow. She put her hand over her heart, afraid Emilio could hear it racing.
Confused by her own reaction, she quickly grabbed another piece of the herb. “We could put up lanterns out back,” she said, wishing the nervous wiggle in her voice would subside. “We could ask Shorty Johnson to come and play his banjo. It would be a wonderful party, with dancing and food.”
Emilio didn’t say anything, but she could sense him still watching her as she plucked the tiny leaves. Finally, he said, “Hannah, how is it that … I mean—” He broke off, hesitated, and started over. “I mean, you seem so nice. You’re not like the girls at the Iron Horse. So how did you …?”
Oh. She figured out what he was trying to ask and decided to help him along. “So how did I wind up with a baby and no husband?” She turned to him, and he flinched a little at her brusque tone.
“Si.”
It was her turn to shrug. “Billy Page was the most handsome boy in town. He was wealthy, and all the girls in town were after him.” She twirled the flower in her hands, ashamed of herself. Was I really that empty-headed? All those reasons for caring about someone seemed so ridiculously trite now after everything she’d been through in the last year. “But he picked me. He lavished me with attention, made me feel so special.” She shook her head, embarrassed she’d ever been so gullible. But she was at least grateful for Little Billy. “I bought it all, hook-line-and-sinker. I thought he was so in love with me and that we had something special.”
Perhaps Emilio heard the shame and regret. This time, he covered her hand with his, and regarded her with an expression full of tenderness. “You are special. Very special. He just wasn’t smart enough to realize it.”
Emilio leaned toward her and she closed her eyes, waiting for a kiss that seemed as natural as breathing. But the movement took him to his feet instead. She blinked, surprised that she was both embarrassed and disappointed.
“I—I have to go run errands for Mr. McIntyre,” he said, practically tripping over his chair. “I’ll be back to finish this up.”
Hannah opened her mouth to speak, but no words escaped.
It didn’t matter. Emilio was gone.
~~~
Six
McIntyre tapped the engagement ring on his desk. The sound ricocheted like a rifle shot in the silence of the Iron Horse. The ring with a modest emerald once belonged to his mother and had made its way to him in a box of her things, shortly after her death. He wished she could have met Naomi, seen the direction his life was headed now. Part of him suspected that his mother had always known. Her faith had been rock solid.
She would have approved of Naomi.
McIntyre had known the moment he’d heard about the party that this was the night to ask her. The question he wrangled with now was how. Should he make it a quiet, private request? Or should he do the bended knee in front of everyone? Showmanship wasn’t part of his personality, but asking her that way struck him as noble and honorable. It would hold him publicly accountable to be a decent man and good husband.
The snort of derision from his condemning past was almost audible. It sat in the room with him like a lurking shadow. After all, his audacity was astounding. Who was he to think he could make Naomi happy? What if he wound up bored by the sedate, responsible lifestyle? What if he decided he wasn’t really meant for monogamy? What if his past was too much for her?
For him?
Frustrated by these questions, he nearly flung the ring across the room. But something stopped him. He waited and after a moment, heard, or rather felt the words: Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature. Old things are passed away, behold, all things are become new. Naomi had urged him repeatedly in the past few weeks to hold on to that Scripture. And he would try, because in that direction laid hope.
He didn’t relish the alternative.
~~~
McIntyre stood on the back stoop for a moment, enjoying the sight of his prospective bride laughing with her sisters, and Ian and Emilio. He was pleased to see that Naomi had again passed on her usual braid and left her hair free and flowing. Captivated by the joy shining in her eyes, not to mention the perfect fit of her pink paisley dress, he watched her with a hunger far more than physical. He’d never be able to make her understand how much he loved her. How could he? He didn’t understand it himself.
Grudgingly, he dropped his perusal of her and admired the decorations. A string of glowing paper lanterns ran from the stoop over to one corner of the chicken coop, to a makeshift log support, and back, framing the backyard in a large, glowing square. Fried chicken, venison, mouth-watering fixings, and a birthday cake covered the kitchen table now sitting at the edge of the party. Shorty and Bud, staged in the back of a wagon with their fiddle and banjo, filled the air with a sprightly version of “Dixie.” A small bonfire burned at the center of the activities for light and warmth. McIntyre’s former Flowers—Lily, Iris, Jasmine, and Daisy—stood near the musicians, smiling and tapping their toes.
He eyed the younger, paler Flower and corrected himself. Daisy went by her real name now. Mollie was no longer a Flower blooming in his brothel. Instead, she lived here at the hotel, blossoming in her new-found faith. His other girls, retired by him, had been spending hours here with Mollie and the sisters getting new clothes made to hide their past. Tonight, they wore simple cotton dresses with high necklines. They could now pass for any respectable women, with no telltale signs of their former vocation visible.
While he was pleased the girls were getting out of the business, he hated the part he’d played getting them into it. He hoped when they took the stage out of here, they’d leave Defiance and everything it had done to them in the dust. Maybe someday he could as well.
That reminded him, the stage was a good four hours late. Not unusual for the first one of the season. The roads, in places, were still covered in deep, melting slush. He hated dreading the arrival of each and every stagecoach. He truly hoped Naomi was up to facing the inevitable passengers.
Shaking off the thought, he reminded himself that this was a party. McIntyre descended the steps and strode over to the group. He appreciated the warm greetings from Ian and the sisters, but it was that glow in Naomi’s eyes that made him hope he was becoming a better man. Bowing, he took her hand. “May I have this dance, your ladyship?”
Naomi clutched his fingers without hesitation. McIntyre led her around to the other side of the fire, closer to the musicians, and winked at Shorty. “I need a slow waltz, boys. And make it last a few minutes.”
The musicians started a haunting rendition of “Annie Laurie,” as McIntyre tilted his hat back. Smiling at Naomi with his best roguish grin, he pulled her close and watched the color rush to her cheeks. He couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d ever seen her. Dirty and weary from the trail, that long braid tumbling down her back like Rapunzel’s, she was still spirited enough even after months of travel to be offended by a nude painting.
“The day you walked into my saloon, you blushed,” smirking, he added, “over the painting of Eve.”
Naomi shook her head and donned a stern expression as they danced near the fire. “Yes, I remember that lewd thing. I’m glad she’s gone.”
“Oh, but Eve was the perfect woman.”
One of Naomi’s brows rose, expressing her doubt.
“She wasn’t any trouble,” he teased. “She never sassed me, never acted as if she were better than me—”
“Never took a shot at you.”
He flinched dramatically to keep the mood light. “Well, there is that.” The fresh bullet scar on his shoulder twinged with the memory. “I don’t miss Eve or Rose. But you, well …” He stared over her head, pretending utter consternation. “I just don’t understand it. What would possess me to settle on the most stubborn, prideful woman God ever made?”
Naomi frowned and stepped on a polished boot tip, lingering long enough to let him know it was an intentional misstep. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she deadpanned. “I suppose I’m out of practice.”
His roguish grin reappearing, he lowered his lips to her cheek. In no hurry, he slowly traced her jaw back to her ear, enjoying with great satisfaction the instant hitch in her breath and the way she yielded to his touch. “I told you I can remedy that, princess,” he whispered huskily, nuzzling her ear, “with eagerness.”
For an instant, she felt almost limp in his arms, as if she were melting. Surprising him, though, she abruptly pushed him away as far as her arms would reach, creating a space between them wide enough for a plow horse to step through. “Why, I think we should start lessons right now, Mr. McIntyre.” She followed his steps, but kept her arms stiff and straight as they danced, fighting a smile all the while. Ian and Rebecca joined the dance and waltzed pass them with quizzical expressions.
“I assume this means, Your Worship, you plan to keep me at arm’s length?” He obligingly respected the space between them as he took two steps back and spun her.
Naomi raised her chin haughtily and peered off into the darkness. “Until you learn to appreciate me.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 5