She spun around to face him with a defiant, maybe suspicious, tilt to her chin. “And that should mean what to me?”
“Ah, shoot, Hannah.” Billy kicked a small rock and wandered over to the stream. She was cold and distant, but he knew, just knew, there was still a spark there. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”
“Me?” she practically yelped.
Billy flinched. In his mind, he could see her stance change. Her hand was lodged on her hip, a sure sign she was as mad as a wet hen.
“You have no idea what hard is. I stood before our entire congregation with your daddy staring daggers at me from the back pew.” His head jerked up.
“Do you know what they said to me? Did you ever hear?”
Heat raced up his neck, flushed his cheeks. He was ashamed to admit he’d never even asked.
“They called me a floozy and a trollop.”
Her voice broke over the last word and he wanted to kill himself for having brought that on her.
“Even the people who defended me,” he heard her sniff, “they sounded so disappointed in me.”
What had he done to this girl? Shocked over the scorched remains that used to be the most beautiful soul in his world, Billy slowly turned to her. He drank in the shining blue eyes pooling with tears, loose golden braid running down her shoulder, soft pink lips that used to say his name with breathlessness.
“You should hate me,” he said, realizing for the first time how bad it had been for her. Her chin trembled and she looked down. “I am so sorry, Hannah. I want you to know, I would die before I would ever hurt you like that again.” But he knew, to her, these were just words—more words from Billy the Coward. She lowered her head and stared at the ground.
He walked over to her, clutched her shoulders, but she kept her eyes averted. “Look at me, Hannah.” He wanted to shake her when she didn’t budge, but held back. “Look at me.” Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze to his. “You don’t want to give me a second chance? Fine. I’ll earn it. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do, I’m not giving up on you and my son.”
Every muscle in her face quivered like it was fighting for control. He’d betrayed her and destroyed her trust. Billy wished he could heal her, would do or give anything to try. His voice softened as he loosened his grip. “Even if you marry that greaser, I’m never running out on you again.”
Hannah’s eyes bugged and her mouth worked soundlessly for a second until she found her voice. “Greaser?” She blinked. “You mean Emilio?” She stepped back, wrenching free of his grip, and raised her fists at him. “Oh, if I was a man … I would beat some sense into you.”
Practically growling, she dropped her arms to her sides as if forcibly restraining the temptation. “Haven’t your prejudices done enough damage? Money, education, and now skin color. There sure are a lot of requirements for your club.”
Billy reached out to her, well aware he’d messed up again. “Hannah—”
“Don’t Hannah me.” She waved an agitated finger at him. “And don’t ever call Emilio that again.” She turned, took two quick steps, but something drew her up short. She spun back around on him, eyes storming like the North Atlantic in November. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need. Maybe you do need to stay here for a while.” She started to add something, but shook her head in disgust, whirled around and stomped back to the hotel.
Billy slapped his hand to his forehead. Was he never going to get this right? He’d caused her more hurt than he could ever imagine. Now she was as skittish of him as a scalded dog. Add to that all the aristocratic—no, be honest—arrogant attitudes of the Page family and he would be lucky if Hannah ever even prayed for him. Was there any coming back from this?
Keep swinging.
Lean not unto your own understanding.
Uninvited, Earp’s words nagged at him not to give up. And the Scripture urged him to relinquish control. Unable to reconcile the contrasts, he picked up a smooth, round rock and lobbed it hard into the water.
~~~
Hannah shut the door behind her and leaned back on it. A sob threatened to tear loose, but she wrestled it back into the shadows of her heart. Billy made her so mad and terrified her at the same time. She hated feeling this way, like trees tangled and broken after a storm. Heart aching, she hugged herself and let a few insistent tears escape.
Oh, God, can I believe anything he says? Has he changed? The vicious insults from her church family tore at her brain, keeping the betrayal raw. She knew it was wrong to hang on to it, but her disappointment in Billy ran soul-deep. Help me to forgive him for putting me through that, Lord. I thought I had, but I haven’t, God, and that’s wrong.
Like a soothing balm, the Lord brought to mind the face of her beloved son, the peace in Mollie’s soul, and the warmth of her friendship with Emilio. Rebecca had finally stored away her grief over Ben and Gracie’s death and shone like a new penny around Ian. Naomi had gone through a remarkable change, letting go of so much anger and rebellion, and Mr. McIntyre was working his way down the straight and narrow. God had worked many, many things for good. Things that, without her sin and Billy’s betrayal, would most likely have never happened.
“I trust You, Father,” she whispered with determination. “I trust You.” Please help me to forgive him, and, please, may he find out how much You love him.
~~~
Twenty
McIntyre leaned forward in the saddle and watched with admiration as Emilio studied the ground. He couldn’t see beneath the ragged tan hat, but McIntyre could tell he was concentrating. Turned out, the boy was a fine tracker. He hadn’t lost Betts’s trail once in two days. He was leading them right to the outlaw’s front door, wherever that was.
“They’re still together,” Emilio said, squatting to better study the ground. He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear and nodded. “One of their horses threw a shoe.”
Beckwith nodded in approval of the boy’s skill. “They’ll have to stop and fix that.” He studied the forest of aspens around them. “Any kind of homestead or settlement nearby?”
McIntyre pointed with his chin. “Less than a mile. An abandoned miner’s cabin. The trail forks in about half a mile.” He resituated the reins in his hand, ready to ride. “If they went to the cabin, their tracks will turn right. Either way, we’re about to catch up with them.”
It didn’t take long.
Long, eerie shadows stretched silently through the woods like the fingers of dead men. Gun drawn, McIntyre peered through the underbrush and pines at the small, dilapidated cabin. He heard no sounds except for the trickle of a nearby creek and the soft song of evening crickets. No voices. No clattering dishes. He noted, too, that no smoke puffed from the chimney and there weren’t any horses in the corral. Frustrated, he studied the dark windows for movement inside.
Nothing. Still as a graveyard.
After several minutes of waiting, he heard Beckwith shift positions. McIntyre tried to smother his irritation. Here he was, sitting in the woods, apparently on a wild goose chase, while Matthew was probably enjoying the sisters’ gushing ministrations. He could see the man, sitting by the fire, feet propped up on a chair and a pillow, Naomi handing him a cup of coffee.
He bit back a growl.
Emilio said the tracks went straight to the cabin, but maybe the men rode out the other side, aware that the determined posse was gaining on them. Finding out could be downright dicey. Huffing softly, McIntyre glanced quickly at the men on either side of him. One hard-scrabble marshal, two brave—but untested—boys. He couldn’t keep doing this. The men in Defiance were going to have to step up, despite being nothing but a bunch of tough-talking blowhards. Always ready for a good lynching, their blustery chatter died to a whisper if there was the possibility a real fight might be involved—
All at once, glass shattered, the earsplitting explosions of rifle fire and a .44 reverberated over them, and a dull thump hit his hat. Reacting to the shrapnel, McIntyre ducked behin
d a slender pine and aimed his gun at the cabin. More glass shattered in the dwelling and guns blazed simultaneously from both groups in rapid, thundering succession. Bullets and smoke filled the air. Lead hit the pine next to McIntyre, showering him with bark. He changed his position again, taking cover more to the right and behind a larger tree.
A white puff of smoke wafted away from the outhouse and he realized that was the location of the .44. He yelled at Beckwith over the gunfire, “There’s one in the outhouse!” Beckwith, revolver in one hand, rifle in the other, nodded and charged for a group of aspens closer to the lone building. McIntyre alternated shots at the cabin and the outhouse to give the lawman cover.
A flutter of movement behind a bedraggled curtain tipped McIntyre off. He fired and heard a scream.
First blood. A psychological victory for the posse.
“George Betts, this is Marshal Beckwith!”
McIntyre looked over. The marshal, standing behind a fat aspen, holstered the revolver and shoved bullets into the rifle with smooth, unhurried moves.
“I’ve got a warrant for your arrest for horse stealing.” Emilio and Wade stopped firing and tucked in tighter behind their trees. The return fire petered out and an eerie hush fell over the group. The outlaws were listening. “And now I’ve got cause to bring in your friends.” Beckwith lifted his hat and used his forearm to wipe away sweat. The determined set of his jaw as he replaced the Stetson told McIntyre the marshal was through wasting time. “Surrender now and I won’t press charges for attempting to kill an officer of the law and his deputies!” Not even the crickets risked an answer. “I will not make the offer twice!” Beckwith reached for his Colt, but a thoughtful expression crossed his stern face. Changing his tact, he leveled the Sharps Carbine on the outhouse.
In the pristine silence, McIntyre thought he heard, from behind the outhouse’s plank door, the click-click of a rotating cylinder as an unseen hand pulled back on a hammer. Beckwith reacted to the sound and fired the Sharps. A deafening explosion like cannon fire rumbled through the woods, rattling the windows in the cabin. The bullet ripped through the outhouse door and shards of wood exploded out the back. McIntyre was sure he had seen a spray of blood mixed with the shrapnel.
Silence followed on the heels of the fading shot. “That was George,” Beckwith hollered at the cabin, “you boys next?”
The Sharps shortened the outlaws’ decision-making process considerably. “We’re coming out, Marshal.” A rifle flew out the window, thudding on the pine straw. “We ain’t wanted for anything and we don’t want to make this worse than it already is.”
~~~
As Beckwith and Wade handcuffed the two men, Emilio and McIntyre draped George Betts over the outlaw’s horse. A grim duty. The Sharps had left a mangled, bloody mess of the man’s head. McIntyre needed to find a feed sack or something to cover him. It was the decent thing to do.
“Mr. McIntyre … your hat.”
McIntyre glanced across the saddle at Emilio, puzzled by his breathless voice and the shock reflected in his face. He realized the boy was staring wide-eyed at his Stetson. He snatched the hat off his head. He turned the Stetson around and poked his finger clean through a bullet hole, a perfect circle not an inch above his scalp. A tremor shot through his gut.
The thump he’d felt.
Close calls had never bothered him before. But now, staring at the empty space where black felt should have been, all he could think about was Naomi. If things had played out differently, it could well be him decorating this saddle and he’d kissed the woman a grand total of three times. Worse, he had never even said I love you. Three words that, when spoken in earnest, meant a man was willing to accept a permanent change in his life.
A fancy education doesn’t clean somebody like you up, though. The kind of man you are.
McIntyre tried to ignore Matthew’s words as he placed the hat back on his head and finished tending to Betts. Holding his expression still and his reaction hidden, he passed Emilio the end of a rope. “Tie his feet. Pass the rope back to me underneath.”
Why, I bet there isn’t a man in the West who doesn’t know your name.
But not before you drag Naomi and maybe her sisters through your mud?
As McIntyre secured Betts to the saddle, Matthew’s accusations and his own self-doubt nagged at him. He hated wondering if he was really good enough for her.
The bullet hole in his hat meant something. He had told Naomi once that God had gone to a lot of trouble to bring her to Defiance, to him. And now God had saved him from a bullet that had very nearly parted his skull. The only reason he could think of was Naomi. To love her. Honor her. Share his life with her.
He pondered Betts, dead as driftwood, and decided. Matthew notwithstanding, it was time to propose.
~~~
The young woman marched with such purpose toward the doors of the Iron Horse Saloon that Naomi drew up. Curious, she peered through moving, bobbing shoulders on the boardwalk and watched. The girl grabbed the doorknob, shoved against it. It didn’t open and she stepped back, dropping a hand on her hip in obvious frustration. A pretty thing with strawberry-blonde hair piled atop her head, she wore a faded but stylish red dress, tailored too tightly and cut too low. In her left hand, she clutched a fraying carpet valise.
Naomi swallowed. A summer dove?
Jealousy turned her arms and legs to rubber, and made her stomach churn. Feeling nauseous, she forced her feet to move her body toward the girl, rather than across the street to the mercantile.
Dreading the conversation, Naomi slowly approached her. “Are you looking for–?”
“Charles McIntyre.” The woman turned, her stance screaming her irritation. “They told me he’d closed this place, but I didn’t believe it.” She spoke with a heavy accent. French, Naomi guessed, and laced with displeasure. “That doesn’t leave me no place but Tent Town now.”
“So, you’re a …?”
“Flower? Oui. Summers only. The rest of the year I prefer to bloom in New Orleans.” The woman switched the valise to her other hand and assessed Naomi top to bottom. Her expression, initially reserved like a bored housecat, changed to disapproval. “You his current?”
“I’m sorry?”
The woman frowned, as if Naomi was stupid, and spoke more slowly. “Are you keeping him company or is the position open? Anything would be better than Tent Town.”
Naomi struggled to sort through her feelings about this woman and her question. Stumbling about mentally, she said, “I am his special friend.” The absurd answer made her want to crawl under a rock. “I mean, we are—”
“Whatever, honey,” the woman dismissed her with an impatient wave. Turning to the street, she studied the traffic and tapped her fingers restlessly on her leg. “I don’t care. I need to get settled for a few days so it’s not a wasted trip. Broken Spoke still open?”
Jealousy and insecurities scrambled Naomi’s brain, but love nudged her, insistently … annoyingly. She took a deep breath and raised her chin. “You don’t have to do that.” The words nearly choked her. The woman swung her head around, narrow eyes showing surprise and suspicion.
Oh, God, give me the strength to do the right thing, though it’s as bitter as gall. “I own a hotel. You could stay there … for free. You wouldn’t have to do … that kind of work.”
The woman twirled slowly to Naomi and once again appraised her, but with deliberation this time. Momentarily, her face lit up. “You’re one of them Hallelujah Army people aren’t you? God, and Jesus, and all that? Well, no thanks, ma chèrie, I’ll stick with the sinners.” She winked, “they have more fun.”
Finished with Naomi, the girl picked up her skirt and stepped into the street.
Right and wrong, love and hate warred in Naomi. She didn’t want to see this woman go, but at the same time, she was relieved she was going. The guilt of such a selfish thought stung. What if she’d rushed Lily, Jasmine or Iris out of town? Truth was, this gal had no idea what she was walking
away from. Why wouldn’t she want a chance to change her life? What made these soiled doves so resentful of the gospel?
And how many times would Naomi have to go through this? Standing up to the women who would reject her and her God, but not her man?
Would living as a believer in Defiance ever get easier? And if she called herself that, then she had to put feet on her faith. If she couldn’t stop the woman, she could at least pray for her. Frustrated enough to kick something, Naomi called, “What’s your name?”
Throwing her arms out to the side, the woman whirled gaily between horses passing in opposite directions. “Amaryllis!” Without missing a step, she continued her march across the busy street.
~~~
Naomi tried not to stare as Matthew devoured his fifth piece of fried chicken. An empty platter on her hip, she scanned the dining room. One lone gentleman, a well-dressed representative from a mining conglomerate, and a few scruffy miners, finished off the dinner rush. Slow enough for her to rest a moment.
Smiling, she sat down opposite her clearly starving brother-in-law. “I take it today’s menu meets with your approval?” The Miller boys had always been able to pack in stunning amounts of food. Matthew had slept away one whole day recovering from his wound, and now polished off his meal like a bear coming out of hibernation.
“You have no idea,” he said, licking his fingers with enthusiasm, “how I have missed Rebecca’s cooking.”
Naomi recalled more than a few church picnics where men were almost willing to fight over her sister’s chicken. Here, they were willing to fight over women like Amaryllis.
The cheerfulness of the thought must have shown. “What’s wrong, Naomi,” Matthew asked gently. “Or is that a stupid question?”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 13