~~~
Twenty-Seven
McIntyre shut the saloon’s door behind him as he stepped out into the sweet, warm May sunshine. Fall was his favorite time of year, but this spring felt unusually good, full of hope and promise. Despite his concerns over Matthew’s arrival, or One-Who-Cries’ possible proximity, he’d never carried as much optimism for the future as he had at this very moment. He kept coming back to the word hope. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though his future held something more valuable than material gain.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” Matthew called from somewhere behind him.
McIntyre’s good mood dissipated like smoke. Swallowing his irritation, he turned. A few yards up the boardwalk, Matthew hobbled toward him, wearing a strained smile. “Or should I say victori exuviae?”
McIntyre paused and decided to be the bigger man. He met Matthew halfway and stuck out his hand. Matthew shifted his cane and the two shook hands. McIntyre sensed cold disdain simmered within the man but chose to ignore it. “Thank you, but it was never a competition and I shouldn’t have implied that.”
The two moseyed down the street together. Matthew shook his head. “No, Naomi certainly is not a prize bull.”
“A prize fighter, maybe,” McIntyre only half-joked and the two men chuckled. “You are heading to the telegraph office?” A logical question, as it was one of the last businesses before the main route over to Tent Town.
“Uh … yes.”
McIntyre had asked only in an effort to make conversation but the pause in Matthew’s answer betrayed the lie.
Matthew switched the cane back to his right hand. “Checking on things at my mill. I think another few days and I’ll be heading home.”
“Yes, I’m sure your business needs you back.” McIntyre had to wonder why the man would lie about where he’d been … or was going? The conversation lagged awkwardly and he was glad for a reason to end the pleasantries. “Well, I’ve someone waiting on me. Good day.”
He touched the brim of his hat and jumped off the boardwalk to cross the street. As he weaved through the traffic, he could feel the man’s stare burning into his back. Momentarily stuck waiting for a lumbering freight wagon to pass, he wondered just who might turn out to be more dangerous, a murderous renegade Indian or a manipulative, lying white man. He realized it didn’t matter. Neither should be ignored.
Laughter floated to him over the jangle of the wagon, bringing him back to the moment. He’d heard that laugh before. Curious, he turned back to the telegraph office. Matthew, not surprisingly, hobbled past it, falling in behind a boisterous group of miners. Carrying on loudly, the men disappeared around the corner of the next building, headed toward Tent Town. The familiar cackle had been faint, possibly even imagined.
McIntyre stayed a moment longer, listening, but a group of riders forced him to continue to the other side of the street. He climbed up on the boardwalk and turned back again. Surely Tom Hawthorn wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back to Defiance.
Resting his hand on his gun, he paused over the memory of a bloody and abused Flower. Hawthorn had nearly beaten Mollie to death last November. The wretch had served his thirty-day sentence in the jail, paid his fine, and accepted his banishment from Defiance. McIntyre had watched him ride out of town, knowing that justice hadn’t been done for Mollie. To his disgrace, he hadn’t cared.
Only one man had ever defied McIntyre and re-entered town after a similar ruling. That man was dead. The gunfight had been the stuff of legends, cementing McIntyre’s reputation as the soulless lord and master of Defiance. His town. His rules. No questions.
Now, such a stone-cold approach to running things was clearly at odds with the man he was trying to become. He struggled with how to reconcile the two. How did he keep respect and control if he wasn’t willing to take a life without a second thought? Worse, what if he was still willing to play things that way? What would he do if push came to shove and he had an instant to choose?
McIntyre surveyed the street for another few seconds.
He knew eventually he’d find out.
~~~
Matthew’s dislike for McIntyre was growing like a tumor. What did Naomi see in that pompous peacock? That she’d agreed to marry him just about took the wind out of Matthew’s sails. He was getting pretty tired of the runner-up ribbon, and it had taken a strong dose of self-control not to pound McIntyre into the dirt.
But that wouldn’t win Naomi back. Somehow, he had to show her McIntyre’s true colors. Men like him didn’t change. There had to be a way to prove it.
His side throbbing, he inched over a step to allow a group of boisterous, swaggering miners room to pass him. He knew the signs. These fellas were on their way to getting liquored up good.
At least, that was Matthew’s plan. Anything to ease this ache in his side and his heart.
The Lucky Deuce should have just the medicine he needed. Maybe that pretty little brunette would be there too. In his present condition, he didn’t think he should do much with her, unless he wanted to risk tearing a stitch or two.
He grinned. Maybe she was worth it.
The possibility motivating his steps, he gimped along the boardwalk. Shortly, he cut down an alley. Once off Main Street, Defiance took a decided turn for the shabby. No stick buildings here. Mud from the laundry sucked at his boots and squished around his cane as he hobbled past the graying, tattered tent. On multiple clothes lines, holey long johns, dingy sheets and permanently stained canvas breeches kicked and whipped in the spring breeze.
One group of men sitting out in front of their neighborhood of tents was just as worn and frayed as their laundry. Pipe smoke swirled around their heads as they watched Matthew with tired, suspicious eyes. Several of them had tin lunch pails sitting at their feet. He wondered in passing if they were getting ready to head off to the mine or had just returned.
As he shuffled by a larger, newer tent, a young man ducked outside and tied the massive flap out of the way. A crowd of at least a dozen men spilled out, laughing and joking about the picture show. Obscene comments regarding the ladies in the images and the size of their assets drifted to Matthew. He knew a lot of men who enjoyed such shows, but he didn’t see the point. Matthew Miller preferred the real deal, and pursued it at will.
A few steps further and he caught a whiff of something sweet. Opium. He shook his head. This town doesn’t miss a trick.
He hobbled on and eventually the Lucky Deuce rose up from behind a row of yellowing, scraggly tents. The saloon was a step up from many of the other structures around it, since it wasn’t all cloth. It had a stick-built back wall, and sides and a front that were about four feet tall. From that point, the canvas took over. He heard glass clinking as he approached but not much in the way of conversation.
He pushed the sagging canvas door open and surveyed the room. All the furniture had been righted, but spaces at the tables pointed to several chairs missing. The liquor shelves on the back wall were also only about a third full. A couple of seedy miners eyed him when he entered, but Matthew saw a shapely strawberry-blonde behind the bar and marched straight for her. Her back to him, she was unloading a box of glasses, stacking them on a warped shelf near the tapped keg.
She turned at the sound of his thumping cane and gave him a knowing smile. “My, aren’t you a big bear of a man.” She set the glass down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar. The luscious contents of her frayed bodice on display, she smiled seductively.
Yes, indeed, Matthew thought, ogling the girl. Why settle for a picture when you could get the real thing. And the Frenchie accent loaded his mind with all kinds of heady thoughts. “Howdy …?” He waited for her name.
“Call me Amaryllis.” Her inviting smile grudgingly drew Matthew’s eyes up to her mouth. “Get you something, monsieur?”
“In a minute.” He wanted to work this, make sure the girl was properly pliable. Draw things out a bit with a few frilly words and a man could
dredge up the sweeter side of a gal. “You are the prettiest thing I’ve seen in this town. Mind if I just kind of drink you in?” Amaryllis’s bored expression said she had heard that one a time or two and she went back to stacking.
“Hey, I’m not some randy miner that ain’t had any in months.” The boredom stayed in place as she worked. “No, ma’am, I take the time to appreciate beauty. Like that pert nose of yours, and those milky shoulders …” Her stacking slowed as he talked. “Emerald green eyes, curves like Venus.”
“Too bad golden tongues aren’t worth as much as gold nuggets, oui? You would be rich.”
Matthew fished a ten dollar gold piece out of his pocket and laid it on the rough-sawed bar. “Who says I’m not? Give me a bottle, two glasses, and keep the change.”
At the sound of the money hitting the bar, Amaryllis swung around. She smiled like Midas about to touch a stone and reached for the coin. Matthew knew he had won some ground. He winked at her and moved to a table in the corner, near the cold buck stove. A moment later Amaryllis brought him his bottle. He motioned to the empty seat near him. “That second glass is for you. I’d like to toast my health.”
Amaryllis hesitated, and then brought a reddish curl around to the front of her shoulder. A hungry smile tipped her lips and heat smoldered in her eyes. “That’s mighty sweet of you, mon chérie. Don’t mind if I do.” She sat down and poured both drinks.
Matthew touched his side, the pounding downright distracting. He could stand to lie down, some place he could throw back a few and not have to worry about his language or keeping up the gentlemanly demeanor. He let his eyes roam over Amaryllis’ pretty strawberry hair, piled attractively atop her head. He took another gander, too, at the tight, revealing red dress that pushed her bosom nice and high.
“Too bad I won’t be hanging around Defiance all that long.”
She stuck out her lip in a seductive pout. “Oh, but you can’t leave until we have a nice party.”
That made him chuckle. “Well, plans can change.” He picked up his glass. “Let’s toast to my weakness and say good-bye to her.”
Amaryllis sighed deeply. “I used to be a man’s weakness. Now I come to town and everything has changed. The Iron Horse is closed. The Garden is closed—”
“McIntyre? You know Charles McIntyre?”
Amaryllis grinned like the devil with a dark, decadent secret. “I know every inch of him.” The air around Matthew warmed twenty degrees and he tugged at his collar. She licked her upper lip, slowly, provocatively, and Matthew swallowed. The woman knew exactly how to play this game. “I was his—how do you say—summer dove.” Amaryllis rested her elbows on the table, shoving her creamy white breasts to the edge of bursting from her dress. “He told me himself I was his one weakness.”
His one weakness?
Matthew slammed back the whiskey in an effort to cool his desire and clear an idea from his head. But as the liquor burned down his throat he heard a voice taunting all’s fair in love and war.
~~~
Twenty-Eight
Billy gasped and struggled to suck in a breath but his chest wouldn’t cooperate.
What the. . .
He heard Prince Valiant’s terrified squeal and realized they’d taken a bad fall. Squeezing his eyes shut, Billy forced his lungs to function. Air cleared his head some and he clawed up to a sitting position. A black headache thundered through his brain. Beside him, Prince Valiant flailed and kicked his way back to his feet. He wouldn’t put down his left front leg, but held it up, curled in.
“Oh, God, what have I done?” Billy moaned and climbed to his feet. The headache intensified, temporarily blacking out his vision. Gritting his teeth, he fought off the vertigo and staggered to his horse. Prince Valiant nickered, lowered his head, and pointed his ears straight out to the sides. “Boy, oh, Val, I’m so sorry.” Billy rubbed his horse’s nose lovingly. Slowly, he worked his way down until he squatted beside Val’s leg. “What have I done? What have I done?” he muttered over and over as he gently ran his hand up and down the horse’s cannon bone to his ankle.
He felt the heat in Val’s pastern but the horse shied away from Billy’s touch. After several attempts to assess the damage, he gave up. Heartsick over this new development, he grabbed the dangling rope and plunked down on the ground. He studied the vast empty pasture, cringed at the silence, and wondered just how far they were from town.
He eyed Prince Valiant’s leg again.
Too far.
He cursed and raised his gaze to heaven. “Is this your idea of helping me? Well, thanks a heap!”
The horse jerked at the outburst and Billy almost let the lead line slide through his hand. “Whoa, boy, whoa, it’s all right.”
Shaking his head, Billy wiped sweat and dirt from his forehead. The aches and pains from the fight, now compounded by the fall, battered him with a vengeance. Even his little toe hurt. He cursed again and wondered what the heck had happened to his hat.
He spotted it a few feet away, flat and crumpled. Stiffly, moving like his joints were greased with sand, he struggled to a standing position. Dizziness skewed his vision again. He pinched the bridge of his nose and waited for it to pass.
“Yeah, this is just lovely, God.” He sniffed, angry that his throat had tightened up. Feeling very small and alone in this big, green pasture, he wondered what he needed to do to stop being so stupid. Stupid for dallying with Hannah. Stupid for letting his father push him into abandoning her. Stupid for racing his horse across a pasture full of gopher holes and stumps.
Stupid for being angry with God.
He turned around so he could rub Prince Valiant’s nose. Seemed his stupid choices only hurt the ones he cared about. “Maybe I could use a little help, God,” he whispered, embarrassed he was even asking. After all, who was he to God? He leaned his head back to take in the wide azure sky, strung with thin strands of clouds. “Are you even there?”
“Hey, down there!”
Startled nearly out of his skin, Billy jumped back from Prince Valiant and scanned the pasture above them. His mouth fell open in shock. Emilio stood in the saddle of his little pinto, waving his dirty, tan cowboy hat.
“Billy, are you all right?”
“No,” he snapped, seething that God’s idea of help was Emilio.
“You need help?”
He tried to ignore the question, but realized, grudgingly, that God had sent help. Time to stop being stupid. “Yeah, I think I broke Valiant’s leg.” The admission hurt like a mule’s kick.
Emilio loped down the pasture and reined in skillfully alongside them. Nervous, Prince Valiant nickered, gingerly dropped his leg to shift positions, but raised it immediately. Emilio slid effortlessly out of the saddle, passed Billy one rein, and touched the horse’s nose. “Shhh, ees all right, boy.” He ran his hands over Valiant’s face, then his neck and shoulder, and worked his way slowly to the injured leg. Again, Valiant shied away at a touch there, but before Billy knew it, Emilio was gently rubbing and massaging the spot. “It’s not broken.”
Relief gushed through Billy. “Just a strain, right?”
“I think it may be the tendon,” he said, stepping over to his own horse.
That wasn’t great, but it was better than broken. Recovery would be longer, though.
Emilio unbuckled his saddle bag and flipped it. Rummaging through it quickly, he pulled out a dirty piece of gauze about four inches wide and three or so feet long. “This is all I have, but it will get him back to town.”
Frowning, Billy watched as Emilio knelt down and expertly wrapped the injured leg. The timing of his arrival could only have been more perfect if he’d stopped the accident altogether. Which led him to ask, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Hannah asked me to come find you.” He glanced up. “She saw you ride off and was worried.”
Billy had to absorb that. She had sent Emilio after him. Did she care he might get hurt or did she care?
“She said that when yo
u are upset, you don’t ride wisely.” Emilio stood up and pushed his sweat-stained hat back off his forehead. With the one good eye that wasn’t nearly swollen shut, he searched Billy’s face, sizing him up. “You should quit being so stupid.”
Anger flared, but died almost instantly. Hadn’t he just thought that very thing moments ago? Besides, he hurt too much for another fight. “Yeah, well, I’m working on it.”
~~~
Twenty-Nine
Amidst the squeak of leather and wood, McIntyre leaned back in the chair in the marshal’s office. His telegram requesting the Reverend’s presence for the wedding had been sent and now he was committed. Sometime in the next few days, Charles McIntyre would be a married man.
Married. Committed to one woman for the rest of my life. The right woman.
Beckwith’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You come to tell me something or just warm that chair?”
McIntyre blinked away images of a future he once had never believed possible. Reaching into his breast pocket for a cheroot, he dipped his head. “I’m a little distracted. I’m getting married.”
“That is definitely the sort of thing that can distract a man,” Beckwith deadpanned.
McIntyre couldn’t be sure but the marshal’s mouth almost twitched, as if he’d thought about cracking a smile. He doubted he’d ever know.
The lawman picked up the cold, half-smoked stogie sitting on his desk. “And it does call for a smoke.” McIntyre lit his own then obliged the lawman with the same match. As smoke swirled above them, Beckwith leaned back as well and crossed a booted foot over his knee. “Mrs. Miller?” McIntyre nodded. “Well, it’s good to see a man like you trying to become respectable.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 18